"I can rest when I am dead," Dante said, his voice low but firm, the steel behind it unshaken despite the weight of exhaustion. His jaw was set in the way Veneres knew too well—unyielding, immovable. Dante would not falter. Not now. Not ever.
"I know," Veneres responded, his tone carrying an edge of something almost too faint to discern. Weariness? Annoyance? Perhaps even regret. His lapis cape fluttered in the light wind, but his stance was steady, unyielding. Dante always had this effect on him. The man could demand the impossible and still expect it to be done, and worse, Veneres would find a way to do it. Dante was the only person who could do this to him, who could push him to moments like this.
The Paramount tried to straighten, leaning off the wall as his hand went instinctively to the hilt of his blade. It was a feeble attempt, one even Dante surely knew was more habit than actual defense. The blood-soaked streets bore silent witness to his waning strength. His armor, once pristine, hung loose, shattered in places, and his breaths were coming too shallow, too fast.
"Let me help you," Veneres said quietly, taking a step closer. His voice carried none of the sharpness it often held. It was softer, quieter—a lull before a storm.
"I don't need your help." Dante's words were strained, but his resolve did not waver. He stumbled forward a step, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. Still, he refused to yield. "I just need my sword and my troops. The Bridge waits for no one, Veneres."
Veneres studied him for a long moment, his cold blue eyes betraying nothing of the thoughts swirling within. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade, not yet drawing it. "You should rest, Dante. You've done enough."
The Paramount laughed bitterly, though it came out more as a rasping cough. "Enough? Look around you, Veneres. Do you think this is enough? Do you think this slaughter will be the end of it? Karnen is coming. His forces will crush us at the Bridge if we don't move now. There's no time to rest."
"There's always time," Veneres said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand tightened slightly on the hilt of his blade.
Dante's gaze sharpened, and for the first time, he looked closely at the man before him. There was something in Veneres's posture, something in his tone. "What is this?" Dante asked, his voice laced with suspicion. "What are you doing, Veneres?"
The knight did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the blood-slick stone. "You're too kind, Dante," he said finally. "Too good. And that is why this is necessary."
"What are you talking about?" Dante's hand fell to his blade, but his movements were sluggish. The blood loss, the exhaustion—they had finally caught up to him.
"You're holding us back," Veneres said, his voice now firm, resolute. "You cling to dreams that no longer have a place in this world. You refuse to see the truth."
"And what truth is that?" Dante demanded, though his strength was faltering. His hand barely gripped the hilt of his sword.
"That there is no future in hesitation. No victory in mercy. Reem doesn't need a kind leader—it needs a king willing to do whatever is necessary to secure its place. I will be that king."
Dante's eyes widened, realization dawning too late. "Veneres… don't."
But Veneres moved faster than Dante could ever hope to react in his current state. His blade slid from its sheath in a single fluid motion, the steel gleaming coldly under the dim light of the Spire. The strike was swift, precise, aimed with the kind of expertise only years of mastery could provide.
The blade pierced through the chinks in Dante's battered armor, sliding cleanly between the ribs. It was a perfect strike, avoiding bone and striking deep into the Paramount's heart. The world seemed to hold its breath in that moment.
Dante gasped, his body jerking from the force of the blow. Blood welled at his lips as his hand shot to Veneres's wrist, his grip weak but desperate. "V-Veneres?" he choked out, his voice a mixture of confusion, pain, and betrayal.
Veneres met his gaze, his own expression unreadable, his features carved from stone. "I take no joy in this, Dante," he said, his voice calm, almost gentle. "You are a good man. Perhaps the best I have ever known. But good men don't win wars. They die in them."
Dante's knees buckled, and he sagged against the blade. Veneres lowered him gently to the ground, pulling his weapon free as he did. The Paramount slumped against the stone wall, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. Blood seeped from the wound, staining the ground beneath him.
"You could have lived," Veneres continued, crouching down to meet Dante's fading gaze. "You could have retired to the lands you dreamed of saving. But to turn on Reem now… to walk away from the Bridge…" He shook his head. "I cannot allow it. Not when we're so close."
Dante's hand grasped weakly at Veneres's arm, his bloodied fingers leaving smears on the pristine armor. "You… You would… have been… king," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You were… my son."
Veneres froze. For the first time, a crack appeared in his stony demeanor. His eyes widened ever so slightly as the words sank in. "Your… son?" he repeated, his voice soft, almost disbelieving.
Dante coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "You would… have been… king," he said again, his voice weaker this time. His head lolled to the side, and his hand fell away from Veneres's arm. "My… dream…"
The words faded as Dante's breath hitched, then stopped. His body went still, his eyes staring lifelessly at the darkened sky above.
Veneres remained crouched there, his blade resting on his knee, his gaze fixed on the man before him. For a long moment, he didn't move. The words echoed in his mind: You were my son.
Finally, he reached out, closing Dante's eyes with a gloved hand. He rose to his full height, sliding his bloodied blade back into its sheath. His lapis cape fluttered in the wind as he turned away from the body.
Dante would be a martyr. His death would be the rallying cry that pushed the Dauntless Company to new heights. The Battle of the Spire would be remembered as a moment of tragic sacrifice, a tale of loss and glory. The troops would rally under his banner, their grief fueling their resolve. And when the Bridge fell, Reem would rise.
But Veneres's footsteps were heavier than usual as he walked away, leaving the body of the only man who had ever truly believed in him behind. He did not look back.
"This is the path to greatness," he muttered to himself, his voice carrying no conviction. "This is the cost of a dream."
The wind howled through the alley, carrying with it the faint scent of blood. The Spire loomed above, its dark shadow stretching long over the battlefield. Veneres did not waver, his mind already turning to the battles yet to come.
The rain had stopped.