The snow crunched under little boots as three children clashed their makeshift swords. The blades were nothing more than carved branches, but in their hands they were legendary weapons — Excalibur, Yamato, and whatever grand name Dante thought up on the spot.
"Ha! Take that!" Dante shouted in rapid Russian, his words tumbling out with the same reckless energy as his swing. His cheeks were red from the cold, his grin brighter than the winter sun.
Vergil, his twin, parried with calm precision, replying in the same tongue. His accent carried a colder edge, every syllable sharp. "You're wide open, Dante. Always reckless." With a twist, he knocked his brother's blade aside and sent him sprawling into the snow.
Illyana Rasputin giggled from the sidelines. Bundled in a scarf too big for her face, golden hair spilled out from beneath her wool cap, catching the pale winter light. Her eyes — a startling shade of blue — followed every wild swing Dante made. She clutched her own wooden sword, though she hovered at the edge of the fight, hesitant to step in.
She was the daughter of the village blacksmith, younger sister to Piotr — a boy already broad-shouldered, already protective. But today, she had slipped away to spend time with the twins who had moved here five years ago. Dante and Vergil were her first real friends.
"C'mon, Illy!" Dante called, switching back to Russian without a thought. "Back me up. Two against one — we'll crush him!"
Her cheeks warmed, though she tried to hide it. "I… I don't want to hurt Vergil," she murmured, her words clumsy in contrast to the twins' fluent speech. But her eyes stayed fixed on Dante — the way he never gave up, the way he smiled even in defeat.
Vergil smirked faintly, replying in Russian again. "She's wiser than you, at least."
Dante puffed out his chest, wagging his blade. "Nah, she's just waiting for the right time. Right, Illy?"
Illyana hesitated, then nodded, stepping closer with her sword raised. Dante's proud grin lit up her whole world.
For a moment, it was only laughter and clashing wood in the snow — two brothers sparring in a language not their own, and the girl who couldn't stop her heart from chasing the boy who made her laugh.
The sparring slowed when Dante planted his wooden sword in the snow, chest heaving, grin unshakable. He turned toward Illyana, eyes sparkling.
"You know," he said, puffing up proudly, "our father was the greatest warrior who ever lived. He fought demons, sorcerers, and even gods — and he won every time."
Illyana's breath caught, her blue eyes wide. "Really?"
Vergil rolled his eyes, lowering his blade. "Don't exaggerate, Dante. Father's victories came at great cost. They weren't children's stories."
"Pfft," Dante scoffed, waving him off. "You just don't know how to tell it right." He leaned closer to Illyana, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "Mama says he even stood against Mephisto. And Lilith, the Mother of Demons? She ran from him."
At that name, Illyana's eyes widened. She had read of Lilith in the pages of scripture, tucked between the lines of sermons, spoken in hushed tones by the village priest. Adam's first wife.
Before Vergil could cut in again, a familiar voice called across the field.
"Boys! Illyana! Come inside before you freeze to death."
Eva stood on the porch, shawl pulled tight, a lantern glowing at her side.
The three children exchanged glances before trudging toward her, their breath misting in the cold air.
Inside, warmth wrapped around them: the smell of stew, the crackle of firewood. Dante barely kicked off his boots before blurting, "Mama, tell the story again! The one about Father — the one where he fought Lilith! Please?"
Vergil crossed his arms. "You've heard it a hundred times."
"Yeah, but Illyana hasn't," Dante shot back quickly, glancing at her with a crooked grin. "She should know how amazing he was."
Illyana ducked her head, cheeks warming, while Eva's gaze softened. She set down the lantern and moved to sit near the hearth.
The firelight softened her features as the three children gathered close: Dante, grinning with anticipation, Vergil, folding his arms in solemn silence, and Illyana, hugging her knees, her blue eyes wide.
"Long ago," Eva began, her voice steady but low, "your father was not yet the man who came to me. He was a warrior of Hell itself, sworn to the Lords who ruled beneath. Mephisto, master of pacts and lies. Satannish, who twisted souls into weapons. Chthon, ancient god of chaos. And Lilith…" Her tone darkened. "Lilith, the Mother of Demons, who birthed legions to drown the world in shadow."
Illyana shivered at the name, clutching her scarf tighter.
Eva continued, eyes on the fire. "For ages, your father served them. But when he saw the endless cruelty, the suffering of mortals crushed between their wars, his heart changed. He turned against them. One man against an army of Hell."
Dante leaned forward, wooden sword forgotten at his side. "And he won, right?"
Eva smiled faintly. "Not so easily. It was a long journey. He crossed endless battlefields, fighting not only demons but the temptations of the Lords themselves. Mephisto promised him kingdoms. Satannish offered him immortality. Chthon whispered secrets of creation. And Lilith…" She paused, her voice almost breaking. "Lilith promised him love, twisted and eternal, if only he returned to her side."
Vergil's eyes narrowed, his voice sharp. "And he refused them all."
Eva nodded. "He did. He sealed their armies, shattered their bonds to this world, and for a time… the Earth was free."
Her voice had grown hushed, heavy with memory — until she noticed how close the children were hanging on every word.
So she smiled, easing her tone. "Or at least… that's how your father told it when he was trying to woo me. A warrior who fought demons and defied gods — it sounds more like a bedtime story than real life, doesn't it?"
Dante blinked, surprised. "Wait — so… it's not real?"
Eva brushed his cheek fondly. "Some stories are meant to inspire, not to be picked apart. Whether every detail is true doesn't matter. What matters is what you take from it."
Vergil crossed his arms, smirking faintly. "Told you it was just a story."
Dante scowled. "It's not just a story. Mama said it herself — Father fought demons. That part's real."
"Then where are the demons now?" Vergil countered coolly. "If it happened, it was long ago. Nothing more than history turned into bedtime tales."
Dante opened his mouth to argue, then puffed his chest instead. "Fine. If Father fought demons, then I'll fight them too. You'll see."
Vergil only gave a curt, dismissive shrug.
Illyana giggled softly into her scarf, though her eyes shone with quiet wonder.
Eva reached for a small box near the hearth, drawing out two pendants wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped them, revealing one crimson and one sapphire, their faint light flickering in the fire's glow. She slipped the crimson around Dante's neck and the sapphire around Vergil's.
"These are your father's gifts," she said softly. "Symbols of his heart. Wear them, and remember that you are more than his blood. You are his hope."
Dante grinned, holding his up proudly. "See, Illy? Told you he was amazing."
Vergil studied his in silence, the sapphire gleam reflected in his eyes.
Illyana leaned forward, whispering, "They're beautiful."
Eva smiled, though sorrow tugged at her features. She knew the truth — that these pendants were not mere keepsakes, but the keys to gates that must never be opened. But her sons didn't need that burden yet. Not tonight.
She reached out, pulling all three children closer. "Now, enough stories. Eat, laugh, and rest while you can. The world will demand more of you soon enough."
Dante looked up at her, confused, about to ask more when a sharp voice cut through the warmth of the firelight.
"Illyana!"
The children turned toward the window. Outside, snowflakes drifted past the glass, and in the darkness stood a broad-shouldered boy, barely in his teens but already built like a man. His breath steamed in the night as he called again, louder this time.
"Illyana! It's late. Come home."
Illyana's face fell. She shifted uneasily, casting one last glance at Dante and Vergil before rising to her feet.
"That's my brother," she murmured softly, slipping her scarf back around her neck. "I… I have to go."
But before she could step away, Eva reached out and gently caught her wrist.
Illyana froze, startled by the sudden warmth in the woman's hand.
Eva's expression softened, though there was something distant in her eyes, as if she were already looking far beyond the flicker of the fire. She opened a small wooden box on the hearth and drew out a pendant unlike the twins'. A silver charm shaped like a crescent moon, faint light shimmering inside the metal as if it held its own breath.
She pressed it into Illyana's hands, folding the girl's fingers around it.
"When the time comes," Eva whispered, her voice lower, more solemn than before, "this will aid you. Keep it close, little one. Its path isn't for tonight… but for the nights to come."
Illyana's breath caught. She stared at the pendant, its glow soft against her mittened palm. "I… I don't understand."
Eva smiled faintly, brushing a strand of golden hair from her face. "You don't need to. Not yet."
Piotr called again, sharper this time. "Illyana!"
Eva released her hand. "Go on. Your brother's waiting."
Illyana clutched the pendant to her chest and nodded, though confusion lingered in her eyes. She turned and hurried into the snow, Piotr wrapping an arm protectively around her as the Sparda home faded behind them.
Inside, Eva stood for a long while, staring at the box in her hand. Two pendants for her sons, one for the girl who had wandered into their lives. She whispered under her breath, as if to someone only she could see:
"When the darkness rises, guide her. She'll need more than mortal strength."
Dante frowned. "Aw, already? We were just getting to the good part."
Vergil only gave a curt nod, as if to say she'd heard enough.
Eva smiled gently, placing a hand on Illyana's shoulder as she guided her toward the door. "Thank you for keeping my sons company, little one. You're always welcome here."
Illyana managed a shy smile, but her gaze lingered on Dante — still sitting cross-legged by the fire, still grinning at her like the story had been told for her alone.
She stepped out into the snow, boots crunching as Piotr wrapped an arm protectively around her shoulders. The glow of the Sparda home faded behind them, its laughter and warmth swallowed by the winter night.
For Illyana, it was just another walk home. For the twins inside, it was another night of stories and dreams. None of them knew how quickly those dreams would shatter.