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He let out a cold, quiet chuckle. “You know we can’t do that.”

Behind me, two Daemon guards seized my arms, yanking me upward. They pulled me toward the center aisle, inches from Dante, black spots swarming my vision. He motioned for me to come closer and I felt the force of hands against my back.

Dante descended, his silver eyes dragging over me, slowly until his face was inches from mine. I could smell the hazy scent of Elsewhere that clung to his skin, smoke and cinnamon. “Now,” he smirked. “ Kneel.”

I stared up at him, my knees locked. I’d felt him in every shadow. Trusted the Thread over myself. This was the cost. “No.”

His eyes flicked over my face, impassive. “Kneel before me, or?—”

“What?” I snarled. “It’ll bruise your ego? You’ve got the Lumen to heal that.”

Dante flashed a cold smile. He turned, already bored, and raised a hand. “Remove her.”

Arms wrenched me backward and I winced, my stitches straining. I felt the heat of blood pool below my ribs again, leeching through my uniform shirt. Dante paused then, surveying.

Dorian shouldered forward. “Let her go.” The room snapped tight, a hush sweeping through the pews. Verrine barked at him to sit down.

Dante paused, his head turning slowly. “Careful, Dorian. I never liked you.”

Verrine’s face was more neutral than it should have been. Godwin withered. Dante looked at Dorian not like a rival, like something to be dealt with.

“She needs medical attention. Rest. She’s been wounded!” Dorian shouted again, all exasperation. “She will die before she makes it to the Rift!”

Dante’s lips pressed into a tight line. He studied me for a moment, the muscles in his face twitching slightly as he reached out a hand, but I jerked back.

“I will not warn you again,” Dante’s voice was all ice. “Remove them. The ceremony must continue.”

Two guards seized Dorian from behind, wrenching his arms back. He looked back at me once, mouthing something I couldn’t make out. Then they tightened around me, a searing pain cutting through my side.

It hurt only for a second before the pain in my chest eclipsed it.

I had been put on bed rest and forced to remain in my room until the wounds healed, or Sunday came. Whichever was first. I replayed the moment Dorian was taken again and again. The way his eyes locked on mine, the words I never caught. What had he meant to say?

I could not sit around idly while Dante and the Archdaemons took control of Elsewhere, and all of our fates. I didn’t care about anything anymore.

I found Marcus loitering by the archway, flipping his slate. His uniform hung loose, cravat undone. “Hey Marcus. Where's Dante's dorm?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.

Marcus straightened. “Our prince,” he said sardonically, rolling his eyes. “Why?”

“There’s something I need from him. You’re both in the House of Thrones, right?”

He paused. Then, with a shrug, “Yeah.” Perfect. He crooked a smile, hesitating. “First left in the Thrones wing. He doesn’t sleep there anymore. Not since he?—”

“Thanks.” I turned before he could finish. I didn’t want to hear the word prince again. Dante had taken everything, but I wanted something back. Even if it was only a necklace.

The House of Thrones had always been the most lavish, the most excessive, tapestries of old victories hanging in the common room, gold-trimmed furniture, walls lined with ancestral relics.

But Dante’s quarters were stark. It looked almost staged, not lived in.

The bed was untouched, the sheets unwrinkled.

The wardrobe was half-empty, his uniform hanging perfectly in place, as though he hadn’t truly returned at all.

I moved quickly, rifling through his things, searching for something, anything . A flash of silver. A length of chain. I tore open the nightstand—nothing. I pushed aside a pile of old slates, checked under his bed, his drawers.

No Lumen. No cards. I found nothing but shadows and dust and a lingering stillness.

My hands were trembling as I reached for the last thing left, a small leather-bound book, its edges worn.

It was locked, but it took only a moment of searching to find the key taped to the top of the desk drawer.

The ink was scrawled in his hand. It was a journal.

The thought of Dante keeping one of these…

Of all the things I expected to find, a journal wasn’t one. I flipped it open. The pages were uneven, torn in places, some passages violently crossed out or blurred by spilled water. But as I skimmed the words, I stilled.

“My father always warned me. Said the sins of a man do not die with him, they are passed down, carried in the bones of his children. When they took me, I thought death was coming. It would have been kinder. But that was never the punishment. A soul should be whole, one cannot exist in halves. Mine isn’t.

Hasn’t been since they took me. Something was carved out, and I can feel the emptiness it left behind. ”

A shudder curled down my spine. I didn’t know if it was true, it could be more lies.

“You were supposed to be resting. But of course, I should have known you never listen.” I turned.

Dante stood in the doorway, the candlelight casting shadows around him.

I knew that look. It was not anger, it was rage.

But now, I understood. This cold facade wasn’t a lie or a mask, it was something missing.

My fingers curled around the pages. “Dante.”

His jaw ticked once. “Put it down,” he said lethally. “That wasn’t written for you.”

I closed the journal, slowly, slipping the key into my pocket.

“Your thoughts are mine, Arabella,” he murmured. “Not the other way around.”

I forced my chin up. “I want the Lumen back.”

“Do you? The trade I made with you was more than fair.” His smirk was slow, cruel. “ The Fool, have you ever even used it?”

Something dangerous wound between us. “Used it?” This was another game, I was sure of it. It was just a limp piece of parchment, magical or not. “Give the necklace back, Dante.”

With an almost lazy motion, he lifted a hand. There it was again. The Lumen, glinted as it dangled from his fingers, just out of reach. “The first rule of bargaining is to know the value of the thing you’re trading.”

I reached for the chain, but he dodged me. I felt it again, the slip of warmth beneath my ribs, the bite of pain. My brain lurched, darkness crowding out my vision. If I passed out now, it wouldn’t be from fear, but blood.

Dante saw the blood, his lip twitching for just a moment. “None of this was ever personal, Arabella,” he whispered.

I froze. I hated the part of me that still searched for him in that moment, still clung to that fragile thread I’d felt the night I gave the Lumen away. “That’s what makes it worse,” I said quietly, my voice fraying.

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across his face, too quick to trace. Then, he turned away.