The glass shattered before Dante even realized his hand had closed around it too tightly. Red wine spilled across the marble table, staining a map of supply routes and enemy territories. The crimson spread like veins, seeping into the cracks, a dark mirror of the rage beneath his skin.
The messenger knelt before him, trembling. "She said it herself, sir. She will not return."
The room fell silent.
Dante did not move. He simply sat there, eyes fixed on the map, his breath steady but too deep, too controlled. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured. "Repeat it."
The man swallowed. "She said... if you come near her or the child, she will burn every bridge between you. Even if she has to go with it."
A faint sound left Dante's throat—half laugh, half snarl. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. For a long moment, no one dared breathe.
Then he stood. Slowly, deliberately. The air seemed to change around him.
"Leave," he said.
