"Sometimes the desire for control and the resentment of authority grows so large, it becomes all-consuming."
—Ted Bundy
"There are multiple factors of concern at the moment," Theron said, flipping open his diary.
"Didn't know you were the nerd type."
"Nerd?" His tone confused. As if I'd spoken a foreign language.
"Nothing. Continue."
He adjusted his glasses with an irritated sigh. "First," he began, voice clipped, "you've been missing for nine days. A saint—the empire's saint—disappearing like a fool. Everyone is in an uproar, searching for your sorry self."
"What?" My stomach dropped. "How could I not realize? A saint missing for nine days—the empire must be in havoc!"
He waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, don't flatter yourself. The empire isn't falling apart because of you. Your little Goddess cult will scrape by somehow—its hardly the most pressing issue."
"Then what's the most pressing issue?"
I stared at him, bewildered. How could the empire's chaos be the least of our problems?
He cleared his throat. "Second," he said slowly, "Mira and some young saint were arrested. Apparently, they were last seen with you. Multiple witnesses confirmed it—one of them being a guard from Haldor."
"The saint must be Lucas…" I murmured.
"You knew him?"
"Yes… He's important."
"Well, lucky for you, their lives aren't completely ruined yet. They'll be released the moment you crawl out of my room where you're hiding and prove their innocence."
I let out a shaky sigh. "Thank God, so—"
"Don't celebrate yet," Theron cut in. "That's assuming you can even show your face looking like this."
"Right—my new form. A saint turning up with red eyes, wings, and a vampire's aura? They'd execute me on sight."
I clenched my fists. "Perhaps if I could change my appearance—"
"Of course you can!" Asta's voice boomed in my head, confident as ever.
"No, you can't," Theron responded. "Vampires can change forms—powerful ones, that is. But you? A nestling who's barely survived the transformation? Not happening."
"Couldn't magic do something?" I asked.
He sighed, exasperated. "Magic isn't some cheap trick. It follows rules. You can't just snap your fingers and rewrite your body. That's witchcraft—"
We locked eyes, realization striking at once. Together, we yelled. "Witchcraft is the answer!" Slamming his fists on his diary.
Asta intervened, "Witches? They're real?" Dumbfounded.
"Theron you're surely not—''
"Even I didn't expect to need your mother for this," I admitted quietly.
"At least you realize." He slammed his diary shut. "Once she is reawakened—we go our separate ways."
"Are you perhaps bipolar?"
"What?"
"It's an illness. Sudden, extreme mood swings and more. My father had it."
"There's no such word." He paused, then asked, "Did he recover?" Clearly curious.
"No, he's not in this world…"
He was on earth, couldn't say that.
"I see"
I meant my father, of course Lucian's father was alive and kicking.
Theron turned around to leave, "By evening we shall leave for Haldor, there's no delaying this any more." He stopped. "Wait…"
"You… how do you know?"
Before I could answer, he rushed towards me—startled, I let out a gasp.
"How… do you know your father is dead? While you have been unconscious from nine days."
"Wh-what?" I took a step back, "my father, the Walter Westwood is dead?
He died during the time I was unconscious? That came as a surprise—yet not so much. This did not happen in the original story, but this meant my plan was working.
"Do not play dumb, Saint Lucian Walter Westwood. You already knew your father is dead, but from what I see—you had no way of knowing so. "
"I meant…"
"You meant?" He scoffed, "after our last encounter I gave it a thought— to things I kept putting past me, deeming them unnecessary—I confronted the questions I had about you."
I flinched, he stepped closer, his built up anger kicked in. "You've kept my mother's body hidden. You knew I was a bloodmage. You knew I could bring her back. You also knew about Nyx! And yet, from what I see—you had absolutely no way of knowing so."
I stood in silence, he looked down—scoffing.
"It only made me wonder—wonder what more do you know about me, and more importantly why me. We hardly ever met."
His hands shook, he possibly had been keeping all of these questions to himself all this time. Only for his mother's sake—only for this co-operation.
"Hah! And yet, you want to become stronger. Why? You have everything. Why didn't you just ask Magnus for help? Aren't you two friends?" His hands gripped my arms, pushing my body.
His eyes carried that weary, helpless void. Perhaps it was his fear of things going beyond his authority—beyond his knowledge.
I was familiar with the feeling—how it feels when everything starts to go awry—when the characters in my own written world, do not act the same.
I understood his frustration—possibly more than he did himself.
He leaned in, "and why…" his voice dropping, "why don't I just kill you right now? I should. You're a threat to me, to my throne. Yet for some reason, I don't want to. Why is that, Lucian?" He paused, before yelling "ANSWER ME YOU CULTIST!"
"Theron…" I sighed.
"You call me by my first name—and so do I. But we are not friends Lucian. You cannot fathom what the throne means to me!"
"I will exterminate whoever stands with Magnus! Be it you—or anybody else."
He straightened, and turned back. "By evening, we leave for Haldor."
Not waiting for any answers—perhaps he knew I wouldn't have any.
…
"Your friend is utterly unhinged." Asta said, popping out on my side.
"A true villain, indeed," I muttered. "And you…" I leaned closer, my voice low, eyes squinted. "You're hiding something from me, aren't you?"
Asta flinched, his small form jerked back in alarm. "M-Me? Hiding? Oh, absolutely not! Aha—nonsense, really." His nervous laughter admitted to it.
"You tried something earlier," I pressed, stepping closer. "When Theron confronted me. I was startled, and I felt it. You did something. Didn't you?"
"Tried something? Me? A mere shadow of my former glory? What would I even try? Besides it's time I rest." Sweating, as He began to float away, as if retreating would save him.
"Don't even think about it," I snapped. "You don't sleep. I know that much."
"Tell me," I demanded. "What was that? What's making you so nervous?"
His expression shifted. "Ah, you truly leave me no choice, do you? Very well. I suppose I should enlighten you, considering I seem to be shackled to your sorry existence until the end of this mess."
"Enlighten me about what?"
"Your soul, I glimpsed into it. During those precious moments of fear, shock, anger—your mind loses the touch with your soul and your body purely acts on instinct. Such moments—allow me to peer inside your soul."
"What…?"
Looking inside my soul? I felt… naked, exposed. He made it seem less of a deal than what it truly was.
No such thing ever came up in my world building, I made no such rule.
Weird, things kept changing—more than ever, more than they had in any of my previous lives. Astaroth was just a myth, vampire blood never made one a vampire and most importantly—looking inside of somebody's soul?
"What… did you see?" I did not truly want to know—a part of me wanted to remain unaware, a part of me wished to feign ignorance to events that had occurred throughout those lives.
"I did not get to see as much, but there were multiple odds things." He shook his head, "You see, after each of your deaths, your memories are wiped, your body reborn. Such is the nature of this world, yes?"
True, that—is what I wrote in the book. A chill crawled up my spine—knowing what he might say next.
"But," he continued, "your soul, Lucian, your soul has not forgotten. It carries memories—fragmented, buried deep, yet present. They extend through your many lives, and what's most fascinating…" He leaned in, "…is that every single life has been as the same person. You."
He saw through it, this must've been due to my constant reincarnations.
"Your soul… It's different, Lucian. It remembers what it shouldn't. Every death. Every life. All of it."
"You mean… every reincarnation… it's still me?" My breath stiff.
He nodded. "Indeed. Not merely a return to the past, as you might have hoped. No. You are being reborn, again and again, in this very universe."
My stomach churned. My knees felt weak. "Have I truly died in all those lives?"
"Yes, Lucian. You have."
"Asta…"
"Yeah?"
My voice wavered. "Did you see… anything that wasn't from this world? Anything that might suggest… another life?"
"A different world…?" He wondered, trying to remember the details.
"Hmmm."
I held my breath—waiting for his response.
"No such thing."
He floated closer. "There was nothing. No sign of another world. No evidence of a life beyond this one."
This... was what I had been afraid of all these lives.
I stumbled back a step, my mind wavered. If my soul didn't remember being Dante…
Was I ever Dante? Or have I always been Lucian? Navigating through my own life cycles believing I'm somebody else?
Or was it just a hallucination? A delusion I'd clung to through the countless regressions of Lucian's existence?
"What if…" My voice barely made sound. "What if Dante was never real? What if it was all in my head? A dream? A lie?"