The morning was silent, the kind of silence that carried weight—heavy, waiting. The early morning sun hung pale behind thin clouds, casting its faint orange light into a modest room on the second floor of a small, quiet home.
The room was simple but lived in. A wardrobe stood beside the door, its mirror reflecting the faint glow of a desk lamp left on overnight. A bed rested at the far end, sheets tangled around the figure of a boy no older than fifteen. His hair was white—unnaturally white—and shimmered faintly beneath the light. Even in sleep, he was beautiful, almost otherworldly. His chest rose and fell in the rhythm of dreams.
Then, the air shifted.
A faint ripple spread across the room as though reality itself exhaled. The boy's fingers twitched, and his body lifted slowly off the bed. Dark mist—thick and unnatural—began to leak from his skin. It twisted and writhed like living smoke.
"Arrrrrrgh!"
The scream tore from his throat, sharp and raw. The walls shuddered; cracks split the plaster like veins. The desk rattled, the laptop fell, and the air grew so heavy it pressed against the walls.
In that moment, a light appeared—soft, white, pure. A woman materialized beside the levitating boy. Her long white hair cascaded like silk over her shoulders, and her gray eyes glowed faintly with power. Without hesitation, she reached out, pressing her hand to the boy's forehead.
The dark aura recoiled violently and vanished.
Dante collapsed back onto the bed, breathing hard but now peaceful, as if nothing had happened.
The woman—watched him quietly. Her face softened. The tension in her shoulders eased.
"Dante," she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, "wake up… Dante."
Her voice was gentle, like the echo of a melody. Dante stirred, his lashes fluttering before his eyes opened—eyes that mirrored a storm, pale and piercing.
"Good morning, Mom," he murmured, sitting up slowly.
"Morning, boy," she replied with a faint smile, sitting beside him. "Tell me about it."
He hesitated, then began recounting the dream—the voice in the darkness, the god of the dark realm, the pain, the wings, the tattoos that burned across his skin. His words came slowly, as if he were afraid they might sound insane once spoken aloud.
When he finished, the silence between them stretched.
His mother stared at the wall, her expression empty, drained of color. Then, softly, she said, "That wasn't just a dream."
Her voice trembled. "Look at your body."
Dante's pulse spiked. He threw the blanket aside—and froze.
Black markings, intricate and ancient-looking, coiled around his right leg, winding up across his torso to his left arm. Another symbol spread faintly across his forehead, reaching toward his right eye. He could feel them pulsing, as though alive.
"What… what is this?" His voice cracked. "Mom—"
"Don't worry." She placed her hand on his chest, eyes sharp now, murmuring words he couldn't understand. The air shimmered faintly, and the tattoos began to fade, dissolving into his skin until nothing remained.
Dante looked down, dazed. His body was clean again. His breathing slowed, but his thoughts were kicked into the state of confusion
His mother turned toward the door, her back to him.
"Mom," Dante said slowly, the question trembling on his lips, "did you just perform magic?"
She froze mid-step. For a moment, only silence filled the room—the kind that makes the heart ache. Dante's mind spun. He wanted to ask what the dream was, if the god, the darkness, the pain were real—but instead, that single question escaped him.
Downstairs, a sharp knock broke the stillness.
His mother exhaled softly.
---
In the living room, the sound of the door opening echoed through the house.
A woman—older, warm-faced, wearing a simple gown—answered it. Behind the door stood a man dressed in white uniform, his beard neatly trimmed. He smiled politely, bowing slightly.
"Morning," he greeted. "I'm here for the students."
She nodded quickly. "Please, come in."
He sat, taking the tea she offered with a grateful nod. "Thank you," he said, inhaling the steam. "The academy is expecting them by noon."
"I'll get them," she said, disappearing toward the stairs.
"Hana! Baloy! Bella! Dabi! Dante!" Her voice carried through the hall. "The driver's here!"
Footsteps echoed overhead. Three girls descended first, dragging their luggage, their chatter filling the house. One of them has long green hair, green eyes, and cute doll-like face-- strikingly cute. She was clad in plane white gown, her name was Hana. The second girl has black hair, brown eyes, and she's so identical to Hana. She is Hana's sister, Baloy. Behind them followed a tall boy with spiky jet-black hair and calm brown eyes—Dabi. He smiled faintly. "We're ready."
"And Dante?" the woman asked.
"He's coming," Dabi replied, glancing over his shoulder.
---
Upstairs, Dante sat frozen on the edge of his bed, the remnants of his fear hanging in the air like a fog.
"Mom, did you just—" he began again, his voice shaking.
"Yes," she said finally, still facing the door. "I performed magic."
Dante's breath hitched. "But I thought magic was… was—"
"Forbidden?" she finished quietly.
He nodded. The word carried the weight of unspoken grief.
"Don't worry about it," she said softly, turning back to him. Her face was blank, expressionless, but her eyes shimmered with something she was trying to hide. "The same magic that—"
She stopped when Dante's voice broke. "The same magic that killed...?" His throat tightened, unable to complete the statement.
Before he could say more, she moved forward and pulled him into her arms.
"I promise," she whispered into his hair. "I'll explain everything… when you come back on Saturday. I'm sorry, Dante. Please don't cry."
Her voice cracked.
She held him for a moment longer, then let go, wiping at her eyes as she walked toward the door. "The driver's waiting. Finish up and come downstairs."
The door clicked shut, leaving Dante alone in the quiet hum of the morning. He sat there, staring at the empty space she'd left behind, tears tracing slow paths down his face.
---
By the time he came downstairs, everyone else was gathered by the front door, luggage in hand. The house felt smaller now, filled with movement and the faint scent of tea. The driver stood waiting, posture straight and formal.
"Alright," he said briskly, "let's get going."
As they began to file out, Dante's mother approached him one last time. She cupped his face gently, forcing him to look at her. "I'm sorry," she whispered again. "I'll explain it all when you return."
He managed a small nod. Her hand lingered on his cheek before she turned away.
Outside, sunlight poured over the street. The sky was pale blue, clouds drifting lazily, pretending the world wasn't hiding shadows beneath it. Parked by the gate was a massive bus painted in streaks of red and white, humming softly as its engine idled.
It could carry a hundred students easily, its windows tinted against the light. The emblem of the Aetherion Academy—a pair of angelic wings crossed by a sword—gleamed on its side.
The students climbed aboard one by one. Dante followed last.
Before stepping inside, he glanced back.
His mother stood at the doorway, her white hair glimmering in the light. She raised her hand and waved, smiling faintly.
He waved back and stepped inside.
---
The bus was loud, filled with chatter and laughter. The air smelled faintly of perfume, metal, and youth. Eyes turned the moment Dante entered. Conversations faltered.
Whispers rippled through the rows.
"Who's that?"
"White hair… is that natural?"
"He's cute—look at his eyes."
He ignored them, pretending not to notice the stares. The weight of eyes wasn't new to him—it followed him wherever he went.
As he moved down the aisle, he found an empty seat beside a girl with bright yellow hair and a round, cheerful face. She smiled shyly when he sat down, fighting the urge to squeal. All other seats were occupied and it seems like they were the last set of people needed to fully occupy the bus.
"Hey," she said softly. "I'm Yuki."
"Dante," he replied, voice quiet but warm.
The driver called out, "Settle down, everyone! We're leaving for the academy now." The bus lurched forward, and the road ahead stretched long and bright under the morning sun.
Dante turned to the window. His reflection stared back at him—a boy with pale eyes and hair like moonlight. He looked peaceful. Normal. But deep down, he could still feel it: the echo of that dark voice, the faint hum of power under his skin.
The tattoos might have faded, but something inside him hadn't.
He pressed his palm to the glass, watching the world blur past. The others were laughing, chatting, dreaming of what the academy might hold. But Dante's thoughts drifted elsewhere—to the darkness that had called him Monarch.
As sunlight spilled through the glass, he whispered under his breath, "What am I?"
The bus rolled on, carrying him away from home—and closer to the truth waiting beyond the gates of Alph's Academy.