The room had fallen utterly silent, the kind of silence that pressed against Dante's ears and made him painfully aware of every breath he took. Only the unsteady flutter of the candle flames disturbed the stillness, their shadows stretching like clawed hands across the walls. His fear had ebbed into something colder—resolve.
The letter lay before him, its parchment yellowed, edges curling as though time itself recoiled from it. Where a signature should have been, there was only an X, drawn in thick ink that seemed to sink into the fibers unnaturally. Dante knew what it demanded. Not his name. Not his oath. His blood.
Memories of his daughter flickered before him like dying sparks. Her laughter, her soft hands clutching his sleeve, her face pale resting and peaceful that twisted the knife already lodged in his heart. He turned his head toward the bed, where the faint outline of her small frame lay beneath the covers. She slept fitfully, lips moving as though whispering in dreams. That sight steeled him.
Dante reached for the sword resting against the bedframe. The weapon was familiar—its leather grip worn smooth from his years of practice, the steel gleaming even in dim light. Slowly, reverently, he drew it from its sheath. The hiss of metal filled the silence like a serpent's warning.
He raised his right hand before him and pressed the sharp base of the blade into his palm. The bite was immediate. Warmth blossomed, then spilled, trickling down his wrist. He stopped once the cut was deep enough, his jaw clenched, and guided the droplets over the parchment.
One drop. Two. The third fell with a muted splash.
The air shifted.
A violent rush of heat swept the chamber, rattling the wooden furniture. Every candle extinguished at once, plunging the room into darkness. Shadows warped and writhed as the walls themselves began to twist. Dante blinked, his breath caught in his throat. The floor beneath him rippled like liquid, and the ceiling bowed inward as though the room were being swallowed.
He blinked harder, hoping it was an illusion, but no hallucination could bring such suffocating heat, or the thick metallic scent that stung his nose.
When the transformation ceased, the world was unrecognizable.
The room had vanished. In its place was blackness, so complete it seemed to devour the edges of Dante's form. He shifted, and his knees sank into something warm and wet. A sticky film clung to his trousers. The smell hit him fully then—sharp, bitter, unmistakable.
Blood.
The faint glow of red light pulsed far ahead, barely piercing the void. Dante pressed a hand to the ground to steady himself. His fingers slid through a slick layer of liquid, and when he raised them, they glistened with greasy, dark crimson.
"Blood," he muttered, voice rasping, as if naming it made the horror more real.
The familiar weight of his sword was still in his hand, and for that, he felt a fleeting sliver of relief. He had trained his whole life for combat, had earned the rank of second-best swordsman in the castle, and he would need every ounce of skill now.
He began forward. His boots squelched against the soaked ground. With every step, distant screams reached his ears—high, ragged, agonized. Not cries for help, but the wails of those who had long since given up hope. The sound crawled under his skin, raising the hair on his neck.
The cavern ahead opened into a vast chamber. Torchlight, burning an unnatural crimson, revealed row upon row of tortured souls.
The first victim was nailed upright to a wooden pole, his feet flayed open so that glistening tendons and raw muscle gleamed wetly in the light. A single candle burned beneath him, blood dripping around it. His throat tore with every scream, a sound so raw Dante winced involuntarily.
The next was a woman. She trembled violently, her body bare, her face peeled back in grotesque sheets of skin that hung loosely from her skull. Her lips moved ceaselessly, mumbling words that Dante strained to catch—pleas, prayers, curses? He couldn't tell.
The line of the damned stretched endlessly into the cavern's depths. Each figure was displayed in some new horror, some cruel artistry of pain. Dante's instinct screamed at him to help, to cut them free. But then he noticed the shimmering haze rising from the floor on either side of the path. It shimmered like heat above a forge, and when he tested it with the edge of his boot, the searing blast nearly blistered him. Only the narrow central walkway was safe.
The path was flanked by monstrous pillars, each sculpted—or rather, constructed—from fused human torsos. Some still twitched faintly, as if clinging to scraps of life. The torches mounted to them burned blood-red, staining the cavern in a crimson pall.
Dante's throat tightened. He fixed his gaze on the floor and pressed forward. The screams grew louder, clawing at his sanity. Halfway across, he nearly broke. He clapped his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and focused only on breathing. In. Out. Painful, but enough to steady him.
At last, the path ended at a corridor of bone. The walls were packed with skulls, their hollow sockets staring. Some were bleached white, polished smooth; others clung to strands of tendon, their grins still smeared with dried blood The stench was unbearable.
At the far end, a figure stood waiting.
It was small—half Dante's size—cloaked and hooded. Skin clung tightly to its frail frame, every rib visible, its fingers long and skeletal. Yet despite its withered appearance, there was weight in the way it stood, as though the air itself bent around it.
Dante's grip on his sword tightened as he approached.
The figure raised a bony hand and beckoned him forward. Beyond it, a chamber opened, vast and round. The floor was dirt, the walls lined with torches whose flames writhed like living things. At the far end loomed a massive door of dark red metal, its surface scarred and pitted as if it had endured centuries of fire.
The figure spoke at last, its voice deep and rasping, every syllable grinding like stones.
"You made it. Beyond this door, he awaits. But first, you must prove yourself. A challenge stands before you. Only then may you see him."
Dante opened his mouth to reply, but the figure silenced him with a finger raised to its lipless mouth.
The figure's hollow voice echoed through the chamber."Do you accept the challenge?"
Dante narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip on the sword. "And if I don't?"
The figure's bony hand lifted, pointing a crooked finger toward the endless rows of tortured souls. Their screams rose as if in answer, a chorus of despair that clawed at the air.
"Then you may remain here for eternity," the figure rasped, "with them."
Dante did not turn to look. He refused to give the damned the satisfaction of seeing doubt in his eyes. His jaw set, and his voice rang with grim resolve."Yes. I accept."
A pause. The figure lowered its hand slowly, the shadows of its hood concealing any expression. Then it inclined its head.
"Very well," it whispered.
Slowly turning around and shuffled toward the corner of the chamber. Its arms rose high, trembling with unnatural vigor.
"Let the challenge begin."
To the right of the towering doors came the groan of stone shifting. Dust cascaded from the ceiling as the wall split apart. From within came the sound of breathing—thick, guttural, and monstrously deep.
Two burning red eyes flared in the dark.
Dante's stomach dropped. He stepped back instinctively, sword raised. The creature's massive horns curved into the torchlight, scraping sparks as they brushed the stone.
Another step. Its face emerged—a bull's head, scarred and crimson, lips pulled back in a permanent snarl.
In one hand, it wielded a colossal axe, the blade chipped and battered but still gleaming wickedly. Scars crisscrossed its muscular torso, each mark telling of battles survived.
The beast stepped fully into the light. Towering ten feet tall, its goat-like hooves cracked the earth as it moved, the stench of sweat and iron rolling off it in waves.
Its glowing eyes fixed solely on Dante.
The monster lowered its head, muscles coiling. From deep within its chest came a roar so thunderous it rattled the bones in Dante's body, spraying spit and steam into the air.
Dante clenched his jaw, heart hammering, sweat slicking his brow.
He tightened his grip on the sword with both hands.
He knew, without a doubt, that he was in deep shit.