Confrontation of The Grey-Hunter

"Sylvan, you need to tell us." Lemi's voice rang sharply, cutting through the howling Lunar Storms as they walked the narrow, dimly lit streets of Franzisch's middle district. The veil covering her face fluttered faintly in the wind, and her dark eyes bore into Sylvan with unrelenting determination.

Sylvan's storm-gray gaze flicked to her, cool and unreadable. "No."

Lemi opened her mouth to retort, but the sharpness of his tone—and the finality in it—made her falter. Instead, she crossed her arms tightly, frustration radiating off her.

Mars strolled beside them, his hands casually gripping the massive cleaver strapped to his back. He glanced at Lemi and shrugged, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "Lemi, we both know when he gets like this, he's not going to talk. Save your breath."

Lemi spun on him, her voice rising with indignation. "An Honored One, Mars! Do you have any idea what that means? The last recorded Honored One was centuries ago. Centuries! And Sylvan—" she threw an accusatory finger in his direction "—has been hiding one from us. This isn't something we can just let slide."

"I know well enough, Lemi," Mars interrupted, his tone steady but laced with tension. "But you've been hunting with Sylvan as long as I have. He's never been one for words. And if he's kept this secret for this long, he's not about to spill now."

"Good," Sylvan muttered under his breath, quickening his pace.

The two hunters exchanged uneasy glances as they trailed behind him. Sylvan's long strides carried him swiftly through the winding streets. The edges of his cloak whipped in the wind as he cast glances at every shadow, every flicker of movement. He wasn't just trying to get away from them—he was trying to get to her.

Irina. He had to make sure she was safe.

But Lemi wasn't about to let him leave so easily. "You're running, Sylvan," she called, quickening her own steps to match his. "Running from us. That means you know we're right."

Sylvan ignored her, his eyes fixed on the distant outline of the church where Irina was waiting. "I need to leave," he said firmly.

Lemi planted herself in front of him, hands on her hips, blocking his path. "No. Not until you give us answers."

His gaze was cold as steel, and his hand drifted to the hilt of his blade. "I said no."

Mars spoke, his voice calm but probing. "It's Irina, isn't it?"

Sylvan's grip tightened on the edge of his blade. His knuckles turned white beneath his glove. "No."

Mars smirked faintly, though there was no humor in his expression. "You seemed awfully confident back there, but now? You're gripping that sword like it's the only thing keeping you standing. You think I haven't noticed?"

Sylvan stopped in the middle of the empty street, his hand falling fully onto the hilt of his blade. His voice was low and dangerous. "You're too smart for your own good, Mars. This is my one warning—leave it alone, or I'll be forced to kill you."

Mars shook his head, unconcerned. "We both know you can't do that."

Sylvan's jaw tightened. His stormy eyes shifted between Mars and Lemi. He finally asked, his voice betraying the faintest trace of exhaustion, "How did you figure it out?"

Mars's smirk faded. "You always acted like her parents," he said plainly. "Always worried about her bleeding, about her getting sick. At first, I thought it was because you lost your parents back in Cordia. Even the high-collared clothing you both wear—makes sense with Cordia's winters, doesn't it? A perfect alibi, something no one would question. But no, it was a lie. The truth is, you were protecting her because of what she is. Because she bleeds gold, and that scarf hides the mark."

Lemi's sharp inhale broke the heavy silence. "Gold?" she whispered, her voice full of awe and disbelief. "If Irina is an Honored One, why not tell the nobility? They'd treat her—and you—like royalty."

Mars adjusted the cleaver on his back. His gaze hardened. "You don't get it, do you, Lemi? The person who delivers an Honored One to the nobility is set for life. Resin, estates, power—all of it. It's enough to buy the upper district of Franzisch. Neither of us can just turn our backs on that."

Sylvan dropped low, his stance shifting as his hand hovered over the vials strapped to his chest. His movements were deliberate, calculating. "We both know I'm the better fighter, Mars."

Mars unslung the massive cleaver from his back, hefting it in both hands. "Doesn't matter. I'm not walking away from this. Lemi—" he glanced at her "—you're either with me or against me."

Lemi hesitated, torn. She raised her bow, but her voice was desperate. "Stop this, both of you. Let's just talk. We're friends."

Mars snorted. "Friends? Then tell me, Sylvan—why did you leave Cordia? Or better yet, tell us what the Tainted-blood meant when it called you a Scabbed. You've got secrets on top of secrets, and you expect us to trust you?"

Sylvan straightened, his hand brushing the edge of a vial. His expression softened for the briefest moment as his gaze flicked to Lemi. But then his eyes hardened again, the weight of his memories pressing down on him.

The blizzards of Cordia. The burning of their home. The endless nights spent protecting Irina, clawing his way through the snow and the storms just to keep her alive. The betrayal. The blood. The curse that followed them, haunting every step. How could he explain any of it to them? How could they understand?

"Do not rejoice at my grief," Sylvan said quietly, his voice heavy with sorrow. "For when mine is old, yours will be new."

Mars took a step forward, his cleaver glinting in the dim light. "Then you really won't say anything." He lifted the blade, his expression grim. "Fine. I'll honor your death in Cordian tradition."

Lemi raised her bow, her voice trembling. "Last chance, Sylvan. Please."

But Sylvan didn't answer. Instead, he snapped his fingers and dropped the vial at his feet. The glass shattered, and a thick plume of smoke erupted around him. Arrows whizzed through the air, but they struck nothing. Mars charged forward, swinging his cleaver, but Sylvan was already gone.

The smoke lingered in the street as Sylvan ducked into the shadows, tossing vials to cover his escape. He moved with practiced precision, weaving through alleys and side streets, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind raced, but his goal was clear: Irina. He had to reach her.

The church loomed ahead, its weathered stone facade illuminated by the faint glow of the Lunar Storms. Sylvan stumbled to the door, his chest heaving as he pushed it open.

"Sylvan?" Sister Friede's voice was soft, full of concern as she stepped into view.

He ignored her, limping inside. There, beneath a pile of worn blankets, was Irina. Her small frame was curled around a pillow, her chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of sleep. Sylvan knelt beside her, brushing a hand gently over her hair.

"Irina," he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open, and a sleepy smile spread across her face. "Sylvan! I thought you wouldn't be back for a while."

"Change of plans," he said, pulling down his mask. "Grab your things. We need to leave."