It was an odd notion to entertain—even now—and it almost coaxed a chuckle from Dante.
Rosalina, for all her regal poise, wore arrogance like an heirloom brooch: subtle glints of condescension in her gaze, pride lacing every carefully enunciated word. Yet Dante was no stranger to such thorns; he had been pricked by them countless times while growing up beside a woman cut from similar cloth—his own sister.
Sophia Vale…
He was not quite twenty‑three; she, nineteen. Sophia had amassed an impressive ledger of suitors—so she claimed—and Dante never hesitated to admit that his sister was, by every mortal and immortal metric, breathtaking. In truth, Rosalina and Sophia were reflections of one another, separated only by palette: Rosalina's hair burned like harvested wheat beneath summer sunlight, whereas Sophia's tresses were the pale sheen of fresh snow. But the aura they exuded—composed of effortless grace and unshakeable confidence—was identical. Dante could already imagine the sparks should the two ever meet. Oil and fire.
He regretted, sometimes, the pedestal he had built for his sister. Years of unfiltered praise had cultivated in Sophia a conviction that she could stride through worlds unchallenged—thankfully tempered by the signature Vale humility. Rosalina possessed no such governor; inquisitive, yes, but humility seemed a language she had never been taught.
"Are you going to ignore me?" The frustration in her voice snapped the thread of his musings.
So she does vent her displeasure after all, he thought.
Dante shook himself from reflection. "Merely trying to unravel you, Lady Rosalina," he replied, voice silk‑smooth. Her eyes widened at the candor, then narrowed into a smug crescent.
"I hadn't realized I affected you so deeply," she purred.
He turned back toward the arena, a lazy smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "I make it a habit to remember the patterns of persistent stalkers."
Color flooded her cheeks so suddenly he wondered if her heart had misfired. "I am not a—" she began.
He lifted both hands, palms out. "I know." Warm amusement glittered in his eyes. "I was teasing, my lady. Your earlier blush was… exquisite. I wished to see it again."
The blush returned, blooming to the tips of her ears. Dante's grin widened. "There it is," he murmured, and with playful irreverence he reached out and tapped the end of her nose.
"Boop."
Rosalina recoiled, swatting his hand as though it were a wasp. "Cease your teasing this instant!" Embarrassment warred with indignation across her features, and Dante savored his small victory, hands raised in mock surrender.
"I concede, madam." His tone sharpened, sincere curiosity replacing mischief. "But tell me—what prompted you to seek me out?"
Her embarrassment dissolved, dignity snapping back into place like a folded fan. Arms crossed, chin lifted—a textbook tsundere crowned in gold. "I came to wish you luck in your next match."
"Wait… aren't you my final opponent? Why encourage me at all?" Dante's brow arched; it was difficult to picture her bestowing good fortune upon anyone.
Her gaze drifted away. "I do not wish to face that man." Venom dripped from each measured syllable.
"Brinyalf Stolas?" Dante guessed. "You're not fond of him?"
At the mention of the devil's name, Rosalina went rigid. Hands clenched, a wildfire kindled behind her eyes, forcing Dante to lean back slightly at the heat.
"'Not fond'?" she echoed. "He is arrogance incarnate, the walking embodiment of perversion. The only place he belongs is far beneath my heel. If I must encourage my rival to keep him from crossing my path, then so be it." The fury in her gaze cooled to a glinting steel. "Make him bleed, Dante… and I will reward you."
His eyebrows climbed. He let out a low whistle. "My, my… what in the nine circles did he do to earn such wrath?"
"That is none of your concern," she snapped. Her anger, he noted, currently outpacing her famed dignity.
Dante's mind worked quickly. A noblewoman, reared in velvet halls, surrounded by attendants trained to obey without hesitation. Add to that the cruel blessing of beauty so radiant it warped the behavior of every soul around her—maiden, servant, or suitor. It was no surprise that she expected the world to bend.
And apparently she expected him to bend as well.
Time to plant both feet.
He inhaled, steady, feeling the arena's distant roar vibrate through the stone beneath them. "Very well, Lady Rosalina," he said at last, voice low and firm. "I will face Brinyalf on my own terms, for my own reasons. Not as your blade by proxy."
A flicker—perhaps respect—passed across her features. The storm in her eyes settled, though the clouds remained. "Then fight as you will," she said softly. "Just… win."
Dante nodded once, the corners of his mouth curved in a tempered smile. "That, my lady, was always the plan."
As Rosalina swept away in a swirl of perfumed air, Dante exhaled, feeling the weight of unspoken histories and future battles settle across his shoulders. She was a storm he could not outrun, but perhaps he could learn to navigate her winds. For now, there was only the match—the thunder of the crowd, the promise of steel, and the echo of a noblewoman's impossible wager pulsing in his chest.
Time to put his foot down…