A Beast that Hunts Beasts

"Excuse me? I seem to be lost. I'm looking for the stables," Sylvan said as he approached the guards.

The light from their lanterns washed over him, revealing their fine uniforms of d'Aragon soldiers—rich blues and blacks adorned with ornate feathered pauldrons. Both men instinctively gripped their weapons tighter.

"Lost?" The first guard narrowed his eyes. "You're a bit far from the carriages."

The second guard waved his weapon lazily, his voice more relaxed. "The stables are on the other side of the hedges. Follow the path through the garden until you reach a fork. Take the left path, and it'll lead you straight there."

Sylvan nodded, glancing briefly to the side as if orienting himself. His fingers twitched against the lid of the vial hidden in his palm. He stepped closer, feigning a casual demeanor. The first guard tensed, raising his weapon.

"That's close enough," he warned.

Sylvan stopped, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Ah, I just wanted to thank you. The nobles sent me wandering all over the place, and I appreciate the help. Hard to make a living with nobles like this, you know?"

The second guard chuckled, relaxing a bit. "No harm done. My friend here's just jumpy. The Lunar Storms do that to a lot of us. You probably know how it is, with all your late-night trips. Surprised you've even met a noble who's nice."

Sylvan glanced at the wine cask resting near the wall. "Long days of guarding, huh? No rest for the men protecting their betters, and no one talks about how lousy the pay is, either."

The first guard's wary gaze lingered on Sylvan. "You've been a guard before?"

Sylvan nodded smoothly. "I was a bouncer at Heroux's Rest—the cheese house over in Franzish."

The second guard burst out laughing. "That explains it. Nobles wouldn't keep someone like you unless you knew all their ridiculous rules by heart."

Sylvan grinned faintly. "Never eat more cake than the host," he quoted with a slight incline of his head.

"Rule seventy-three," the second guard confirmed, still chuckling. "The party won't be done for hours. Want a drink while you wait, friend?"

"Sure," Sylvan said, stepping closer. "I need to kill time anyway. My Lady's upstairs rambling about some new servant."

The second guard unscrewed the cap of the wine bottle, taking a swig before offering it to Sylvan. "It's Ustea sweet wine. Not as fancy as Astadish, but it's decent."

Sylvan snapped his fingers with a quiet, deliberate motion. "I prefer something with a bit more spice," he murmured, twisting the vial open as he moved closer. The resin mixture reacted immediately, its subtle fumes wafting out.

"What the—" the second guard managed to say before his knees buckled. The first guard tried to raise his weapon, but his muscles seized, and he collapsed beside his companion. Both men slumped to the ground, their bodies paralyzed.

Sylvan stepped over them and pushed the door to the manor open, muttering as he passed, "My apologies, gentlemen. I have an appointment with one of your lords." He knew they could hear him—the neurotoxin was potent, but it only froze their bodies. They'd be conscious, aware of their failure, until the effects wore off.

The entryway of the manor was a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the ballroom. Warm light from countless lamps and candles filled the space, casting long shadows across the polished wood and stone. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the faint creak of the stairs as Sylvan ascended toward the upper levels.

His hand brushed against the banister, his senses sharp and alert. He stopped outside the room at the top of the tower, his fingers lightly tapping the vials strapped across his chest. Everything was in place. He could wait for Lemi and Mars—or he could confront the Tainted-blood alone.

Sylvan uncapped another vial, this one filled with a mixture of salt and resin. He shook it, watching as the flakes dissolved into a frosty, gas-solid hybrid. It would only remain stable for a few minutes. With his blade unsheathed and the vial secured on his utility sling, Sylvan pressed his back against the doorframe.

It was now or never.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a sparse chamber bathed in silver moonlight. A single man stood at the center, his silhouette sharp and still. He was tall, with an aristocratic bearing and finely tailored clothes. His black hair was slicked back, his beard trimmed to precision. He turned the pages of a leather-bound book as though completely unbothered by Sylvan's intrusion.

"No need to skulk in the shadows," the man said, his voice smooth and confident. "I could smell you long before you entered. You hunters always carry the most… peculiar scents."

Sylvan said nothing, his blade ready in his hand. He stepped further into the room, his boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor.

The man finally turned to face him, his eyes eerily empty, devoid of pupils. His smile was infuriatingly smug. "Ah, the famous Grey Hunter himself," he said, his tone mocking. "What an honor. Do you intend to interrogate me, or is this going to be one of those messy fights you hunters are so fond of?"

Sylvan lunged without a word, his blade slicing through the air. The Tainted-blood sidestepped the attack effortlessly, his movements almost lazy. "Come now, can't we speak as adults? Your scent intrigues me. It's… different. You're not like the others."

"I've nothing to say to a parasite," Sylvan growled, striking again.

The Tainted-blood dodged once more, his smile widening. "Such crude language. I assure you, hunter, our blood is not so different. A single mutation is all that separates me from you—and look at the power it grants me."

"You're no more than a leech sent by your masters to drain humanity dry," Sylvan spat, his blade finally biting deep into the man's arm.

The Tainted-blood hissed in pain, though his expression remained composed. His wound began to heal, but slower than expected. "A shame," he muttered, inspecting the blood dripping down his arm. "I was hoping for a civil exchange. You hunters are so dull, so predictable. I had hoped for something more interesting from you, Scabbed."

Sylvan froze for half a second. That name. His grip on his blade tightened. "I'm the one who's dull?" he growled. "Says the creature wearing the face of a man."

The Tainted-blood grinned, but before he could respond, the door burst open behind Sylvan. Lemi's arrows whistled through the air, one piercing the Tainted-blood's hip. Mars followed close behind, his massive cleaver nearly cleaving the creature in half as it dodged at the last moment.

The Tainted-blood raised an arm, revealing grotesque, bulbous sacs pulsing beneath his skin. "A pity," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "I thought perhaps one of you might be worth converting. But no matter. Let me show you a fraction of my strength."

The bulbs on his arm burst, and a swarm of thin-winged insects emerged, their jagged mouths clicking hungrily as they filled the air.

Sylvan reacted instantly. He ripped a vial from his belt and snapped his fingers. The resin and solid mixture ignited, spreading a wave of freezing mist that crystallized half the swarm mid-flight. Lemi's arrows picked off the rest with deadly precision, while Mars drove his cleaver into the Tainted-blood's torso, pinning him to the ground.

Sylvan moved with brutal efficiency. His blade struck the creature's leg, severing tendons, while Lemi's arrows pinned its other limbs. Mars hacked off one of its arms, forcing the Tainted-blood into submission.

The creature writhed on the ground, its movements slowing as its body began to fail. Sylvan loomed over it, his shadow long and menacing in the moonlight. "Let's talk," he said, his voice icy.

The Tainted-blood sneered, even as blood pooled around it. "You wish to talk now, Scabbed? How amusing."

Sylvan held up another vial. "This mixture will freeze your blood solid. You won't die immediately, but it'll be agony. Now, start talking, or I make this worse."

The Tainted-blood's confident mask cracked for the first time, its smile faltering. It laughed nervously. "You think I fear pain? You can't make me feel. My master has stripped such weaknesses away."

Sylvan leaned closer, his voice low and menacing. "You may not fear pain, but you were human once. And somewhere, buried deep in that rotting soul of yours, you remember what it's like to feel fear. To feel powerless. So talk—or I'll drag every bit of that humanity back, piece by piece."