A Bounty Collected

The main hall of the cathedral echoed with the distant hum of the bustling streets outside. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, casting fractured patterns of light onto the floor. When Sylvan entered, head heavy with exhaustion and blood still drying on his leathers, he was greeted by Lemi sitting atop a pew, casually strumming her bowstring as if it were a lute.

Multiple arrows jutted out from the bodies strewn across the floor. Some lay in neat clusters; others stuck awkwardly out of shells—empty husks of former Venadicta that had tried and failed to take down the Silver Huntress. Lemi didn't even bother looking up as Sylvan approached.

"Find something exciting?" she asked lazily, raising a single eyebrow.

"A head," Sylvan replied dryly, holding up the Tainted-Blood's severed golden-masked head for her inspection. Blood dripped from its edges, staining the polished floorboards below.

Lemi whistled, unimpressed but amused. "Well, I found this," she said, gesturing dramatically to the corpses littering the hall. "You know, the usual: a dozen shells of whatever unfortunate husks these people became."

She leaned forward, her tone growing sharper, though her expression remained unreadable. "Do you know what happened to me while I was chatting with a perfectly nice priestess, Sylvan?"

Sylvan tilted his head slightly, already sensing her irritation. "Tainted-blood shells attacked you," he guessed.

"Yes! Quite astute of you to notice that," Lemi snapped, though there was no real venom in her tone.

"I'm sorry," Sylvan offered, his voice calm but genuine.

Lemi glanced at the struck-down shells scattered around her, then back to him, exhaling through her nose. "See, sorry isn't enough, my dear Grey-Hunter. I liked that priestess; she had a bit of bite to her. We were even going to have dinner. But now she's dead."

Sylvan sighed. "What do you want, Lemi?"

Lemi tapped an arrow against his chest, grinning. "That reward for the Golden Blood is going to be massive. So, here's what I want: you're taking me and Mars to dinner. Fancy dinner. No tavern food."

Sylvan raised his hands in mock surrender. "I need to hand off most of my pay to Sister Friede for watching Irina."

Lemi's grin turned sharp as her finger jabbed the golden-masked head. "That is the Golden Blood, Sylvan. Do you know how rare that is? The House of Blood will feel that sting. They might even pay extra just to keep this quiet."

"Sounds like he's more important than I thought if you know him by name," Sylvan said, setting the head down for the guild's assessment later.

Lemi shrugged, hopping down from her perch. "Not important enough to topple the whole House, but enough to cause a few waves and make for a very nice payday. Word was he was once the Speaker of the House of Blood. Supposedly, his voice alone could drive Venadicta mad."

Sylvan frowned. "Did any of the citizens find out about this?"

"No. As always, they'll think it was just the Snake's Blood running rampant again," she replied with a dismissive wave.

She stepped closer and poked him in the chest again, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips. "You still haven't agreed to dinner."

"Because I know how much you eat," Sylvan muttered.

Lemi grinned, unbothered by the jab. "But you love us all the same, don't you?"

Sylvan exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Fine, Lemi. Dinner it is."

Her grin broadened like a cat who had just cornered a mouse. "Good. I'm glad we've come to an agreement."

Sylvan muttered under his breath, "More like you strong-armed me."

"Someone has to," she quipped, striding past him to retrieve her reusable arrows from the bodies.

The streets of Franzisch hummed with life as Sylvan and Lemi walked back toward the guild. The sun was just beginning to dip beyond the horizon, casting the cobblestone streets in hues of amber and shadow. The scent of baked bread wafted from street vendors, mingling with the acrid smoke of forges where blacksmiths hammered steel. Children darted between stalls, and merchants haggled loudly over prices.

Lemi walked a step ahead, her eyes scanning the crowd for anything out of place. She glanced over her shoulder at Sylvan, her brow furrowing slightly. "You should've waited for me," she said, her tone softer now.

"I had it under control," Sylvan replied, brushing dried blood off his sleeves.

Lemi reached out and brushed a gloved hand over a gash on his forehead. "And when you die, and Irina is crying at your grave?"

Sylvan stopped abruptly, his gaze locking with hers. For a brief moment, he considered telling her. The truth about Irina's condition, about why he was willing to risk everything on these hunts. But the thought passed as quickly as it came.

She was a friend—a good one. But this wasn't something she could know. Not yet.

"I wish I could tell you," Sylvan said quietly, his voice barely audible above the din of the streets.

Lemi's eyes softened. "Then tell me. We're friends, Sylvan."

Sylvan shook his head. "No."

"Sylvan!" she snapped, grabbing his arm. Her frustration was evident, but he gently pulled away.

"It's in the past," he said firmly.

"It's always in the past with you," Lemi muttered, crossing her arms.

Sylvan looked at her for a long moment before speaking. "It's better this way. Let me worry for you and Mars. You enjoy the life we've been given."

Without waiting for her response, he walked ahead, his steps heavy against the cobblestones.

Lemi stood there for a moment, watching him go. His bloodied cloak swayed as he disappeared into the crowd. For the briefest moment, it looked like something invisible was weighing him down, dragging his body with each step. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

"What are you hiding, Sylvan?" she whispered to herself before hurrying to catch up.

After receiving the guild's payment for the Golden Blood bounty, Sylvan made his way to the church where Sister Friede watched over Irina. The sound of her voice greeted him before he even entered the room, warm and melodic as she told the children one of her stories.

Sylvan leaned against the wall outside the room, listening quietly. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as her words wrapped around him like a blanket.

"And so the Starchild stood tall, guarding humanity against the Neph and the dwarves," Friede said, her voice full of reverence. "No matter how dark the night, the Starchild's light would always shine."

Sylvan closed his eyes, letting the story wash over him. He didn't believe in such tales—hadn't in years. But hearing them now, they felt like a balm to his weary soul.

When the story ended, Friede noticed him lingering in the doorway. "I thought you'd be gone longer," she said with a smile. "Did the hunt go well?"

Sylvan tossed her a small bag of resin flakes. "For another year of Irina's schooling," he said simply.

Friede's smile widened as she caught the bag. "Ah, so it went very well. Perhaps I can interest you in learning something new? Reading, maybe? Writing? Something beyond the gruff Kav you insist on sticking to?"

"No use for a hunter," Sylvan replied gruffly.

"There's always a use for knowledge," Friede chided, jabbing a finger at him.

Sylvan changed the subject. "How's she doing?"

Friede's face softened. "Better than when you left. She's a bright girl—absorbs knowledge like a sponge. She could find work as a scribe or a scholar easily."

"She's special," Sylvan agreed.

Friede tilted her head. "Have you considered… other paths for her? Perhaps a position as a servant in one of the noble houses? It might offer her stability."

Sylvan snorted. "Putting her in front of royalty would be just as bad as leaving her on the streets."

Friede laughed softly. "Fair enough. Though she'd make a fine priestess, you know. But I doubt your ancestors would approve."

"They wouldn't," Sylvan said. "But if that's what she wants, I won't stop her."

The sound of hurried footsteps interrupted their conversation. A moment later, a small voice cried out, "Big brother!"

Sylvan turned just in time to catch Irina as she barreled into him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist.

"You smell," she said, wrinkling her nose.

Sylvan smirked, ruffling her hair. "And you look like you haven't brushed your hair in a week."

Irina pouted. "I'll brush it when you clean yourself up."

"Fair deal," Sylvan said, lifting her into his arms.

The other children began to gather around them, their eyes wide with curiosity. One of the bolder boys piped up, "Tell us a story, big brother!"

Sylvan sighed, setting Irina down. "Just one. Then it's dinner and bed."

The children cheered, crowding around him as he settled into a chair. For a moment, he hesitated. What story could he tell? Nothing from his hunts—that would only give them nightmares.

Finally, he spoke. "This is a story from my homeland. About Shorian, the Thunder Ax, and her battle against the Everlasting Winter…"

And as his words filled the room, the weight of the day lifted, if only for a little while.