Dante brushed lank, blood-flecked hair from his forehead. His eyes made a pervasive sweep of the chamber. Pitted stone pillars spiraled up toward the vaulted ceiling. Ebony tapestries dangled from the walls, their hems moldy and moth-eaten. The silk carpet may have been wine-red once, but it had faded to rusty-brown— the color of dried blood. It wound its way among the columns to end below a stone tablet. The surface there was scratched and discolored. Perhaps it had played host to a throne or altar at some point.

The hunter took in the neglected majesty with detachment. He could feel nothing but muted hatred for the demon goat clan and their fixation with hellish traditions. There was nothing of interest or value here, and he turned to leave.

As he neared the door, a flutter of movement caught his eye. He snatched both handguns from their holsters and whirled. He found himself staring past a pillar at a large, blocky object propped against the wall. Dante felt his brows crease in suspicion. A tattered canvas was tucked rather carelessly around the edges of the object. Silver gilding glinted from a large tear at one corner. Puzzled, the hunter tucked one gun back into its holster and stepped forward.

The canvas was stiff with age. A light powder dusted his glove as he touched it. In one deft motion, he tugged the covering from the large frame and let it crumple at his feet.

His breath lodged in his throat. It couldn't be...

Revulsion twisted in his gut as he stared, wide-eyed, at the extravagant oil painting.

Lithe demons rose from the bottom of the canvas and twisted upward. Some gifted artist had breathed life into them with a brush— their oily skin glistened in the dim light. Clawed hands clutched at the blood-streaked flesh of a man, chained and nude. A man with pale skin, silver hair, and blue eyes.

Dante looked away as nausea boiled in the pit of his stomach. His fists clenched and he dragged his gaze back to the painting. His own visage stared out of the canvas, eyes large with imagined pain, mouth slack in a silent cry. Remus was dead, but the hunter's suffering was immortalized here in life-like color. His violation.

Dante's breath rasped as fury swept over him. The gun slid from his grasp and clattered to the stone floor. He yanked the sword from his back so hard the leather strapping tore his jacket. He was almost blind with rage as he raised the blade above his head to cleave the painting into pieces.

He paused. His hands shook almost uncontrollably. He stood poised, frozen, until his arms began to cramp. Several pregnant minutes crawled past before he lowered the sword and let its tip clang dully against the stone. His frustrated growl echoed throughout the chamber.

...Burn it.

The painting, the castle, the whole fucking island. Raze it to the ground, let the ruins crumble into the sea.

Still clutching the blade in one hand, he snatched the discarded gun from the floor. He gave the painting one final, malevolent glare. Then he turned and swept from the room without a backward glance.

The chamber was silent, but a pair of mismatched eyes peered from behind the gilded frame. One iris was liquid amber, the other a deep, bright blue. Both watched the hunter as he stalked away, his shoulders stiff with hatred.

When he was gone, the child edged out from behind the frame and moved to stand before the painting. His small hands reached out to touch the face of the tortured man depicted there.

The man who had just left the room.

One finger traced the outline of the parted lips. He stared into the blue eyes— the eyes that matched one of his own.

The child whispered something audible only to his own ears.

To his own heart.

“I want...” he breathed softly, the words lost in the silence.