The village slept beneath a blanket of snow, its chimneys glowing faintly against the dark. The world was quiet, save for the occasional howl of the wind rolling down from the mountains.
Inside the Sparda home, the fire burned low. Eva sat by the hearth, shawl wrapped tight, eyes fixed on the flames as though she could read omens in the sparks. The boys slept in the next room, pendants resting on their chests, glimmering faintly with their own secret light.
She had known this night would come. Sparda's betrayal of the Hell Lords had not been forgiven, and their shadows stretched across centuries. She only prayed she could buy her sons enough time.
A sound broke the silence.
Low at first, like a distant horn carried on the wind, then louder, sharper — a shriek that rattled the windowpanes. Dogs erupted into barking. Then came the screams.
Eva rose instantly. She hurried to the boys' room, shaking them awake. "Dante. Vergil. Up."
"Mama?" Dante rubbed his eyes, confused, until he saw the firelight flickering strangely through the shutters — green instead of orange. His heart skipped.
"They've found us," Eva said grimly.
She opened the cellar door and led them down quickly, her hands trembling as she pressed protective charms into their palms. In the far corner stood a chest, sealed with iron clasps. From it, she drew a long, sheathed blade wrapped in velvet.
"Vergil." She pressed it into his hands. "This was your father's. Yamato. It is yours now. Protect your brother if I fail."
Vergil's breath caught as his fingers closed around the hilt.
Dante frowned. "Why only him? I can fight too—"
Eva hushed him, brushing his cheek. "Your time will come, Dante. But not tonight. Tonight, you must survive."
She guided them into the deepest corner, beneath the beams of the cellar, where the shadows were thickest. She kissed their brows, whispering, "Do not make a sound."
Then she climbed the steps, sealing the trapdoor above them.
Through the cracks in the floorboards, the boys saw her silhouette lit by the fire as she faced the door. The shrieks grew louder. The walls shook with the pounding of claws. Then the Sparda home splintered as the first of the Hell Lords' minions poured inside.
The cellar was dark and cold, lit only by the faint glow of their pendants. The boys crouched in the corner, listening to the chaos above. The house shuddered with each impact, timbers groaning as claws raked the walls. Their mother's voice rose in sharp incantations, each word punctuated by the screech of something in pain.
Dante hugged his knees, trying to stay quiet as she'd told them, but every shout made him flinch. He turned to his brother. "She told us to stay," he whispered.
Vergil's knuckles whitened around Yamato's sheath. His face was pale, his jaw tight. "She'll die out there alone."
"Vergil—" Dante reached for him.
But Vergil shook his head, standing slowly, his eyes burning with the same cold fire he'd inherited from Sparda. "I won't sit here while she fights for us. I'm not a child anymore."
Before Dante could grab him, Vergil climbed the cellar steps and pushed open the trapdoor. A blast of cold air and firelight rushed in, carrying the screams of demons. For one moment, Dante saw his brother's silhouette against the flames, Yamato clutched in both hands.
"Vergil!" Dante hissed, desperation in his voice. "Come back!"
But Vergil didn't look back. He stepped into the chaos, into the blinding glow of green fire and shadow. The trapdoor slammed shut behind him.
Dante lunged at it, pounding with his fists. "Vergil! VERGIL!"
No answer came. Only the roar of battle above, the clash of steel, his mother's final spell blazing against the night — and then silence.
Dante pressed his forehead against the wood, tears burning his eyes. That was the last time he ever saw his brother.
After what felt like hours, he shoved at the trapdoor until the hinges gave, stumbling into the ruined home. Smoke and ash stung his eyes. The air reeked of sulfur, and the walls were scorched black, claw marks carved deep into the timbers.
"Vergil!" he shouted, his voice raw. No answer came. Only silence.
Then he saw her.
Eva lay crumpled against the hearth, her shawl burned away, blood staining her dress. Her protective charms lay shattered at her side, their glow extinguished. She looked impossibly small in that moment, but when her eyes lifted to Dante's, they still burned with fierce love.
"Mother—!" Dante fell to his knees beside her, fumbling to lift her up. His pendant glimmered, but its light couldn't stop the life draining from her.
Her hand reached for his cheek, trembling. "My son… listen to me."
Dante shook his head, tears streaking through the soot on his face. "Save your strength—"
"No." Her grip tightened weakly. "There isn't time."
She coughed, her voice breaking, but her words were clear. "Go to the United States… to New York. St. Patrick's Cathedral… in Manhattan. There you'll find Father Matteo…" Her lips trembled into a faint smile. "He was your father's friend… he will guide you."
Dante's heart pounded. "But what about Vergil? I can't just leave him—"
Her voice cut him off, sharper than he thought possible in her condition. "You must, Dante. Vergil is lost… for now. But you are still here. And you must live."
Tears blurred his vision. "Mama, please—"
She brushed his hair back one last time, her touch lingering as if to memorize his face. "Remember… you are more than his blood. You are my son."
Her hand slipped away. The light faded from her eyes.
Dante clutched her to his chest, shaking, the fire around them popping and crackling as if mocking his grief. For a long moment, he could only sit there, sobbing into the silence.
Finally, with shaking hands, he laid her down gently. He forced himself to stand, stumbling through the wreckage of the house. He found his father's old chest, half-burned, and inside retrieved what little remained: scraps of notes, faded documents, fragments of protective charms. He stuffed them into a satchel, clutching his crimson pendant tight.
He didn't dare stay. He didn't know if the demons would return. But as he stepped out into the cold night, he swore he would honor her last wish.
New York. St. Patrick's Cathedral. Father Matteo.
It was all he had left.
Illyana's POV – After the Fire
By dawn, the flames had guttered out. Smoke curled into a pale sky, drifting over the ruins of the village. Where the Sparda home had stood, only blackened timbers and ash remained.
Illyana pushed through the gathering crowd, breath ragged, chest tight. The air stank of smoke and scorched wood—and something fouler beneath. Her eyes swept the faces, searching for Dante or Vergil.
She found only whispers.
"They found her body…"
"Eva Sparda, gone."
"But the boys… no sign of them. Not even ash."
Her stomach knotted. She took a step toward the wreckage, ready to claw through the rubble with bare hands—
A firm grip caught her arm.
"Illyana." Piotr stood there, soot streaking his cheeks, shoulders heaving from a night spent hauling survivors. In his hand lay something small, singed at the edges: a red scarf.
He pressed it into her palms. "This is all they found."
She knew it instantly—Dante's scarf, the one he'd thrown around his neck like a hero's cape. Hot tears blurred her vision as she clutched it to her chest. It reeked of smoke and ash, yet some part of her swore it still held a faint trace of his laughter.
Around them, villagers muttered darkly about demons, curses, the Devil's sons. Their voices dulled like sound through snow.
Against her skin, the crescent pendant Eva had given her stirred—warming, then thrumming in a steady pulse. Illyana's breath hitched. The silver glimmered faintly through the soot, as if answering a distant call. She cupped it through her coat, and the warmth spread up her arm, steadying the tremor in her hands.
Eva's whisper seemed to rise with the heat: When the time comes, this will aid you.
Piotr noticed the motion but said nothing; he simply moved closer, his bulk a shield against the stares. Illyana tucked Dante's scarf beneath her chin and held the crescent fast, the pendant's soft glow hidden against her palm.
She stood amid the ruin of the Sparda home, scarf trembling in her grip, and knew nothing would be the same again. Somewhere beyond the smoke and the whispers, something waited—dark, terrible, inevitable. The pendant's pulse kept time with her heart, not guiding yet, but promising.
For Illyana, it was not just another morning after a fire. It was the first step toward nights Eva had warned her of—the nights to come.