Chapter 30: The Fractured Constellation

The fissures in the mansion's foundation had widened. With each passing moment, the walls whispered secrets too faint to grasp, their murmurs blending into the sound of cracking stone. The floor beneath Caelum’s feet trembled, not with fear, but with expectation—a drumbeat anticipating its crescendo.

Standing before him, Dante—the other Dante—smiled with an unnerving blend of pity and triumph. His presence was tangible yet impossible, his shadow stretching in jagged lines across the warped tiles.

“You’re hesitating again,” Dante said, his voice carrying both mockery and a strange undercurrent of understanding. “How many times will you stumble before you realize the truth?”

Caelum’s breath hitched. “And what truth is that?”

“That you’ve always been afraid of yourself.”

The mansion trembled as Dante spoke, and Caelum’s surroundings shifted. He found himself back in the dimly lit hospital room he thought he’d forgotten. The bed was empty, its sheets rumpled as if someone had just fled. On the nightstand, a photograph of his younger self sat askew, the edges curling from age.

“Remember this?” Dante asked, leaning against the bedpost as if he belonged there. “This is where it began. The fracture. The fear. The guilt.”

Caelum clenched his fists. The photograph blurred as tears filled his eyes. “This place doesn’t exist anymore. You’re just pulling fragments from my mind to manipulate me.”

“Manipulate?” Dante’s voice was a velvet blade. “I’m reminding you. You ran from this, Caelum. You ran so far you built an entire mansion of lies to bury it. And now, look at what you’ve created—me.”

The hospital room dissolved into the void, replaced by a grand hall within the mansion. Towering pillars spiraled endlessly upward, their surfaces inscribed with shifting constellations. Each star burned with memories—some clear, others distorted by time.

Dante stepped closer, his presence magnified by the stars. “These constellations are your truths, Caelum. Each one a piece of you. If you keep rejecting me, they’ll collapse. And when they do, this mansion—your mind—will crumble with them.”

For the first time, Caelum felt the full weight of what was at stake. This wasn’t just about confronting Dante. It was about survival.

“What do you want from me?” Caelum asked, his voice cracking.

Dante tilted his head, his smile fading into something more sincere. “I want you to stop running. I want you to accept that I am you, and you are me. Only then will this madness end.”

Caelum’s mind flashed back to his earlier conversations with Dante—the cryptic remarks, the riddles, the fleeting moments where Dante seemed more ally than enemy. He realized now that Dante had always been pushing him toward this moment, testing his resolve.

“But if I accept you,” Caelum said slowly, “what happens to me? To this mansion? To everything?”

Dante’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked more human than ever. “That depends on you. Accepting me doesn’t mean erasing yourself. It means acknowledging the parts you’ve buried, the pieces you’ve labeled unworthy or dangerous. It means becoming whole.”

The constellations above began to flicker, their light dimming as the mansion groaned in protest. Time was running out.

Caelum took a step forward, his heart pounding. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll remain fractured,” Dante said simply. “A man at war with himself. And this place will keep pulling you apart until there’s nothing left.”

Caelum closed his eyes, his mind racing through the moments that had led him here—the voices, the shifting rooms, the relentless weight of the mansion. He thought of the people he’d hurt, the memories he’d abandoned, and the fear that had chained him for so long.

When he opened his eyes, he met Dante’s gaze. “I’m tired of running.”

Dante’s smile returned, softer this time. “Then let’s end this.”

Caelum reached out, his hand trembling as it met Dante’s. The moment their fingers touched, a surge of energy coursed through the mansion. The pillars cracked, and the constellations above exploded into a cascade of light, their fragments raining down like falling stars.

The light enveloped them, blinding and all-consuming. For a moment, Caelum felt as though he were falling, his body weightless as the mansion around him unraveled.

But instead of fear, he felt... peace.

When the light faded, Caelum stood alone in a room he didn’t recognize. It was smaller than the grand halls he’d traversed, with walls lined with books and a single window overlooking a garden.

The air was still, and for the first time, the mansion felt... whole.

Caelum glanced down at his hands, expecting to see cracks or distortions, but they were steady. He turned to the window, watching as the garden bloomed with life.

“You did it,” a voice said behind him.

Caelum turned to find Dante standing there, no longer a shadowy reflection but something more solid, more real.

“We did it,” Caelum corrected, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Dante nodded, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t the end, you know. There’s still more to face.”

“I know,” Caelum said, his voice steady. “But for the first time, I think I’m ready.”

The two of them stood in silence, the light from the window casting long shadows across the room. Outside, the garden stretched endlessly, a testament to what had been lost and what had been found.