The dining room was shrouded in ghostly stillness, every corner filled with magical dancing shadows. At the high windows, crimson curtains hung heavy like funeral palls, drowning out any trace of outside light and letting only a pale, soft glow filter through. Around the ceiling, ghostly flames swayed slowly and rhythmically, like restless souls, outlining the entire room in a milky glow, teetering between life and death.
Well, they're probably truly restless souls.
Cragar, god of the dead, sat stately at the head of the table, his gaze blank and distant. He wore a black suit adorned with various silver threads that made the dress suitable for both a battle and an evening among nobles. A perfect example of the way the divinity appeared. His red hair was pulled back and fell over his shoulders without catching on the obsidian chair on which the deity rested.
Next to him sat Rutia, the goddess of the occult and illusions, she moved extremely calmly, with an almost disturbing elegance, her face perpetually hidden by a string of bandages that joined her hood to form a stylized mask.
The two created a contrasting image due to the technicality of their masks, one classic and with an Italian style, the other innovative and difficult to define as a real mask.
Dalia sat in front of them and observed the two deities in silence, feeling an oppressive weight from that unreal calm, as if even the words had been petrified by the atmosphere of the room.
“So, Dalia, why don't you tell me and your father about the last days you spent on the surface?”
The demigoddess was torn, “I don't think my father would be interested in such trivial things, divine Rutia, so I find myself forced to refuse your pleasant offer.”
Cragar wiped his lips with a handkerchief, keeping his eyes closed.
“You're wrong, I'm very interested.”
Dalia nodded instantly and began to speak in a low voice, almost whispering, as if the memories of the Lilies Park had a weight unbearable, so big that it was giving her a migraine.
I've never told them anything about the park, but if they really look at me then it means they already know most of the things.
She told them about when she walked with her best friend Marina, about how time seemed to stop between the flowers and the laughter. But that serenity now seemed distant, like a dream that unravels at dawn. Cragar seemed very interested in the story, to the point of asking her various questions about Marina.
“Are you aware of her family situation?”
“Yes, even if she often avoids talking about it. Marina, however, is not like the others. In my time, nobles treated everyone with disdain and contempt. She's kind and thoughtful to me, to everyone, actually.”
Rutia laughed, “We noticed, Cragar was telling me about how she had become close to Shirei.”
“It was strange for me too,” she murmured, with a dull smile, her eyes fixed on the glass in front of her.
Having brought up the subject, she then began to talk about her half-brother.
“I haven't seen Shirei for who knows how long, I didn't even say goodbye to him when he left two weeks ago with the Equinox Flowers... a mission that should have lasted a few days.”
Her voice betrayed a note of concern, barely drowned out by guilt. “But he hasn't returned yet.”
She lowered her gaze, a melancholy shadow crossed her face, while in an almost imperceptible tone she added: “I hope he’s well.”
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The god of the dead sitting in front of her watched in silence, continuing to eat, impassive. His presence exuded an eternal indifference, as if the pain of mortals was for him just another nuance of the reality that reigned.
That, however, was only an appearance to the multitude. Dalia knew that her father was analyzing the best way to cheer her up, he wasn't really indifferent to her moods.
Yeah, he's just pretty weird, exactly like Shirei.
Next to him, however, the goddess of illusions smiled at her in a disturbing, almost amused way, as if that pain were a mystery for her to unravel.
“The past teaches us, Dalia. But the burden you carry will not belong to you forever,” she said, her voice soft yet sharp.
The little girl tried to hide the guilt she felt creeping inside her, but it was impossible. The thought of the Lilies Park and Shirei burned in her chest like an open wound. She knew it all started there, that day she used his powers on her brother, pushing him into a darkness he should never know again. The sudden attack against Aena, the goddess of love, had been the first sign, and since then everything had fallen into a succession of events that had left her with an unbearable burden. Salix, the dark angel, Marina's wound, the destruction of the home of Ognia's children, Aena's fury.
Everything. It was all born out of her childishness. It was all her fault.
Dalia's hands tightened nervously on the napkin as she steeled herself to look Cragar and Rutia in the eyes. She knew there was no benefit to either of them by standing there and listening to her. Her father had called her there to comfort her and offer her a sense of belonging that she had slowly begun to lose. Despite good intentions, that lunch had become just another time to brood in solitude.
Dalia stopped speaking and, without realizing it, her thoughts were immersed in that fateful day again. She clearly saw the shadows lengthening between the lilies and her brother's distorted face, an angry expression masked by an impassive calm that she had never seen before. Her mind recalled the image of the son of Tefine, his dreamlike eyes and mischievous smile hiding a secret too dangerous to be revealed.
“Yes, I'm a god too,” Salix had said, “And I'm not the only one here.”
Thinking about those words made her feel dizzy. She felt the weight of that secret creep into her chest like a cold grip, reminding her that perhaps, among those tragic and mysterious events, there was much more than she could understand.
She looked down and suddenly felt as if the food on her plate had lost all flavor. The hunger had abandoned her, overwhelmed by the bitterness and guilt that enveloped her like an inextricable fog.
In front of her, the two deities exchanged a look of understanding, barely hinted at, as if those words awakened an awareness that they shared, but which they would have liked to keep to themselves. Without saying anything, Cragar grabbed the obsidian knife and cut off a piece of his dark flesh. His teeth sank into the food with an almost cruel calm while Rutia smiled with the air of someone who knew much more than she wanted to let on.
Finally there was Dalia, the poor little girl who really wasn't so small and young, huddled in the silence of that dark room. She found herself more alone than ever under the judging gaze of the gods and wondered if she had been right to accept her father's invitation.
After a few minutes, the goddess of occult broke the static situation.
Rutia leaned toward Cragar, her face next to his ear in a thin whisper, like a wisp of smoke. Her words were barely a breath, impossible to hear for Dalia, who observed her in silence, trying to grasp something of their exchange. When the deity straightened up, she gave Cragar's daughter her usual enigmatic smile, almost a grin, as if she held a secret that she would never reveal. Then she turned, stretching a hand into the still air in front of her.
Suddenly, the atmosphere trembled, distorting like a silk veil shaken by the wind. A cross-shaped furrow opened into nothingness, its bright, jagged lines like a wound etched into the very fabric of reality. The sign widened and a dark portal began to open, revealing a gateway to the Underworld, an abyss of distant shadows and whispers. Rutia passed through it with a fluid movement, leaving behind an evanescent trail of blue particles that vanished as soon as the portal closed, sealing the passage like a freshly stitched wound, as if reality itself was alive and capable of healing.
Dalia looked away, regaining her composure, and turned to her father, but the words died in her throat. An oppressive silence fell over them, heavy and cold as the shadow of the world of the dead. Cragar sighed deeply, breaking the quiet, then stood up slowly, with a tiredness that was almost imperceptible but which seemed rooted in the depths of his being.
Without looking at her, he moved with silent steps towards one of the tall glass windows, with crimson curtains hanging like the edges of a dark curtain. He stopped there, looking at the outside of the Underworld. In front of him lay a desolate expanse, a plain of death, motionless and silent, as if time itself had stopped.
Dalia stared at him, sensing an implacable loneliness in the gaze of her father, a god wrapped in the domain that was his kingdom, his burden and his prison.
The scene remained suspended in that moment, without words, immersed in an apathy that made the room even emptier, as if even the god was now tired of hiding secrets.