Chapter 6: The Wild Hunt

'—What in the hell was that?' Seraph thought.

'Why did I even offer to hunt for that reckless idiot? Was it really just because he needs protein? That excuse was pathetic. Kylas was supposed to be a king in the old world before it was destroyed and reset. He was someone whose power was tied to Divine Affinity itself, and yet here I was, acting as if simple sustenance could make a difference for him.'

'It barely even matters to someone like him. That kind of nourishment is wasted on a being meant to rule. …Then why did I say it? Was it because I know? Because I can see it? That he's trying to do something different? That he's sick of the same miserable cycle, eating grass like a foolish cow, day in and day out?'

"…It doesn't matter. It's meaningless. I have no feelings toward that reckless human." Seraph muttered to herself under her breath, stepping over the thick roots that curled like veins beneath the sunlit canopy of the forest. "I don't. I really don't."

The leaves rustled overhead as if disagreeing.

She exhaled sharply, her ears twitching as she continued onward, letting her mind shift elsewhere. "His determination, though…" she mused to herself. "It is something I can slightly admire. He's just like me in that way. Even if he's crazy."

The further she walked, the denser the air became, heavy with the scents of prey, predators, and something even greater. She closed her eyes, inhaling slowly, letting the raw essence of this world sink into her mind.

'The food chain in Nyxhelm… it has always been this way. Through every destruction, every recreation, the laws remain unchanged. No matter what world comes after the last, there is always one apex predator that stands above the rest.'

'Griffins.'

'They sit at the throne of the natural order, no matter the era, no matter how many times existence is reset. They are neither gods nor simple beasts. They are the absolute rulers of the hunt. If the world ends, they will be at the top when it is made anew. If the world is reborn, they will claim dominance again.'

Seraph's steps quickened as her nose caught something distinct—thick with the scent of fresh blood, of cracked bones, of something massive and undeniable.

'This way!'

Her sharp eyes flicked toward the horizon, tracing the shifting air currents, the drifting smell of a creature she had been hoping to find.

'I bet Kylas has never tried griffin meat… she thought, a small, mischievous glint in her eye. He'll probably like it and beg me for more like a weirdo.'

She smirked to herself, stepping forward as the terrain began to shift. The trees thinned, giving way to a vast, open canyon, its depths carved by ancient forces long before even this version of the world was born.

It was empty.

At first.

But as she walked deeper into its heart, the silence was devoured by the unmistakable sound of tearing flesh.

She stilled, her breath steady, her golden eyes locking onto the scene ahead.

A griffin.

Perfect. Massive.

Its golden feathers gleamed beneath the eternal sun, each one sharper than a blade, reflecting the light like a living weapon. Its powerful wings, partially folded, twitched every so often as it continued its feast. Muscles coiled beneath its pristine exterior, every movement measured, precise, as its hooked beak ripped through what remained of a human body.

The ground around it was a graveyard.

Bodies of Hunters lay in grotesque displays—some torn clean in half, their entrails steaming against the sunbaked rock, others crushed beyond recognition, their armor embedded into the canyon walls like discarded scraps. Among them, mythic creatures—beasts of legend, their corpses twisted and hollowed, drained of everything that once made them formidable.

And one man was still alive.

Barely.

"Help…help me…"

His voice was raw from screaming, but the griffin did not care. It took its time, savoring each moment as the hunter's cries turned to weak, broken sobs. Then, without hesitation, it closed its beak around his head.

A sickening crack.

Silence.

Seraph exhaled, unaffected. This was natural. Something she's seen hundreds of maybe even thousands of times. 

The griffin finished its meal, its throat bobbing as it swallowed before turning. It stood to its full height, stretching, its form radiating both power and something beyond mere hunger.

Majesty.

Lightning cracked through the sky, stark white against the endless blue.

The griffin's wings spread, catching the static in the air, its golden eyes sharpening as it regarded her.

Seraph watched, noting its movements—how its talons flexed, how its wings adjusted their angle ever so slightly. She knew what this meant.

"You can sense me, can't you?" she murmured, more to herself than to the beast.

Griffins had an innate ability to detect worthy opponents. Their bodies responded before their minds even processed the threat. This one had just finished gorging itself, yet it still bristled, muscles tightening, feathers flaring—not in fear, but in acknowledgment.

Seraph smiled.

She stepped forward.

The griffin mirrored her.

Slowly.

One step.

Then another.

Faster.

Their eyes locked, the weight of their presence bending the air between them. The earth trembled beneath each movement, loose rocks shifting, dust rising.

Then—they sprinted.

The force of their acceleration cracked the canyon floor, stone rupturing beneath the sheer force of their strides. The wind howled as they closed the distance, neither slowing, neither hesitating.

Seraph's lips curled wider, her sharp teeth flashing.

Her body began to shift.

Her form expanded mid-stride, limbs elongating, fur bursting from her skin like divine wildfire. White flames flickered across her four sweeping tails, each movement leaving trails of ghostly embers in the air. Her eyes—spiraling red, yellow, and black—burned like miniature suns, locking onto the griffin with something primal.

Curved red horns crowned her head, her golden halo shimmering, vibrating with power.

She could see it—the recognition in the griffin's stare.

Not fear. Not submission.

Respect.

Then—

They collided.

The canyon exploded with force.

Stone shattered, entire sections of the cliffside breaking apart, tumbling into the depths below. A shockwave rippled outward, kicking up a whirlwind of debris, a howling storm of dust and rock.

Their power clashed in a roar of fire and divine might, a collision that sent ripples through the very air, distorting reality itself.

The ground beneath them fractured, unable to withstand their battle.

And Seraph—smiling wider than ever—felt the thrill of the hunt begin.

"Now this…will be a fight to remember!"

The battle erupted in a shockwave of force, the canyon walls trembling as Seraph and the griffin clashed in a frenzied storm of raw power and primal instinct. The moment their bodies met, a surge of energy detonated between them, sending fissures spider-webbing through the stone beneath their feet. The griffin's golden talons struck first, slicing downward in a merciless arc, each claw sharp enough to carve through mythic steel. Seraph twisted at the last moment, her four tails snapping outward like white-hot whips, their flames howling as they scorched the air. She vaulted to the side, flipping midair, her spiraling red, yellow, and black eyes locking onto the griffin's next move. It did not hesitate—its wings flared, and with a single devastating beat, it propelled itself forward like a divine spear, its beak gleaming as it lunged for her throat.

Seraph met its charge with a savage counter, her body twisting as she coiled her momentum into a spinning slash. Her claws, wreathed in comet-like fire, seared through the air in an incandescent arc. The griffin pulled back just in time, but not before the flames kissed its pristine feathers, leaving a streak of blackened gold in their wake. In retaliation, it reared back, unleashing a tremor cry—a deafening, concussive shockwave that shattered the canyon floor. The force sent boulders flying, the very air distorting as invisible tremors rippled outward. Seraph braced herself, her claws digging into the crumbling earth, but the moment she steadied, the griffin was already upon her, a gilded tempest of death. It twisted mid-flight, its massive talons scything through the air in seamless precision.

She dodged—barely. The wind from its strike tore through her fur, and before she could fully reposition, the griffin twisted again, using the momentum of its failed strike to lash out with a brutal wingbeat. The sheer force sent her skidding across the canyon, her paws dragging deep trenches through the shattered ground. But she did not falter. With a flick of her tails, she launched herself back at the beast, her body a burning comet, her claws igniting with celestial fire. She struck in a relentless flurry—each slash, bite, and strike flowing into the next like a feral ballet. The griffin met her assault with equal ferocity, its beak snapping like a guillotine, its talons carving the air with godlike precision. Sparks and embers exploded between them, their movements so rapid they blurred against the eternal sunlight.

The griffin lunged again, but this time, its form flickered—an illusion. Before she could react, the real attack came from above. It had split into multiple mirrored versions of itself, a technique known as Aetheric Riftwing. As the phantoms dived, the real griffin descended like a meteor, its beak wreathed in crackling golden energy. Seraph barely had time to pivot, her tails flaring outward, creating a spiraling barrier of fire that incinerated the illusions. But the real griffin's strike still connected—its beak grazed her side, piercing through fur and flesh, drawing a line of crimson across her ribs. She snarled, the pain fueling her fury, and in a single, brutal motion, she slammed her paw into the ground.

The earth erupted.

A white-hot shockwave exploded beneath her, sending a seismic pulse through the battlefield. The griffin was blasted back, its wings flaring wide to stabilize itself midair, but Seraph was already moving. She blurred forward, a streak of flaming white, and struck with merciless precision. She somersaulted over the beast, her tails cleaving through its defenses like celestial whips, leaving gashes of scorched flesh in their wake. The griffin retaliated in kind, twisting its body mid-flight, its golden eyes gleaming as it activated another ability—Void Requiem.

The sunlight dimmed.

For a split second, all sound vanished, as if the world itself held its breath. Then—detonation. A ring of pure kinetic force erupted from the griffin's core, sending shockwaves through the very fabric of reality. The blast ripped through Seraph, hurling her backward, her body skidding and bouncing across the canyon like a broken comet. She crashed into a jagged outcrop, the impact cracking the stone like brittle glass. Blood dripped from her mouth, her vision spinning, but she grinned.

With a feral snarl, she exploded forward, the force of her launch disintegrating the rock behind her. She intercepted the griffin midair, their bodies colliding once more in a titanic clash that sent flames and divine energy spiraling in all directions. They tore into each other—claws against talons, teeth against beak, raw instinct battling divine supremacy. The griffin flipped midair, vaulting over her strike, then used its own momentum to drive both talons down toward her skull. Seraph twisted, spinning her body like a bladed hurricane, her flaming tails catching the beast's legs and hurling it back to the earth.

The griffin crashed with the force of a falling star, but it was undeterred. It unfurled its wings, summoning a storm of gilded spears—each one a crystallized fragment of its own divine essence. With a single command, they rained down upon her like an executioner's decree. Seraph sprinted through the onslaught, weaving between the golden lances, each step a blistering burst of speed. The moment she closed the gap, she lunged, her jaws parting wide, her fangs flashing with celestial fire.

The griffin met her bite head-on.

Its beak clamped down on her shoulder, tearing through flesh and muscle. The pain was excruciating, but Seraph retaliated with equal brutality. Her claws drove deep into its chest, molten fire bursting from the wounds. They tumbled together, a maelstrom of destruction, rolling across the battlefield in a chaotic whirlwind of talons, fangs, and fire. Each strike came faster than thought, each movement honed by the raw, undeniable force of survival.

Then, in a final, devastating exchange, they broke apart, both landing on opposite ends of the shattered battlefield. Blood dripped from their bodies, steam rising from the wounds they had inflicted upon each other.

The griffin exhaled, its wings spreading wide, its golden eyes burning with renewed intensity.

Seraph wiped the blood from her mouth with her paw, grinning.

Neither had won.

Neither had lost.

The battle was far from over.

The battlefield had long since ceased to resemble a canyon. The ground was reduced to a wasteland of jagged rock and scorched earth, cratered from their relentless exchanges, split apart by the sheer brutality of their clash. The sky itself trembled, thick clouds swirling from the unnatural forces at play, lightning threading across the heavens in violent, deafening streaks. And amidst the carnage, two titans stood—panting, bloodied, but far from finished.

The griffin moved first. Its eyes flared with unnatural luminance, its entire body twisting in an erratic, impossible motion, as if space itself bent around it. One moment, it was standing. The next, it was everywhere. A burst of screeching noise filled the air—a grotesque cacophony that sent shivers down the spine, a sound not meant for mortal ears. In an instant, its talons were upon her, carving through the air in a thousand slashing arcs, each strike phasing between reality and illusion.

Seraph barely had time to react. Her body twisted into a chaotic, fluid weave of motion, dodging in ways that no normal being should. Her tails flicked and she vanished, reappearing midair, her body outlined in a trail of burning white flames. She let herself fall toward the griffin, spinning at breakneck speed, her claws drawn back. "Comet Fang!" Her voice was a feral snarl, and in a flash, her body became a spiraling white meteor, her claws extended like celestial scythes.

The griffin screeched and retaliated with a violent lunge, its beak snapping toward her with horrifying speed. They collided in a catastrophic blur—white fire against golden divinity—both landing a strike. Seraph's claws ripped through the beast's chest, carving into its flesh in a cruel, jagged tear. But in return, the griffin's beak pierced her shoulder, sinking deep, nearly crushing the bone. Blood exploded from the wound, a spray of crimson painting the shattered ground below.

She snarled, but there was no time to feel pain. The griffin spun its entire body, dragging her with it, slamming her into the rock with earth-shattering force. Stone collapsed beneath the impact, and before she could recover, its talons descended upon her, raking through her back in a wicked, merciless flurry. Flesh tore. Blood splattered. Seraph's body convulsed as pain lanced through her nerves like liquid fire. The griffin didn't stop. It gripped her and hurled her skyward, its wings slamming downward with a crack like thunder, propelling itself after her.

Seraph flipped midair, twisting to regain control. Her teeth were bared, her breath ragged, but her eyes burned with fury. "You're not the only one that can fly, bastard." Her tails coiled, flickering, then exploded outward, sending her rocketing toward the beast. As she moved, the flames at the tip of each tail began to burn inward, collapsing in on themselves into spiraling, unstable spheres. "Comet Burial.." She unleashed them all at once.

The spheres screeched through the air, their cores twisting with gravitational force, each one seeking the griffin like a living curse. The moment they touched anything, they imploded, consuming matter in their ravenous wake before detonating in bursts of violent, white-hot destruction. The griffin saw the incoming attack and reacted with its own. It spread its wings wide and from its beak, it vomited a storm of black tendrils—Abyssal Maw. The writhing mass surged forward, grotesque and pulsing, consuming everything it touched.

Explosion after explosion rocked the sky, the white-hot comets colliding against the abyssal mass, their energies warring for dominance. Seraph shot through the chaos, weaving through the spiraling carnage, her body flickering between the destruction. The griffin emerged from the other side, unscathed, already prepared for its next move. It spread its wings and blinked.

Seraph felt it before she saw it.

Everywhere.

The griffin's form splintered into dozens—no, hundreds—of blurring afterimages, all flickering in and out of existence, their forms twisting, contorting. "Prism Hunt." The voice came from all around her, guttural, discordant.

And then they descended.

A storm of beaks and talons rained down upon her, every single image moving as fast as reality allowed. It was impossible to tell which were real, which were fake—each one felt solid, each one tore at her flesh, raking through her fur, sinking into her body. Seraph's vision went red as her body was torn apart in an unrelenting cascade of divine carnage. Her breath hitched. She was losing too much blood.

'No. Not yet!'

She grit her teeth and stopped thinking.

Her body reacted on instinct, every muscle firing in perfect, lethal precision. She lunged into the storm, meeting every strike with her own. Claw met beak. Fang met talon. Her tails lashed out, carving through flesh and illusion alike, white fire burning away the false images. She spun, somersaulted, ducked under a wing, twisted behind another form, raked her claws across a throat, felt the wet warmth of real blood spill over her fingers.

The illusions shattered.

The real griffin remained.

It roared, rearing back, its divine essence gathering into a final attack. Its beak parted, and within, a sphere of concentrated, pulsating divinity formed—a Celestial Maw, a beam of such raw destruction that nothing had ever survived its direct path.

Seraph grinned, finally.

She let herself fall.

Her body shrank, shifting back into her humanoid form, limbs weak, body stained in crimson. She let gravity take her, her movements sluggish, deliberate. The griffin's eyes widened as it realized too late—she was falling toward its open mouth.

'Got you, bitch.'

The last thing she saw before impact was the look of realization dawning in the griffin's gaze, and the next thing was darkness as her blood-drenched body disappeared inside.

The griffin screeched, its entire form lurching violently, wings spasming as it spiraled out of control, crashing through the heavens like a dying sun.

The sky split apart with chaotic flares of divine power, arcs of celestial light spiraling in uncontrolled bursts as the griffin twisted through the heavens, its form writhing in agony. The great beast, once a symbol of pristine strength and perfect balance, was now nothing but a flailing mass of golden feathers and shattered divinity, its wings convulsing with every erratic beat. The sheer force of its spiraling descent sent hurricane winds tearing through the canyon, splitting boulders, uprooting trees, and sending shockwaves that cracked the very crust of the world.

Inside the beast, drowning in suffocating heat and oppressive muscle, Seraph tore. Her body was slick with blood—her own and the griffin's—her breath ragged, her limbs screaming in pain, but she did not stop. Her sharp fingers carved deep, slashing through thick tissue, her movements feral, relentless. Each strike sent fresh fountains of crimson spraying around her, splattering against her face, soaking her already-drenched form in visceral gore. The griffin spasmed with every wound she inflicted, its innards tightening and flexing in a desperate attempt to purge her, but she dug deeper.

She was losing blood at a terrifying rate. Her vision blurred, her limbs trembled, but she grinned through bloodied teeth, eyes burning with feverish determination.

"You're done."

Her claws sank into flesh once more, and then she felt it—the thrum of life itself pulsing beneath her fingers. The griffin's heart.

With one last, brutal lunge, she buried her hands into it and ripped.

The griffin screamed.

It wasn't a cry of pain—it was something beautiful. A raw, ethereal wail that resonated through the heavens, a final song of majesty before the inevitable end. Its golden eyes, wide and shining, turned toward the sky, its gaze locked onto the endless expanse above. In that fleeting moment, it looked divine, as if it had accepted its fate with grace, as if it had always known it would die this way.

And then, its wings gave out.

The spiraling descent collapsed into a plummet. The sky blurred, the wind howled, and with a deafening, world-shaking impact, the griffin crashed.

A shockwave of dust and shattered stone erupted outward, consuming the entire canyon in a suffocating cloud. The impact cratered the land, splitting the ground with deep, jagged fractures. For long moments, nothing moved. No sound. No breath. Only stillness.

Then—

A wet, blood-soaked figure crawled from the ruined corpse.

Seraph emerged slowly, her entire body trembling, every movement agony. She dragged herself free, her hands sinking into the dirt, her fingers caked with gore. Her breathing was ragged, each inhale feeling like fire in her lungs, but despite the pain—despite the blood pooling beneath her—she smiled.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the storm-ridden sky, the distant echoes of thunder rumbling like the final applause of a cruel audience. Her tails flicked weakly, her body refusing to move any further.

"That was fun."

She laughed—weak, breathless, but real.

____________________________________________

Within the quiet sanctuary of the garden, Kylas crawled toward a single, delicate rose, but stopped just a few feet away. The air before him shimmered, an unseen force pressing against his skin—the barrier. He exhaled slowly, his body tense, before finally slumping forward, resting his arms on his knees.

His single crimson eye softened as he stared at the flower.

"I'm back, again."

His voice was quiet, almost tired, but there was something genuine in it.

"A lot's happened."

He tilted his head slightly, watching as the petals of the rose swayed gently in the breeze.

"Don't mind if I talk your ear off…"

Kylas lay there, his arms still limp at his sides, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the rose swaying gently in the breeze beyond the invisible barrier. His fingers twitched, his body still unwilling to obey him fully, but his mind—his mind was a storm that refused to quiet. He exhaled slowly, lips pressing into a thin line before he finally spoke.

"I've been learning about the Runes of Bahamut," he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue like a half-formed thought. "They're… different. You don't just memorize some old language and get hand-me-down powers. You create your own. It's like carving out pieces of yourself and making them into something real. Something powerful."

He inhaled sharply, shifting slightly, trying to find comfort in the grass beneath him, though his body felt heavy. "Sounds great, right? Making your own magic? Your own laws?" He let out a dry chuckle. "Except I already feel reckless. Anxious. Like I should be moving but I can't. Like I should be thinking straight but all I want to do is break something just to see what happens."

His gaze flickered, his single crimson eye darkening.

"I'm trying not to be like that. Trying to be better. But it's not easy."

A pause. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

"For a second—just a second—I was thankful I met that evil fox demon."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he immediately huffed, shaking his head. "She's still a menace, though. You'd think someone with that much elegance and poise wouldn't be so—so—" He waved his still-paralyzed hand weakly in the air, searching for the word. "Infuriating. Yeah, that's the word. But still…"

His voice softened, his gaze drifting lower.

"If I leave, I can't just leave you here."

The rose remained silent, its petals as still as ever, as if waiting for him to continue.

"I don't know if you'd die if I plucked you from the ground. And that… that thought makes me sick."

A slow, deep sigh escaped him.

"I don't feel as lost anymore. I guess that's something, right?" He let his head rest against the grass, staring up at the sky. "But I won't lie… I'm scared. Nineteen years. Nineteen years in this place, and now I can finally leave." He snorted, shaking his head. "I know, I know, it's pathetic. But I ain't no wuss. I'm ready for it. I just… I don't know what's waiting out there for me."

His fingers twitched, curling slightly.

"I won't be the monster my parents told everyone I was. I promise that."

'I won't lose myself to this chaotic power of mine..I won't lose myself before I find out who I really am. I can't…'

Then—he noticed it.

The smallest blemish on the edge of the rose's petal. A darkened, thin layer of rot.

His breath hitched. His pulse hammered in his ears.

"No—"

His body moved on instinct. His hand shot forward, fingers stretching past the barrier—

And pain.

A sharp, blinding bolt of agony exploded in his skull. His nose burst with blood, hot rivulets streaming down his lips, staining his chin. His vision blurred, his mind screamed, and he let out a strangled gasp, his body seizing up as if he'd been struck by lightning.

"Don't you dare rot on me," he rasped through clenched teeth, his voice thick with desperation. "Don't be like me."

His throat tightened, his breathing coming in ragged gulps.

"Don't be a rotting corpse trapped in this damn place."

His limbs trembled, his vision swimming. The barrier pulsed, rejecting him, forcing him back.

"Once I get my arms working again, I'll water you. Even if it makes my head explode."

A pair of shadows loomed over him.

Gunthr and Zedlock.

They didn't speak—they never did—but their presence alone was grounding. Gently, yet firmly, they pulled him away from the rose. And the moment they did, the pain lessened. The nosebleed stopped. His vision cleared. But the unease in his chest remained.

He let out a slow breath, letting them guide him away.

—

A memory.

A little boy, no older than five, running barefoot through the garden, laughing, his heart full of wonder.

His tiny hands brushed against the petals of the rose, eyes wide with fascination.

"It's so pretty!" he had exclaimed, twirling around it, his grin as bright as the sun overhead.

The rose had swayed in response, almost as if acknowledging him.

For a moment, in that childhood memory, he had felt happy. Truly happy.

—

Kylas blinked, his mind snapping back to the present. Gunthr and Zedlock had stopped walking. Their armored hands raised, pointing ahead.

He followed their gesture, turning his head—

And his breath caught in his throat.

Seraph was approaching, her form covered in blood. Scars littered her skin, crimson streaks painting her once-pristine white fur. Behind her, dragged through the dirt, was the massive, lifeless body of the griffin—its golden feathers drenched in gore, its divine presence utterly snuffed out.

His single eye widened.

"Seraph?!"

His voice cracked.

She didn't stop walking. Didn't say a word. Just kept dragging the corpse behind her, her expression unreadable, her golden eyes burning with something he couldn't quite place.

Kylas couldn't move his arms, still feeling the dull, frustrating numbness lingering from the pain earlier, but his mouth worked just fine—and right now, his head was spinning with too many questions, all of them tripping over each other to spill out.

"Wait, hold on—how the hell did you—where did you even—why are you—what even—" He sucked in a sharp breath, his crimson eye darting to the massive, bloodied carcass of the griffin. It was an overwhelming sight—the beast's once-majestic form now reduced to a mangled pile of muscle and feathers, its divine aura long since extinguished. He looked back at Seraph, eyes wide. "You actually killed it?"

Seraph, still covered in fresh wounds and drying blood, flicked her tails dismissively, eyes half-lidded. "I killed the griffin."

Kylas blinked. "Yeah, I got that, but—"

"I killed the griffin."

"Seraph—"

"I killed the griffin."

He deadpanned. "You're—seriously, you're just gonna keep saying it like that?"

She didn't even look at him, simply tilting her head toward Gunthr and Zedlock. "Griffin meat is good and tasty. You better like it."

The two sentient suits of armor straightened at once, their hands snapping up in synchronized salutes, their helmets clanking slightly from the force of their movement.

Seraph nodded approvingly. "I'll show you how to cook it."

Kylas just sat there, struggling to comprehend the sheer absurdity of the situation. His mind was still reeling from the idea that Seraph had just casually returned after nearly getting herself killed—dragging back a divine beast's corpse—for… for what? For food?

The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

"You seriously went out there and risked your life just to bring back meat?"

Seraph finally turned to look at him, tilting her head slightly as if he had just asked the dumbest question imaginable. "Yes."

He just… stared at her. Waiting for a better answer.

Then, after a beat, she added, "And don't go thinking I did it for you."

Kylas scoffed. "Right. Sure. Of course not."

Seraph crossed her arms, tails flicking behind her. "I just didn't want to see you chewing on grass and trees like some pathetic feral animal."

Kylas scoffed louder. "I don't eat grass and trees, you evil fox demon!"

Seraph merely shrugged, turning her attention back to the task at hand.

Kylas sat there for a moment, just watching her, watching how she seamlessly took command of the situation, how Gunthr and Zedlock followed her lead without hesitation. She had gone that far just to bring back food, even though she had no real reason to.

Even his parents had never gone that far for him.

————————————————————————-

The sun remained as ever, casting golden light over the garden as Seraph worked with the grace of a knight captain preparing for battle. But this wasn't war. This was medieval cuisine.

The garden, once a place of quiet overgrowth, was suddenly bustling with the chaotic energy of a makeshift battlefield as Seraph directed Gunthr and Zedlock to set up an elaborate, multi-step cooking station—one befitting the dignity of griffin meat.

"First, we must prepare the fire," Seraph declared, standing with one hand on her hip. "Gunthr, Zedlock—fetch firewood."

The two suits of armor saluted with resounding clanks before marching off—only for Zedlock to return a moment later, holding an entire tree trunk.

Seraph blinked. "That is… larger than necessary."

Zedlock stared at the tree trunk in his hands, then at Gunthr, who had brought back a single twig.

A moment of silence passed between them.

Then, Gunthr dropped the twig and dramatically gestured toward Zedlock's tree trunk as if to say, "Yes, this is what I meant to do all along."

Seraph sighed but ultimately nodded. "Very well. We'll make do."

The tree trunk somehow became firewood, and the fire was soon roaring with crackling intensity.

Step Two: Prepping the Meat.

Seraph, still exuding the air of a seasoned commander, turned to Gunthr and Zedlock again. "Now, we must prepare the meat. Precision is key."

Gunthr gave a confident thumbs-up before immediately slicing off a chunk the size of Kylas.

Kylas, still slumped on a sack of grain, just raised a brow. "I don't know much about cooking, but I'm pretty sure you don't need that much."

Seraph barely acknowledged him, instead pointing at Gunthr. "A finer cut. You're not butchering a battlefield, you're crafting a delicacy."

Gunthr nodded solemnly, as if he had just been given the most honorable task in the world.

Zedlock, meanwhile, carefully handled another piece—only to accidentally catapult it into a nearby tree.

Seraph exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples. "I should've done this myself."

Kylas smirked. "Yeah, why aren't you? You seem to have all the answers, fox demon."

Seraph flicked her tail dismissively. "I am not your maid. Also, my wounds need time to mend."

Kylas scoffed. "For how long?"

Seraph gave him a pointed look. "A few hours."

"You're okay though..right?"

"..Yeah. More than okay. I won. That's enough for me."

Step Three: Cooking the Meat.

Against all odds, the preparation was a success. The griffin meat, now skewered on a large stake over the fire, sizzled and crackled, the scent of divine beast filling the air.

Gunthr and Zedlock, standing side by side, watched the flames with great reverence, their helmets tilted slightly in dramatic contemplation, as if they had just witnessed the birth of something legendary.

Kylas, now sitting beside Seraph on the ground, could only watch them with mild amusement.

Then, the silence settled.

Seraph stared into the fire, her face illuminated by the flickering glow. Her golden eyes seemed distant, thoughtful in a way he wasn't used to seeing.

Kylas, meanwhile, kept glancing at her, his thoughts running in circles.

'This is awkward. Why is this awkward?'

He wasn't good with quiet moments like this. His instincts told him to fill it, to break the silence with something, anything, before it swallowed him whole.

'Okay, dumbass, say something. It's not that hard. Just open your mouth and start talking. It's just a conversation. Just a conversation with a blood-covered fox demon who killed a griffin and dragged it all the way back here like it was a casual market run. Nothing weird about that. Nothing weird at all.'

He took a breath.

"I got a question now—"

Seraph immediately turned her head toward him. "What is it?"

The fire crackled between them, its warmth licking at the edges of the quiet. The scent of cooking griffin filled the air, thick and rich, but Kylas barely noticed it. He was too focused on Seraph—on the way she sat, her tails still, her eyes watching the flames like they held answers only she could see.

He hesitated before speaking, choosing his words carefully.

"Why do you smile when you fight?"

Seraph blinked, her gaze shifting slightly toward him but not entirely meeting his.

"Why do you ask that?"

Kylas exhaled, leaning forward slightly. "Because when you fought Gunthr and Zedlock, that elegance you always carry yourself with? It was gone. You were smiling like crazy. Fighting like some rabid animal." He furrowed his brow. "It didn't feel like the same you."

Seraph didn't answer immediately. Her ears twitched, and her tail flicked once against the ground. Then, she straightened her posture, exhaling through her nose.

"I'll tell you the truth."

Kylas didn't move, didn't speak—he just watched her.

"I smile…. when I fight for a couple of reasons," she started, her voice even, measured. "The first is because I used to be weak. I had to make myself strong after my kind was killed, after they were taken. I used to drown in fights I always lost."

She curled her fingers slightly, like she was feeling the ghost of those old wounds.

"But when I got stronger, when I started winning—I smiled. Not on purpose. It just happened. I smiled because I wasn't that same weak pup anymore. And now, even after all these years, I still smile. Because every fight is proof that I made it. That I'm not the same helpless thing I used to be."

Kylas felt something tighten in his chest at her words.

"I feel like I made my mother proud by being strong."

She shifted slightly, looking back at the fire. The light made her features look softer, but her eyes still held that sharp, unyielding edge.

"The second reason is my mother was a fighter. And when I fight, I think of her. I remember that I'm standing on solid ground, that I can still have hope—even when I fear death."

Her voice was steady, but there was something else creeping into it now.

"I can't die until I save her. Until I save my people. Until I kill the Ten Gods of Nyxhelm."

Kylas swallowed, his throat dry.

"I've failed too much before. I can't fail this time. There's too much at stake."

He didn't realize how tense the air had gotten until a single tear slid down Seraph's face.

She barely reacted to it.

Kylas didn't either. He just watched.

Then, slowly, she turned her head toward him—and immediately, her expression shifted. Her golden eyes sharpened, her lips curling into something more composed, more guarded.

"Anyway." She flicked her tail, her voice suddenly lighter. "Why do you talk to a rose like it's gonna talk back?"

Kylas blinked, caught off guard. He wasn't expecting her to turn it around on him so fast.

But… she had told him the truth.

It felt wrong not to do the same.

He sighed. "That rose has been with me since I was a kid. Now I'm nineteen, and it's still here." He stared down at his hands. "It's always been beautiful. Even when everything else around me wasn't."

He exhaled sharply, his voice lowering slightly.

"When I felt like a monster. When I wanted to give up. When my parents were never home, always working the forge, like I didn't even exist. The rose was there."

His eye flickered toward Seraph.

"Talking to it keeps me sane. Keeps me from losing myself."

Seraph didn't say anything. She just watched him, waiting.

"But… I noticed something." Kylas hesitated, then muttered, "There was a little bit of rot on it."

Seraph's ears perked slightly.

"And it made me wonder—what if that's a sign? What if it means I'm gonna rot, too? Even when I try to tell myself I can be something good, something—something beautiful in my own way. What if it doesn't matter in the end?"

He clenched his jaw.

"My Chaos Fire—it's intense. It's strong as hell, yeah. But sometimes I wonder if I'll lose myself to it. If I'll just become the reckless monster everyone already expects me to be."

Silence.

Neither of them spoke. The fire crackled, the scent of roasting meat thick in the air, but neither of them acknowledged it.

Then—

Gunthr and Zedlock, who had been standing like statues, suddenly sprang into action.

Gunthr dramatically pointed at the fire like he had just had the greatest realization of his life, while Zedlock, with the energy of a man who had been waiting for his moment, pulled out a comically oversized fork and gestured toward the food with a sense of extreme urgency.

Kylas blinked. Seraph blinked.

Then, Gunthr lifted Zedlock up like a battering ram and hurled him at the cooking meat.

Zedlock hit the stake, bounced off, and landed perfectly upright, dusting himself off like that had totally been intentional.

Kylas snorted, shaking his head. Seraph exhaled through her nose, amused despite herself. Neither of them laughed outright, but the air between them lightened.

Gunthr and Zedlock saluted once more, their helmets tilted slightly, as if seeking approval.

Seraph, still smirking slightly, stood up, brushing dust from her coat. "The food's done."

Kylas stretched, wincing as his still-paralyzed arms refused to cooperate.

Seraph turned toward him, then tilted her head slightly, ears flicking forward.

"Since your arms are useless right now, I'll have to feed you."

Kylas' entire body seized up.

"WHAT??"