The chariot groaned through the endless white expanse, its ancient wheels crunching over snow-packed earth like the slow grind of a millstone. Dante's hooves, wreathed in ghostly blue flame, left smoldering imprints in the ice—each step a fleeting brand against the eternal frost. His skeletal form cut a spectral silhouette against the moonlight, ribs gleaming like polished ivory, the hollows of his skull flickering with an eerie inner glow. The enchanted cart behind him, deceptively small from the outside, hummed with latent magic—its warped oak frame etched with runes that pulsed faintly, like a sleeping beast's slow heartbeat.
Lucian leaned out the window, the biting wind tugging at his dark curls. His breath misted in the air as he squinted at the skeletal stallion. "Oi, bonebag. Need a break?"
Dante snorted, embers flaring from his nostrils in a shower of sparks. "Unlike some lazy humans, I don't tire. But if you're offering to pull this thing yourself—"
"Pass." Lucian smirked and yanked the window shut, sealing out the cold.
Inside, the space defied logic—a hunter's lodge of impossible dimensions, its walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes bound in cracked leather and yellowed parchment. The air smelled of cedar smoke, dried herbs, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. A massive hearth dominated one wall, its flames dancing behind an iron grate, casting long shadows over the fur-draped furniture. Kael lay sprawled across a low cot, his muscles taut with exhaustion, fingers trembling around a half-empty bowl of venison stew. The broth steamed, rich with the scent of juniper and wild garlic, but his stomach churned too violently to finish it.
Opposite him, Lucian dropped onto a worn leather sofa, its cushions sunken from years of use. He pulled a battered journal from his coat—its cover scarred with knife marks and old bloodstains—and flipped to a dog-eared page. The firelight caught the edges of his bandages, revealing glimpses of twisted scar tissue beneath. His raven-feather quill scratched across the parchment in quick, precise strokes, ink blooming like spilled night.
Silence stretched between them, thick as the snow outside. Then—
"Ever felt like this before?" Lucian asked without looking up. "Your power. This... seismic rage."
Kael's jaw tightened. He set the bowl aside, staring at his palms—hands that had once commanded oceans, bent tides to his will. Now, they trembled with something raw and untamed. "No. My old magic was precise. Controlled. This?" He clenched his fists, feeling the unfamiliar pulse beneath his skin. "It's like holding a lightning strike. I can't fight like—"
"You did at the camp."
"IT WASN'T ENOUGH!" Kael's shout rattled the teacups on the shelf. The hearth flames guttered as if recoiling, plunging the room into momentary shadow. "I should've died a thousand years ago with my soldiers. Not like this—weak, useless, watching children snapped like twigs while I—"
Lucian snapped the journal shut with a sound like a bone breaking. "Listen, fossil." He leaned forward, amber eyes sharp as flint. "When the gods strip your ground from under you? That's when they're daring you to fly." A tap to Kael's forehead. "The answer's in front of you. You're just looking at it wrong."
Before Kael could retort, Lucian strode to the window and flung it open. "Dante! ETA on that village?"
The horse's skull turned, his hollow eye sockets fixed on the twin moons—one crimson, one silver—their light painting the snow in eerie, shifting hues. "Three days. Maybe four if this damned snow doesn't—" He froze. "Oh. Oh no."
Lucian followed his gaze.
The path ahead shimmered, reality itself bending like a mirage. A colossal stone wall blinked into existence where open road had been, its surface carved with weeping faces, their mouths open in silent screams. The air hummed with a sound like distant war drums.
"Dirge of the Conquered," Lucian whispered. His usual smirk vanished, replaced by something colder. "Ten-year celestial trial. My father said entrants don't leave until it's done. Grants power to the victor..."
"And death to the loser," Dante finished. His flames dimmed to embers. "Don't tell me we're—"
A sound like a thousand swords unsheathing split the air. The barrier moved, swallowing the road behind them in a wave of unnatural mist.
Dante reared back, his bones rattling. "TOO LATE!"
The world beyond the cart dissolved into swirling gray. The last thing they saw before the fog consumed them was the twin moons—now weeping trails of blood-red light, their glow staining the snow like fresh slaughter.
Inside the chariot, Kael's staff began to glow.
A deep, hungry crimson.