Darkness bled into the Hollow Vale long after the throne crumbled. What remained was not silence, but a hum—a pulse of ancient magic fractured and unleashed. The veil between the worlds had thinned, and reality struggled to hold its form. Everything around Dante felt brittle, unreal, as if the world itself were made of glass and waiting to be broken. The air vibrated with a whisper, like the voice of an old god waking from centuries of silence.
Dante felt it in his bones. In the fire curled in his veins, no longer warm, but seething. The twin crowns—shadow and flame—rested heavy upon his head, unseen but present, like a second skin. They hummed with energy, weaving threads of power that anchored him to something greater than himself. Power sang within him, volatile and violent.
