Bloodsuckers in Cathedrals (Ironic, yes)

The streets of Franzish bustled with life, the sunlight spilling over the worn cobblestones, catching on the edges of the wrought iron streetlamps and the ornate carvings of the tall stone buildings. The smell of fresh bread mingled with the acrid tang of burning resin, the air alive with the chatter of merchants and nobles alike. Despite the city's apparent vibrance, Sylvan couldn't shake the unease curling in his stomach. Franzish was a city dressed in sunlight, but its shadows were long and deep, and the hunt had brought him here to chase what lurked within them.

Beside him, Lemi adjusted the leather straps of her garb, her black hair swaying slightly as she walked. She was the perfect picture of a Moon-Huntress, her presence calm yet purposeful, her movements measured yet fluid. She spoke, her tone tinged with irritation. "The religious zealots are always the worst to deal with. Pious on the outside, paranoid on the inside."

Sylvan glanced at her as his hand absently brushed over the vials and dagger at his side. The tools of a hunter, cold and silent but always ready. "Yes," he agreed. "But we've got a job to do. The Vicar of the Eight-Tailed Comet has given his edict, and if the clergy want to complain, they can take it up with him."

Lemi clicked her tongue. "Still, I'd prefer not to linger. Franzish might be bright on the surface, but you can feel the rot beneath it."

Sylvan's storm-gray eyes drifted toward the cathedral in the distance. Its towering spires reached for the sky, the carved stone intricately woven with symbols of the Eight-Tailed Comet. It loomed over the city like a vigilant sentinel, but to Sylvan, it felt more like a mausoleum of secrets. Somewhere within its sanctified walls, Irina's trail had gone cold, and he had no choice but to follow it.

"We should do this quickly," Lemi added, her gaze narrowing as the cathedral came into full view.

"We should split up," Sylvan replied, his voice steady but firm. He glanced at Lemi, who twirled to face him, her brow arched.

"You want me to deal with the priestesses alone?" she asked incredulously, crossing her arms. Her leather armor creaked slightly as she moved. "You're not getting out of this one, Sylvan."

He held up a hand, his tone dry. "You've always been better with words than I am, Lemi. They'll listen to you."

Her scowl deepened, but she relented. "Fine. I'll take the lower levels and handle the priestesses. You deal with the priests and clergymen upstairs. But you owe me for this."

Sylvan didn't respond, his gaze already fixed on the cathedral. He knew splitting up was the best course of action. If the rumors about Irina being tainted-blood were true, the clergy would cling to her like treasure. Her blood, said to carry the remnants of the long-lost Dragon lineage, would make her a valuable prize for nobles and zealots alike. She'd be wed off to some lord to propagate her bloodline, her freedom stolen and her life reduced to a breeding vessel. And then, like so many before her, she'd die and be consumed by the very curse she carried, her corpse turned into another of those twisted, vile trees.

No. Sylvan wouldn't let that happen—not to her. Not again.

Inside the cathedral, sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting multicolored beams across the polished stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the low murmur of prayers echoed faintly through the cavernous space. Lemi broke off toward the lower levels, her steps brisk, while Sylvan turned his attention to the grand staircase that led to the upper decks.

A figure in flowing black robes, adorned with the ruby insignia of the Eight-Tailed Comet, caught Sylvan's eye. The Arch-Priest. The man's posture stiffened as Sylvan approached, his presence as a hunter cutting through the sacred air like a blade.

"I would have a word, Arch-Priest," Sylvan said, his voice calm but commanding.

The elderly man turned, his wrinkled face tightening as his gaze met Sylvan's stormy eyes. He clasped his frail hands together, his movements slow and deliberate. "My good hunter," he began, his tone carefully measured. "What could a faithful servant of the Comet do for you?"

Sylvan raised a brow. The lack of disdain in the priest's voice was unusual, though his wariness was clear. Most clergy despised hunters, seeing them as a necessary evil—tools of violence in a faith that preached salvation. "I'm on a hunt," Sylvan said plainly, the words cutting through the cathedral's tranquility.

The Arch-Priest's hands trembled, his gaze darting to the staircase as though he might flee. "I assure you, hunter, none here would dare to allow such vile blood to—"

"I didn't come for excuses," Sylvan interrupted, his tone sharp. "Consider this your warning, Arch-Priest."

Without waiting for a response, Sylvan ascended the stairs, his blade drawn. The priests and clergy watched him with a mix of fear and apprehension, their whispered prayers growing louder as he passed. He swept through the upper levels, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. He wasn't here for the Venadicta—those who were in the early stages of corruption from Snake's Blood—but their presence was undeniable. He could see it in their trembling hands, their sunken eyes, their veins beginning to curl unnaturally beneath their skin. In a few years, the hunters would be called here to cleanse the church entirely.

But that wasn't his mission. Not today.

The Arch-Priest followed him hesitantly, his sandals scuffing against the stone. "Is there a purpose to this, Grey-Hunter?" he asked, his voice wavering. "We take in the sick and the wretched, yes, but we would never harbor the Snake's blood."

Sylvan ignored him, rounding another corner with his blade at the ready. The scattered crowd of onlookers kept their distance, too afraid to intervene. Then he spotted it—a child sitting alone against the wall, his body unnaturally still. Sylvan's chest tightened as he approached. The veins on the boy's arms were twisted, black tendrils crawling beneath his skin like living things. He was young, no older than ten, but the Snake's blood had already taken root.

Sylvan crouched in front of the boy, his voice soft. "Can you see me?"

The child didn't respond, his eyes blank and unfocused. Sylvan waved a gloved hand in front of his face, eliciting only the faintest flicker of recognition. He sighed. The boy was nearly gone, the corruption consuming his senses. At most, he had a day before he fully turned into a Venadicta.

"What is this?" Sylvan demanded, turning to the Arch-Priest. His tone was edged with steel. "Why wasn't this reported to the hunters?"

The Arch-Priest lowered his gaze, shame etched into the lines of his face. "The child… he survived longer than most. I thought—hoped—that the Eight-Tailed Comet might grant him mercy, that his blood might turn to that of the Dragon's."

Sylvan's jaw clenched. "The child has already lost his hearing and most of his sight. He's suffering, and you've let him linger in this state."

"My good hunter, I—"

"No more excuses," Sylvan snapped, rising to his feet. He unsheathed his blade fully, the steel gleaming in the cathedral's light. "This ends now."

The Arch-Priest's face crumpled. "Please," he whispered, tears brimming in his eyes. "He's just a child. He deserves a chance to live."

Sylvan's expression was cold, unyielding. "Do you think I enjoy this? That I take pleasure in killing?" He crouched back down, his voice softening as he addressed the boy. "It's not mercy to let him suffer. The Snake's blood will twist him into something unrecognizable, his body and mind devoured by pain."

The Arch-Priest fell silent, his shoulders trembling as Sylvan raised the blade. "It will be quick," Sylvan promised, though the boy couldn't hear him.

With one swift motion, it was done.

The Arch-Priest collapsed to his knees, cradling the boy's lifeless body as sobs wracked his frail frame. "Damn you, hunter," he choked out, his voice filled with venom and grief.

Sylvan tipped his hat slightly, his voice low. "He's with the Comet now."

The Arch-Priest glared at him, his tears streaking down his weathered cheeks. "You hunters are only good for one thing—killing. When you die, what will you leave behind? Just corpses and sorrow?"

Sylvan's gaze flickered for a moment, but his expression remained unreadable. "I am not afraid of death," he whispered, so quietly the priest could not hear.

As Sylvan turned to leave, he muttered, "There's a tainted-blood here, isn't there?"

The Arch-Priest's grief turned to rage. "And if there is? Will you slaughter us all as you did him?"

"If I must," Sylvan replied, his voice like ice. "Tell me where they are, or I'll assume you've forsaken your oath to your faith."

The priest's lips trembled, but finally, he spat, "The belfry. The creature hides in the belfry."

Sylvan adjusted his hat, stepping past the broken man. "Then I'll finish what you were too weak to do."