To Crash a Ball

"Are you ready, Sylvan?" Mars asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his cleaver-like hunting tool. The two men crouched in the shadows of the Lunar Storms, hidden on the upper levels of the estate while the staff below bustled about, preparing for the ball. Servants scurried back and forth, hauling trays of food and bottles of wine into the manor. Somewhere below, Lemi was working to unlock the side doors that would let them in.

Sylvan crouched lower, his hand resting on the hilt of the ciquesida strapped to his side. "It's a shame we're going to ruin such a lovely event," he said, though there was no remorse in his tone.

Mars smirked. "It will certainly be a ball to remember." He adjusted the grip on his weapon, the broad, cleaver-like blade with its needle-sharp tip glinting faintly in the dim light. It was a tool designed for precision—a weapon that dug deep into the tough hides of monsters and didn't let go.

Sylvan's gaze trailed toward a massive roast being carried in by a pair of struggling servants. "All that food and wine… wasted on a single night."

Mars glanced sideways at him. "You've never been to one of these things, have you?"

Sylvan tilted up the brim of his hat, his face shadowed beneath it. "Do I look like the kind of man who gets invited to these events?"

Mars sighed, his voice laced with mild exasperation. "Sylvan, if all you ever do is work, what's the point of life? You've got to stop and savor it once in a while."

Sylvan snorted, his tone dry. "Spoken like a man who only has himself to worry about. Spare me the life lessons, Mars."

Instead of arguing further, Mars placed his golden helmet onto his head, the red feathers that crowned it catching faint moonlight. The sound of a door creaking open below them drew their attention, and they both spotted Lemi waving them down. Sylvan adjusted the bow slung across his back and muttered, "Looks like our princess has arrived."

"Let's see what her royal highness needs now," Mars said with a smirk.

They descended toward Lemi, who was muttering under her breath as they approached. "Damn highborns," she grumbled, her voice laced with irritation. "Humming along to string quartets, feasting on roast duck, and here I am skulking around in the cold."

"What's the matter, Lemi?" Mars asked, his tone teasing. "Annoyed already?"

Lemi rolled her eyes. "Did you two bring everything?" She shot them both a sharp look. Sylvan tossed her belongings toward her without a word, and Lemi caught them, pulling out the clips from her hair and letting it tumble down her back in waves. She adjusted the black veil over her face, her transformation from refined ball guest to deadly hunter now complete.

"Thanks, boys," she said with a wicked grin. "I don't feel like myself without my gear. Now let's go cause some havoc."

The three hunters moved like shadows through the corridors of the estate, the faint sound of violins drifting through the air as music from the ballroom spilled out. The guild symbols stitched into their cloaks discouraged any servants or guards from stopping them—most assumed the trio had been hired for a discreet extermination. After all, it wasn't uncommon for nobles to quietly bring in hunters to deal with unwelcome creatures on their properties. It was bad for business, as they liked to say, to advertise such problems.

Mars glanced around a corner before turning back to the group. "Any idea how to get to the Tainted-blood?"

"No," Sylvan said curtly, his sharp eyes scanning the hallway.

Lemi spoke up. "We'll have to pass through the ballroom to get to the main manor. The estate is massive, but the tower we're looking for is near the stables. If we stick to the plan, we'll be fine."

Mars gave a skeptical look. "I doubt the d'Aragon family would take kindly to us snooping around. Especially us." He motioned toward himself and Sylvan. "We're not exactly dressed for the occasion."

"I can manage," Lemi said, straightening her veil. "We'll say you're my guards. Sylvan… well, you might have to take the long way around."

"It's fine," Sylvan replied, rolling his shoulders. "Just get to the manor and the tower. I'll join you when I can."

"We'll need more than a few vials and blades if this Tainted-blood is stronger than the others we've faced," Mars pointed out, his weapon resting heavily on his shoulder. "This won't be easy."

Sylvan pulled out several small vials from his belt, the resin inside catching the light. "These will do the job."

Mars snorted, a challenging glint in his eye. "Want to bet on that? I think I'll carve it up before your vials even slow it down."

"Boys!" Lemi snapped, cutting off the brewing argument. "Save it for the Tainted-blood."

The group split up. Lemi and Mars stuck together, weaving into the throng of guests, while Sylvan moved along the edges of the ballroom, slipping through unnoticed. The ballroom itself was an opulent masterpiece—a dome of translucent material that revealed the swirling Lunar Storms above. The mist, illuminated by the moonlight, pressed against the dome like a ghostly tide, its faint glow casting an otherworldly light over the space. The vibrant banners hanging from the walls seemed to pulse in the ethereal glow.

Music filled the vast chamber, drowning out all but the closest whispers. Violins, lutes, and wind instruments harmonized in a melody so rich it almost felt tangible. The nobles below, clad in silks imported from Ustea and the rarest Mooneye fabrics, twirled across the polished marble floor, their laughter and chatter rising like a distant hum beneath the music.

Sylvan moved along the periphery of the room, his head tilted low beneath the brim of his hat. The indulgence and waste on display made his stomach churn. A single platter of food from this ball could feed Irina and him for weeks. Yet here they were, gorging themselves without care, their lives so far removed from the struggles of those beneath them.

Shoving his frustration aside, Sylvan focused on his task. He navigated the outskirts of the crowd, his sharp eyes scanning the room for signs of the House of Blood. Somewhere among these lords and ladies were creatures wearing human skin, hiding their monstrous nature behind finery and grace. Sylvan's hand hovered near his blade as he moved through another section of the ballroom, avoiding lingering gazes from curious nobles.

Finally, he slipped out of the ballroom and into the quieter halls leading to the manor. Lemi and Mars were still caught in the crowd—Lemi charming her way past an endless stream of admirers while Mars glowered, his mere presence driving most people away. Sylvan felt a brief flicker of relief at being alone. If he was lucky, he could reach the tower and get the answers he sought before the others even caught up.

The back corridors were quieter, the sounds of the party fading into the distance. Sylvan pressed onward, keeping his steps light and his presence unassuming. As he passed through the kitchen, a servant blocked his path.

"Sir, I think you may be lost," the young man said, his brow furrowed.

Sylvan forced a polite smile, injecting a false cheerfulness into his voice. "Maybe. I'm looking for my carriage and horses."

An older assistant cook, overhearing, chimed in. "The stables are at the edge of the manor. If you go out the back door and take a quick right, you'll pass through the gardens and find them."

"Thank you," Sylvan said, inclining his head. "My lord is feeling ill and wishes to leave immediately."

The older man sighed. "Be quick about it. And don't cause any trouble—the guards won't hesitate to throw you out."

"I won't," Sylvan assured him, his hand brushing against the blade hidden beneath his coat.

Exiting into the gardens, Sylvan paused to take in the scene. The hedges and trees were massive, almost unnaturally so, casting long shadows in the faint light of the Lunar Storms above. The skyline of Franzish glittered in the distance, a stark contrast to the dark mists pressing against the edges of the dome.

"Rich bastards," Sylvan muttered under his breath as he slipped behind a hedge. The guards patrolling the area were few, most stationed back in the ballroom. Still, he moved carefully, inching through the shadows until he reached the base of a massive tree near the manor doors.

Two guards stood nearby, chatting idly.

"We should be careful, Claude," one of them said. "The nobles might wander out here and cause trouble."

Claude laughed dismissively. "What are they going to do? Wave their ornamental swords at us? Just relax, Antoine."

Sylvan crouched low, pulling a vial from his belt. The resin inside glowed faintly as he mixed in a few flakes of green powder. A sharp chemical scent wafted up as he shook it, activating the reaction. He grimaced at the smell. One quick snap, and it would be ready to use.

Adjusting the gray leather mask over his mouth, Sylvan prepared to step forward. Talking his way past these guards would be unpleasant—but necessary. Lemi always had a knack for these kinds of acts. Sylvan? Not so much.

Still, he would do what needed to be done. He always did.