"I do not like your decision."
Dante didn’t turn imdiately. His crimson gaze lingered a mont longer on the boys before he shifted, steps soundless as he moved down the dim corridor. The air grew colder, heavier, and there, erging from the shadows, stood one of the oldest demons of the Court. His skin was like parchnt, wrinkled and creased with age. His horns curved long and brittle, his dark eyes clouded yet sharp with suspicion.
The elder tilted his head, his voice like gravel. "Do you not think you are being reckless, Shadow Lord? That child’s blood is from unknown shadow warriors, he was not royal. He should remain here among the Court, to learn our ways, to be shaped by shadows, as is his fate. He is not ant to live under your roof."
Dante’s smirk was cold, cruel even, as his crimson eyes flashed. "I do not care."
The elder’s expression darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. "You break tradition for sentint. That boy is not your kin. He does not belong in your halls."
Dante stepped closer, towering over him, his aura pressing like a blade against the elder’s ancient bones. "Listen well," he murmured, his tone sharper than steel. "I decide who belongs under my roof. Sable is mine now, mine to protect, mine to raise. I will not let the Court, or you, dictate his place."
The elder’s wrinkled face twitched with disapproval. "Your compassion will weaken you, Dante. It always does. That boy will bring ruin."
Before he could finish, Dante’s shadow unfurled at his feet, spreading like black fire across the floor. It coiled around the elder’s ankles, forcing him to stagger. Dante leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that seared like ice.
"Careful, old one. You walk close to disrespect."
For a mont, silence filled the corridor. Only the sound of Sable’s giggles and Lucien’s calm instructions floated faintly from the room behind them, a stark contrast to the suffocating tension in the hall.
Finally, Dante released his hold, the shadows slithering back into the floor. His smirk returned, cold and rciless. "Stay hidden in your darkness if you wish. But do not question again. Not about my son, and not about Sable."
The elder’s face twisted with rage and fear, but he said nothing more. With a hiss of air, he dissolved back into the shadows, leaving only the faint echo of his warning.
Dante exhaled slowly, his jaw tight, before turning back toward the room.
****
The private eting chamber of the Nightshade Court was dim, torches flickering against stone walls, shadows stretching long as the elders gathered around the carved obsidian table. The air slled faintly of smoke and cold iron, thick with unspoken hostility.
"He is crazy." The eldest, Noman, rasped, his voice deep and dangerous. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, fixed on the others. "Dante’s judgnt falters. He lifts a boy without blood or lineage into his arms as if he were his own. A shadow lord should know better."
Another elder leaned forward, his curved horns gleaming faintly in the dim light. "I agree," he muttered with a bitter sigh. "Why does he insist on taking in the boy? He bears no mark of Nightshade legacy. One day, Sable will grow, and then what? He may snatch Lucien’s rightful place. Dante cannot see what we trained into that child."
At that, a third elder sneered. "Exactly. Sable was ant to be molded as a weapon, not nurtured like so coddled prince. He was raised in the shelter for a reason, his fate was already chosen. And yet Dante, in his arrogance, rewrites destiny with one decision."
The eting chamber filled with low mutters, their voices like the rustle of dry leaves.
"Lucien is his son, born of his blood," another elder reminded coldly. "But this stray? This orphan of shadows? He will grow ambitious. Power always breeds hunger. If Dante blinds himself to that truth, it is Lucien who will pay the price."
Elder Varros slamd his hand on the stone table, sending cracks of shadow rippling across its surface. "And when that day cos, when the boy turns on them, will Dante take responsibility for the chaos he has planted?"
Noman’s eyes narrowed. "He will not admit fault. Dante believes himself untouchable, guided by strength and rage alone. But even strength has limits. And sentint... sentint is the first crack in his armor."
Silence lingered after his words, heavy and suffocating. The flicker of the torches painted their aged faces with sinister lines, each elder lost in his own dark speculation.
Finally, one spoke in a low, almost gleeful tone. "Perhaps we should not stop him. Let him raise the boy. Let him indulge in his delusions. When the ti cos, and the two sons stand against one another, it will be Dante’s ruin. Not ours."
Noman exhaled slowly, his gaze like stone. "Then so be it. Let him carry this mistake. But mark my words, shadows always demand balance. And the day will co when he will regret choosing heart over blood."
***
Dante leaned casually against the wall. Of course, he knew the elders would talk behind his back, so he had placed live voice recording charms everywhere. If anyone spoke of him, he would hear. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, lips twisting into a sharp sneer.
He had heard every word. Their unhappy bitter words, their doubts, their poisonous whispers against Sable, it was all clear as day. But instead of fury, an almost amused coldness washed over him.
I don’t care. The thought pulsed like steel through his mind. Not everyone is greedy like you fools. Not everyone asures worth by bloodlines and power.
His gaze softened briefly as he thought of Sable’s innocent face. He rembered Sable’s parents, brave, gentle souls who had given their lives during the war to protect others. The kindest people Dante had ever known. If not for that brutal sacrifice, the boy would still be wrapped in his parents’ arms.
And these decrepit schers dared to speak of him as a threat?
Dante’s sneer deepened. He had tolerated their endless advice, their power-hungry lectures, their hollow pride in "tradition" for years. But not this. Not when it ca to Sable.
I will raise him. That is final. No one will tell otherwise.
His fingers curled loosely at his side, the shadows bending toward him like eager servants. For a mont he imagined dragging those elders into the fields, stripping them of their titles, and making them toil in the dirt like peasants. Farming suited the strong, and they had more than enough energy left for it, judging by how lively they were at scheming.
A sharp, humorless smirk tugged at his lips. Yes, farming. It will suit them perfectly if they dare cross again.
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