The Shattered Crowns

P.O.V. Dante

As they stepped out of the mess tent, the Lunar Storm swirled around them, its light painting the world in shades of purple and blue. Akash shivered as the mist brushed against his skin, its touch both cold and electric. Dante, seemingly unaffected, led him through the camp, pointing out landmarks as they went.

"That over there is the armory," Dante said, gesturing to a large tent reinforced with wooden beams. "You'll get your gear sorted tomorrow. And that," he pointed to a smaller, sturdier tent near the edge of the camp, "is the infirmary. Try not to end up there too often."

They reached Akash's tent—a modest structure with enough room for a cot, a small table, and a trunk for personal belongings. Elys padded inside ahead of him, circling the cot before settling down at its base.

Dante lingered at the entrance, his expression thoughtful. "Big day tomorrow," he said. "The whole camp will be talking about you. Get some rest."

Akash nodded, stepping inside. The tent was quiet, the faint hum of the storm outside muffled by the thick canvas. He sank onto the cot, his body protesting every movement. Elys rested his massive head on Akash's lap, a comforting weight.

As Akash drifted off to sleep, Dante remained outside, his gaze fixed on the swirling storm. His sharp blue eyes traced the faint red glow that pulsed in the distance—a light that seemed to beckon and warn in equal measure.

"Another possible Exalted," Dante muttered under his breath. "The Sovrans are going to be furious, but the risk is worth it. If I play this right…"

He let the thought trail off, a sly smile creeping onto his face. For the first time in years, Dante felt a spark of genuine excitement. This boy—this stubborn, reckless boy—could be the key to something far greater than the Dauntless Company. Something that would echo through history.

"Akash Dorher," he murmured. "I wonder what Lorian has planned for you."

As the camp settled into uneasy quiet, Dante's thoughts lingered on the future. The stars above might have been hidden by the storm, but his vision was clear. He saw a marble throne rising above the sands, its steps paved with victory and sacrifice. He saw himself seated upon it, flanked by loyal allies.

Dante the Cunning. The title had a nice ring to it.

But ambition came with its own dangers. If he miscalculated, if he moved too soon or too recklessly, it wouldn't be a throne waiting for him—it would be a grave. And the boy, Akash, was a gamble. A promising one, yes, but still a gamble.

"Veneres, Jassin, Sillia," Dante murmured, naming his most trusted Sovrans. "You'll all hate me for this. But if I'm right…"

He let the thought hang, the storm's glow reflected in his calculating eyes. Risk and reward danced in his mind, each decision weighing heavily as he plotted his next move.

Somewhere deep within the camp, Akash slept, his dreams filled with fractured memories and the faces of his missing friends. Elys snored softly beside him, the tiger's massive frame rising and falling with each breath.

And outside, the Lunar Storm raged on, its lights illuminating the ambitions of those daring enough to chase them.

The Lunar Storm lashed at the camp like restless ghosts, swirling between tents and dyeing the sand in shades of glowing purple and blue. Dante stood at the edge of the perimeter, his silhouette sharp against the chaotic backdrop. His hands rested on his hips, fingers absently tapping the hilt of the short dagger he always carried. His eyes—keen, calculating—tracked the horizon where the faint red glow still pulsed.

Dante had spent his entire life making moves on a chessboard no one else could see. Some called him reckless. Others, cunning. Both were true, but what few understood was that Dante had learned how to play this game because he'd had no choice.

Reem's court was a den of vipers, each more venomous than the last. Even as a boy, before he was old enough to hold a blade, he had been forced to maneuver through the constant sniping, the endless schemes. He'd been bred for the battlefield, not for politics, but no warrior could swing a sword forever. If you weren't sharp enough to play the game, you became a piece sacrificed in someone else's strategy.

And Dante had no intention of being sacrificed.

He glanced back at the tent where Akash and Elys now rested. A strange pair, to be sure, but there was something about them. Something raw. Something untamed. Akash was a bruised, scrappy boy, stubborn and full of fire, but there was something deeper in him. A potential Dante rarely saw.

The Sovrans wouldn't understand. Fabien would see Akash as another blunt instrument to swing around, while Veneres would dismiss him as reckless. Even Jassin, the most analytical of them all, would likely reduce the boy to a collection of strengths and weaknesses, missing the whole picture. But Dante… Dante saw something else.

The fractured moons hung heavy in the sky, their pale light bleeding through the swirling storm. Dante's gaze lifted to them, his thoughts drifting to stories from his youth. Legends spoke of Exalted—rare, fabled individuals touched by divine chaos, destined to shape the future of Lorian. It was a romantic notion, one Dante had scoffed at as a boy. The stories painted Exalted as heroes, figures of divine purpose who brought hope or ruin in equal measure.

In reality, Exalted were nothing more than weapons forged by forces no one could understand. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Most died young, burning out before their potential could be realized. And yet, there was no denying their power. History remembered the Exalted because the world bent around them, for better or worse.

Dante had never encountered an one Exalted before. But those thoughts led him to his apprentice-Veneres. Veneres had been shaped by the Bridgemen, molded into something nearly unstoppable, but that same weight crushed the man under its expectations. It made him charistmatic, yet aloof, humorful, but to grand. Even after years of knowing him, Dante still wasn't sure whether Veneres's loyalty came from friendship or obligation.

But Akash… Akash was different.

The boy had no polish, no training. He wasn't weighed down by expectation or legacy. He carried his friends' names in his mouth like a shield, his stubbornness a bulwark against the impossibilities Lorian threw his way. Dante couldn't decide if that made him more dangerous or less, but one thing was certain: Akash would either rise to incredible heights or be consumed by his own fire.

Dante exhaled, running a hand through his dark, disheveled hair. "Another possible Exalted," he muttered to himself. "I must be losing my mind."

He wasn't a man prone to blind faith. Faith was for fools, for the common folk who clung to the divine as if it would save them from the brutality of the world. Dante believed in calculation. In risk and reward. And Akash… Akash was a risk.

A very tempting one.

The red glow on the horizon flickered like a heartbeat. It was faint now, but Dante knew what it signified. The Hopekiller was moving. The Bridgemen were stirring. And that meant Lorian was on the brink of something catastrophic. Again. The godforsaken moons always seemed to dance closer to collision when the world teetered on chaos.

The Lunar Storm whipped past him, the biting mist tugging at the edges of his black cloak. He tugged it tighter, not out of cold, but out of habit. The storm had always made him feel small, like a mere speck in the grand, indifferent universe. But tonight, that feeling didn't bother him. If anything, it spurred him on.

Dante wasn't content with surviving. He wanted more than that. Always had. For years, he had carved out a space for himself in the volatile world of mercenaries and politics. The Dauntless Company was his creation, his refuge, his weapon. But it wasn't enough. Not anymore. He'd tasted the bitter poison of the Reem court, and now he wanted the antidote.

He wanted control. Not the fleeting control of a battlefield victory, but something permanent. Something undeniable. A place at the table where decisions were made. Where power truly resided.

And Akash could be the key to that.

In a world as rigid and unforgiving as Lorian, unpredictability was a weapon more potent than any blade.

Dante's fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger. His reflection stared back at him from the polished blade—sharpened, honed, and prepared to cut through anything in his way. That was how he'd always lived. That was how he would continue to live.

"Akash Dorher," he said softly, the boy's name tasting foreign on his tongue. "You're either my greatest gamble or my biggest mistake."

A low chuckle escaped his lips, carried away by the swirling storm. He wasn't afraid of mistakes. He'd made plenty before and survived every one. But this time, the stakes were higher. Lorian was a world that thrived on chaos, and chaos rarely came without casualties.

Dante turned back toward the camp, his cloak billowing behind him. The Lunar Storm hissed at his retreating figure, its luminous mist curling around his boots. In the distance, the faint glow of Akash's tent was visible, the boy and his tiger resting within.

Dante smiled, a wolfish grin full of sharp teeth and sharper intentions. "Rest well, Akash," he murmured. "We've got a lot of work to do."

As he disappeared into the storm, the moons hung heavy overhead, their fractured light casting jagged shadows across the sands. Somewhere, far beyond the horizon, the Hopekiller moved, his presence a dark cloud on the edge of Lorian's consciousness.

But Dante didn't worry about the Hopekiller. Not yet. His focus was on the boy. On the fire burning in Akash's eyes. On the storm they would unleash together.

"Dante the Cunning," he whispered, testing the title as though it were already his.

Yes, it had a nice ring to it.