Abila, Capital of Lizeria

Zoha placed several silver coins on the shop counter. Each coin landed with a satisfying clink, their sheen catching the shopkeeper’s eye.

The shopkeeper was an old woman with a warm smile. She leaned forward, her silver spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. Her wrinkled hands moved with a practiced ease as she carefully counted the coins.

Once satisfied with the amount, she reached beneath the counter and retrieved a small vial of magical white ink. Next, she took out a pristine feather quill. Last but not least, she placed a bottle of regular black ink on the counter, its rich color contrasting with the ethereal white ink.

"Thank you for your purchase, dear. Are you planning on writing a book?" The shopkeeper asked.

Zoha chuckled softly. "Something of the sort," she lied, her tone light and nonchalant. "Just a little project I've been working on."

The shopkeeper nodded. "Well, I wish you the best of luck with your writing. There's nothing quite like putting pen to paper and bringing your thoughts to life."

"Thank you for the supplies. They’re exactly what I needed."

With a final nod of gratitude, Zoha carefully gathered the items from the counter. She placed the vials of ink and the quill into a small, leather pouch at her side.

Then, Zoha straightened up, adjusting her cloak. "Have a good day," she said, offering a polite nod to the shopkeeper.

"You as well, dear. Come back anytime."

Zoha stepped out of the shop and took a deep breath, savoring the brief moment of calm. The air outside was crisp and cool, carrying the mixed scents of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. She allowed herself a moment to take it all in, if only just for a moment. After this, all I need to do is head to the adventurer's guild to alter the dungeon records.

But her peace was short-lived. A familiar, hostile presence prickled at her senses, causing her to tense. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her heartbeat quickened. She turned her head to the right, and saw a figure waving at her. It was her brother, his expression surprisingly cheerful. Fuck me, what's he up to this time?

"Hello there," he called out.

Zoha's jaw tightened, and her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't dignify him with a response, instead focusing on the ground in front of her as she quickened her pace to move away.

But her brother was persistent. She could feel his presence closing in, the intensity of his gaze burning into her back. Just as she thought she might escape, he moved swiftly and stepped in front of her to block her path.

His face turned more serious, the cheerful facade slipping away to reveal a harder edge. "Hey, we need to talk, no tricks."

Zoha rolled her eyes, a deep, annoyed sigh escaping her lips. "Listen, I have somewhere to be," she snapped, shoving him aside with surprising strength. Her fingers pressed into his chest as she pushed him away.

But when she walked away, Dante's voice rang out again. "Zoha, we really do need to talk."

Zoha halted abruptly, her shoulders tensing. She exhaled a long, weary breath before turning slowly, eyes narrowed in frustration. "Alright, what's wrong?"

Dante's jovial facade melted away in an instant, replaced by a look of genuine concern. "Mom's sickness has gotten worse, she wants to see both of us."

Zoha froze, her breath catching in her throat as if an invisible hand had wrapped around her neck. "How… bad is it?"

"It's best if you see for yourself, she's still staying in the shop house as always."

"And why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Calm down, I only found out about mom's worsening condition recently. You should know by now that I don't mess around when it comes to her."

Zoha exhaled deeply, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Alright, let's go see her."

Dante and Zoha walked side by side, their footsteps echoing softly on the cobblestone streets. The weight of their mother's condition pressing heavily on her heart. Beside her, Dante remained quiet, uncharacteristically so.

As they approached the edge of the capital, they finally stopped in front of a quaint two-story shophouse. The first floor housed a florist's shop, its windows covered with flower boxes overflowing with vibrant blooms. The sweet fragrance of roses, daisies, and lavender filled the air, offering a momentary respite from their heavy thoughts.

A hand-painted sign above the door swayed gently in the breeze, the words "Frieda's Florals" elegantly scripted in flowing letters. When the two siblings stepped into the shop, the tinkle of a bell announced their arrival.

A human girl with brown hair, cheeks flushed with worry, rushed towards them. "Mr. Dante, Ms. Zoha! You're here!"

Dante's eyes immediately sought hers. "How is Madam Frieda? Is she alright?"

The girl's expression was a mix of relief and concern. "Her coughing has eased a bit, but... her vision hasn't returned."

Zoha's heart sank, the gravity of the situation pressing down on her. She exchanged a quick glance with Dante before following him.

They reached a narrow staircase at the back of the shop, leading up to the living quarters. The second floor was a modest, cozy living space. Soft light filtered through lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the worn wooden floor. The room was filled with comforting clutter: knitted blankets draped over furniture, various balls of colored yarn scattered everywhere.

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Frieda was resting on a well-worn, but comfortable-looking bed In the center of the room. Her eyes, though open, stared blankly ahead, their once-bright sparkle now clouded. The rise and fall of her chest was shallow as the occasional weak cough escaped her lips.

Zoha approached the bed and knelt beside her mother, taking her hand gently. "Mom, it's me."

Frieda turned her head slightly and smiled. "Zoha, I knew you'd come."

Dante coughed a bit into his hand and half-jokingly announced, "And I'm here too, Mom."

Frieda chuckled weakly. "Of course, I'd never forget my special boy."

Dante knelt at the bedside beside Zoha. He reached out and gently took his mother's frail hand, guiding it to his cheek. The touch was light but it carried a weight of memories that words could never fully convey. Zoha mirrored his actions, holding her mother's other hand against her own cheek.

"Why are you two so quiet now?" Frieda asked with a weak chuckle.

Zoha forced a smile. "Well, if Dante weren't here, I'd probably be arguing with you about something silly, like why you insist on knitting those mismatched socks."

"I knit them mismatched so you two always have to come home to find the pairs."

"And here I thought it was just your unique fashion sense." Dante joked.

Just as the mood started to lift, Frieda's body was wracked with a violent cough. Blood speckled her lips, and Zoha's heart skipped a beat. Without hesitation, Dante grabbed a napkin from the bedside table, his hands steady despite the worry etched across his face. Zoha moved to support Frieda, cradling her mother’s frail frame as the fit subsided.

Frieda's breathing was ragged as she looked at her children. "Thank you, both of you, I'm so lucky to have you."

Zoha tried to stay strong, holding her mother's hand firmly but gently. "No, we’re lucky to have you, Mom."

Dante, sensing the need to lift the somber mood, smiled and began to speak. "Hey, remember the day you found us in the forest?"

Frieda's eyes sparkled faintly with the memory. "Why don't you tell the story to me again? For old times sake."

Dante leaned back slightly, his gaze turning inward as he recalled the memory. "It was a dark, foggy evening. I remember feeling completely lost. Zoha and I had no idea where we were or how we got there. We were huddled together under a tree, hoping someone would find us."

Frieda's smile grew as she listened. "I was walking back from gathering herbs when I heard a faint cry. I followed the sound, and there you both were, shivering and covered in dirt."

Dante chuckled softly. "You looked so surprised, like you couldn't believe what you were seeing. But then you knelt down and wrapped us in your shawl. That warmth... it felt like the first time we were truly safe."

Zoha squeezed her mother's hand. "You didn't hesitate for a second, Mom. You just took us in."

"How could I leave you there? You were both so precious."

"And then you took us home, cleaned us up, and gave us the best meal we ever had. I remember the stew you made; it was like magic in a bowl."

Frieda laughed weakly. "It was just simple vegetable stew, but you both ate it like it was a feast fit for kings."

Zoha nodded with a bittersweet smile. "You gave us everything we needed, and so much more."

"No need to think much of it, I just did what I thought was right." Frieda said.

For a moment, the room was silent. Nobody said a word.

But eventually, Frieda lightly traced the bandages wrapped around Zoha's hands. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, fragile yet filled with motherly concern. "Zoha, dear, why do you still hide your skin condition? You know it doesn't change how much we love you."

Zoha's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the question. She glanced at Dante, who met her gaze with a reassuring nod. "Mom, it's... complicated, but I promise, it's not something you need to worry about."

Frieda's eyes filled with a mix of sadness and acceptance. "I just want you to be happy, Zoha. Both of you."

"We know, Mom," Dante said softly. "We know."

Zoha leaned in and kissed her mother's forehead gently. "We’ll take care of each other. Don’t worry about us."

Frieda smiled, her eyes closing as she relaxed back into her pillows. "You always were a strong pair. Thank you for being here."

***

Zoha and Dante sat on a weathered bench in a nearby park, the evening shadows lengthening around them. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers. They remained silent, each lost in their thoughts, sitting as far apart as the bench allowed.

Dante eventually broke the silence, leaning forward and picking up a small rock. He tossed it into the pond before them, watching as it created ripples on the still surface. "Do you want to talk? Or are we just going to watch this pond forever?"

Zoha turned away from Dante, her gaze fixed on the darkening horizon. "Can we really keep lying to Mom forever?"

Dante picked up another rock, the cool, smooth surface pressing into his palm. He tossed it into the pond, watching it skip once before sinking. "Why are you asking this all of a sudden?"

Beads of tears began to form in the corners of Zoha's eyes. She wiped them away with a trembling hand before speaking again, her voice strained. "Just... answer me."

Dante grabbed another rock, juggling it in his hand for a few seconds as he contemplated his response. "We've been lying to Mom for over a decade about our true nature. I don't see what difference it would make if we keep lying for a few more years."

"You sure?"

"If you want to break the news to her so badly, go ahead."

"I mean, do you think she'll hate us if she knew that we actually eat people?" Zoha asked.

Dante shrugged. "I'm going to be blunt with you, I have no fucking clue, and I'm not sure I want to know."

"Listen, I'm being serious here."

"And I gave you a serious answer. But before you say anything more, ask yourself if you really want to know what will happen if mom knows the truth about us."

"I... you know what? Fair enough."

Zoha turned her head towards Dante, her eyes searching his face for any sign of doubt. "Do you think Mom will have much time left?"

Dante's hand stilled, the rock slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground with a soft thud. "I think she'll be fine, at least for another week or two. Maybe after that—"

Zoha turned her head back towards the pond, shoulders slumping. "I don't understand how you can be so nonchalant."

Dante fell silent, his eyes drifting to a small flower growing at the edge of the bench. He reached down and plucked it, its delicate petals trembling slightly in his grasp. As he methodically plucked away the petals, he spoke. "I know you think I don’t care about Mom, or you, or about going home."

Zoha chuckled softly. "You said it, not me."

Dante’s lips quirked into a brief, rueful smile. "Maybe you could convince your Mistress to heal Mom."

Zoha fidgeted, her fingers twisting the hem of her cloak. "I’ll try."

Dante stood up, brushing the dust off his hands. "I’ll try my best too, for whatever that’s worth to you."

He turned to leave, but before Dante could go far, Zoha’s voice rang out, stopping him in his tracks. "Do you really still want to go home, our real home?"

He turned back to face her. "I’m comfortable living the life I have now. Performing, basking in the adoration of the masses, and, yes, eating some of my adoring fans. But I’ve never stopped trying to find a way for us to go home."

Zoha frowned. "Sorry, but It’s hard for me to believe that."

Dante shook his head slowly, reaching into his coat. He pulled out an ornate tarot card and handed it to Zoha. The card was intricately designed, its edges gilded with gold. At the center, a vibrant depiction of a jester in motley attire stood poised on the edge of a cliff, a small dog at his heels. Above him, the number "0" was inscribed, marking it as "The Fool."

"If nothing else, take this from me."

"I appreciate the gesture, but I'll be fine."

Dante’s eyes darkened with concern. "Zoha, please, I’ve heard rumors that the Inquisition has started moving around more lately. With this card, you won’t have to ask me for help if things go south."

Zoha paused as she considered his words. She looked at the card again, the image of the Fool seemingly beckoning her to take a leap of faith. The thought of relying on Dante still unsettled her, but the practicality of having a backup plan was undeniable.

After a long moment, she finally reached out and took the card from Dante’s hand. "Thanks."

Dante's expression softened, relief washing over his features. "Just keep it close, and don't let anyone else have it."