"You know what this means, Grepin" the boy grinned, teeth flashing white through the grime, "—it's time to destroy the city."
The wind carried the words away like a dare whispered to the night. For a heartbeat, his gaze lost focus, and a picture rose in his mind:
A dim tavern.
Two cloaked figures facing one another at a splintered table.
No words—just a stillness heavy enough to crush air. One of them, the boy himself, leaned forward with that same manic smile. The other's face hid behind a hood, gloved fingers tapping once, twice, as if sealing a pact.
Then the image vanished.
"Four days," the boy murmured, rubbing his nose. "That's enough."
Grepin snorted beside him, unimpressed.
"Oh, don't give me that look, partner. You'll thank me later." He slapped the pig's back and started down the muddy path toward the city lights again.
....
The streets were busier tonight, vendors still calling through the chill. Smoke from roast meat mixed with the sour tang of tanneries. The boy wove between stalls with his usual bounce, hood up, hands deep in his pockets. Grepin trotted close behind, occasionally bumping into ankles and earning curses.
"Alright, old man's tent should be near the tavern," the boy said. "If he threw his shoe at me last time, maybe he'll aim for you this time."
"Oink."
"Fair trade."
They passed under the sign of The Rusted Griffin, and there it was—a weather-stained tent crouched against the tavern's wall, canvas patched with mismatched leather, smoke curling up from a brazier out front.
Without even slowing down, the boy yanked the flap open. "Hey, old geezer, you still here?"
Something whistled through the air.
Thwack!
A rock-soled shoe smacked into his cheek.
"Woah! Calm down, old geezer, I have something to tell you!" he yelped, rubbing his face.
From inside came that familiar gravelly roar. "You again? What is it this time? You steal the city bell?"
"Close," the boy said, stepping in with a grin.
The tent smelled of metal and oil. Tools hung from ropes, scraps of armor gleamed in lanternlight. At the center sat Dante—broad-shouldered, tan skin, beard thick but neat, wearing a torn leather apron. His arms looked like tree trunks forged out of bronze.
Dante squinted. "Speak."
"I'm going to participate in the ceremony of L'Apertura!" the boy announced proudly, chest out.
For a second, silence. Then Dante's eyes widened. "What?! You're not even qualified for the Test of the Emblem, much less the L'Apertura!"
The boy smirked and reached into his pouch. "Look."
He pulled out the wooden emblem—four-pointed star, warrior's helm at its center. The faint torchlight caught its grooves.
Dante's jaw slackened. His knees hit the floor before he even realized he'd moved. "That's impossible… you stole it?"
"I stole it," the boy said simply.
Dante's fingers curled against the ground. "Who?"
The boy shrugged, smirking. "Just some rich kid who was flaunting it in an open area. His mistake, my opportunity."
The tent went quiet except for the hiss of the brazier.
"You're done for, kid," Dante muttered at last, standing and brushing off his hands. "Might as well find a nice ditch to die in."
"Maybe later," the boy replied, smile crooked. He rolled the emblem between his fingers, its edges catching the light. "Anyway, I don't have time for ditches. The L'Apertura only happens once every five years, and guess what? It's in four days. Four. Days. You think I'm gonna wait another half a decade just to go back to square one again?"
Dante froze. "You're serious."
"Dead serious," the boy said. "Well, preferably not dead, but you know—depends how it goes."
Dante sighed, rubbing his temple. "You can't even pass the Test of the Emblem, and now you want to throw yourself into the Ceremony? You know that event is notorious for the unknown dangers it has?"
"Exactly! That's the fun part," the boy said, pocketing the emblem again. "Besides, I've got a plan."
"You always have a plan," Dante grumbled. "And it's always terrible."
"But it always works," the boy shot back, grinning.
Dante stared at him for a moment longer, then chuckled despite himself. "You're insane, kid."
"I've been called worse."
The tension broke. Dante exhaled, shoulders dropping. He reached over to a cluttered table and picked up a thin leather cord with a ring strung through it—a simple iron band, worn smooth with age. He pressed it into the boy's palm. "Here. For luck."
"Woah, old geezer, isn't this your late wife's—"
Dante chuckled, the sound deep and tired. "Don't worry, kid. You deserve it. Now go. You've still got a lot to do, and the L'Apertura waits for no fool."
The boy slipped the necklace over his head and grinned. "Alright. Be safe, old man."
He and Grepin vanished through the flap into the night.
....
The tent quieted. Only the brazier crackled.
Dante sank onto his stool and stared at his hands, calloused palms shining with oil. The ring's twin—a heavier one of silver—gleamed on his finger. He turned it once, twice, and his thoughts drifted backward.
....
"Hey, Dante, when we finally get a child, can you give this to him?"
A woman's voice—light, teasing. Dante's late wife, Stella, in her purple dress, sunlight spilling across her face as she held out the iron ring.
"What? Why me? Wouldn't it be better if you—"
"No," she laughed, cutting him off. "You'll do it. It suits you better."
He had laughed too, because she was always right.
....
"Stella," Dante whispered now, looking at the brazier's glow. "Watch over that kid for me."
Outside, a gust of wind rattled the canvas. Footsteps scuffed against the dirt.
He smiled faintly. "Back so soon?"
The flap stirred—but no answer came. The shadow that entered didn't move like the boy.
Dante straightened, instinct prickling, and reached for the hammer at his side.
The lantern flickered once. Then twice.
A sharp breath, a blur of motion—
The brazier tipped. Firelight spilled across the floor, painting two shapes on the canvas wall: one standing, one falling.
Dante's hammer slipped from his fingers, clattering softly. He slumped against the table, breath hitching.
For a long moment he just stared at the orange glow dancing over the emblem the boy had touched earlier. His mouth curved into a weary smile.
"Kid," he rasped, barely audible, "you'd better pass that damned L'Apertura… or I'll haunt you in the afterlife."
A low chuckle escaped him—thin, fading.
The flame dimmed, and finally the tent went still.