There were many ways that Marlow Fenastra predicted the night could have gone. She was a businesswoman through and through- prepared for any contingency and had a litany of backup plans for any situation. It was the hallmark of any successful businesswoman to be able to flow like water and adapt, in order to ensure that affairs went smoothly.

And yet, even the shrewd businesswoman, the repolished gem of the Fenastra Clan, had shortcomings of her own. For all that youth bred innovation and change, it neglected the boons that were granted experience. Marlow may have been capable, but even she, somehow, could not have foreseen the thief outsmarting the bodyguard she’d hired because in her mind, her plan had to succeed. Perhaps there would be a thief, but Seiya was all sharp around the edges, exactly like the kind of guards that Grandfather kept posted around the mansion for reasons he would not explain. Marlow’s past experiences had shown her that those guards could keep out any thief from entering the premises- it had given her the false security that Seiya would be enough to deter the Red Rogue.

Hasty, hasty, hasty.

So one could imagine her surprise when she arrived the next morning to find holes in the walls and one incredibly confused bodyguard who was unable to explain how a critical portion of the shipment had been spirited away in the middle of the night.

“It’s gone?”

In contrast to her composed and poised demeanor from only the day before, Marlow Fenastra looked a far cry from that now- a look of utter shock and anger had thawed her otherwise cold expression, and her gloved hands were balled into fists in her skirt, as if she were making an attempt at ripping it apart with her bare hands.

“What do you mean, there are crates missing? And you say you have no memory of this event?” She stopped before attempting to smooth out her dress with her hands- remember what Grandfather taught you. Poise. Composure. A Fenestra does not behave in an unsightly manner.

The wrinkles in her skirt remained all the same.

“No, don’t answer that.” He’d already explained at length the strange hole in his memory, as if someone had plucked out an hour of his life from his brain. He could no sooner explain the scratches on his chest than he could who had taken them, which seemed to have vanished from his mind like a wisp of smoke.

That simply couldn’t be. If the thief had taken any bit of the shipment, then Madam Seriko wouldn’t be happy, and she’d report back to Grandfather, who’d hear all about how her first outing was a horrible failure, that she’d let some common thief get the best of her.

“No.” She breathed, suddenly unable to look Seiya in the eyes. “No, no, we cannot allow this to happen. Do you remember anything? Anything at all that might be useful?”

“I told ya’,” Seiya responded, shoulders tense with the irritation of someone who’d repeated this exact same thing as nauseum, “Someone was there, but I ain’t got a clue who they were.” He wrinkled his nose, a deep look of concentration on his face as if he was trying to force the memories he’d lost to return to the surface. “Can’t recall a thing about ‘em. ‘Xcept for the fact that they shoulda been wearin’ red…”

Marlow wasn’t sure how to respond to that, nor did she particularly want to. She had more pressing matters on her plate than whether the Red Rogue actually lived up to his name or not. Who cared how the thief dressed? If she had her way they would be dead come sunset.

“We need to get those crates back, Seiya.” She said, though it sounded more like the desperate plea of a young girl than the harsh, demanding woman she should have been in this moment. Another mistake. “Madam Seriko demands perfection. Please, we-“ Her voice cracked.

A Fenastra did not say please.

Marlow sighed, all the fight draining her at once. That small vulnerability was immediately covered up with a stern demeanor and that same cold expression that she’d worn during their first briefing. “He can’t have gotten far. I’ll pay you double what I promised if you track him down and get the wine back. No, triple! Burn that thief’s hideout to the ground, raze it, smoke him out, whatever you have to do!” The money truly didn’t matter to her- Marlow would spend all the money in the world if it meant Grandfather would not hear about her shortcomings.

She would do whatever it took- Marlow’s hands held no power of their own, not like Seiya’s did. Attempting to comb through every square inch of the city would be useless for someone of her stature. But what she did have at her disposal, she would use until her resources had run dry. Anything not to make the same mistakes her predecessor had.

She would complete this job while Seiya searched- all she had to do was smooth things over with Madam Seriko, ensure her business partner that everything was under control. Yes, Seiya could take care of things, he would find the thief and ground that bastard to a pulp and destroy his hideout, and Marlow would handle the other side. She had this under control.

However, it wasn’t until Seiya left that Marlow’s composure finally cracked. Alone in the warehouse, there would be no one around to hear her anguished scream.

---

There was a brief moment, in the safety of the bamboo forest when all was quiet around him, that Cyran felt at peace.

That was exactly what told him it would not last.

He’d made his way to the hideout the employer had instructed him to bring the stolen goods to with the meager amount of shipment he’d managed to get his hands on in the dead of night. The old tea shop, now resembling more of an abandoned hut than a fine store, was nestled right at the edge of the Bamboo Forest, between thick stalks of the native plant. There was no lantern to signal his homecoming, though Cyran made his way in all the same before setting the crates down in an empty back room.

The rest of his night was spent in silence, replaying that encounter in his mind. It was a foolish mistake to give that bodyguard his location so blatantly- even though he had erased his presence from the young man’s mind, it wouldn’t take a lot to put the pieces together and figure out what the location referred to.

Still, he was not especially on guard as he made his way through the abandoned shop, brushing through doorways and past windows like a lone spirit haunting the quiet, settled bones of this building. His footsteps did not make a sound as he made his way to a room filled with cabinets and jars of old, partially crushed leaves. He sighed, running his finger along the dust, leaving behind a long, thin, line. How long would it take for even this evidence that he was here to disappear once everything was said and done and the dust had resettled, angry that it had been disturbed?

Those melancholic thoughts guided him to one of the jars at random, examining its contents. It would have to do for now- he had a bit of time before he was supposed to report back to his employer, and in that time, he could be expecting a visitor.

Well, if he was in a tea house, he may as well make some tea to pass the time.

To say Marlow Fenestra had seemed mad at him would've been one hell of an understatement.

Nah, the lady had been downright pissed; Seiya had been given a front row seat to the way her fingers trembled, fancy-quality fabric of her noble skirts threatening to tear beneath the harshness of her grip, her voice as volatile as a mage's spell 'bout to go rogue, all the fury of a livin' flame crammed into her tiny body. And then, just as quickly, she'd gone all cold again, fallin' right back into that careful little composed noble act, chilled and desperate not to melt, rigid and cold as a lake frozen over.

But oh, Seiya had seen the places where the ice ran thin-- he'd seen where the ice had cracked. It wasn't his place to say a thing, especially not when she seemed one more comment away from puttin' a knife in his back or somethin', so he'd kept his mouth shut, but he knew stress when he saw it, no matter how carefully it'd been packed away.

Really, he didn't quite get it, and he wasn't gonna pretend like he did. No matter how much those damn wine bottles were worth, only a couple of crates had gone missin' amidst Gods know how many; even if these things were worth a thousand Solars each, nine bottles a box, that was... shit. Still a lot of Solars. More Solars than Seiya had ever even contemplated in his life, let alone seen; hell, if he didn't care so damn much about the values his ma had raised him with, maybe he'd be runnin' around stealin' those damn things, too, never mind the hypothetical price and numbering. Either way, the point still stood that it felt a little silly to go chasin' down such a small amount of wine, but it ain't his place to ask questions, it's his place to go follow the orders he's given, nothing more and nothing left.

...Still, as truthful as he had been to Miss Fenestra in her thorough questioning, he'd definitely left more than a couple of things out. Namely in regards to the slip of parchment he'd been left behind with, the one with an address scrawled across it.

And the Solars that had not been there before, which... he'd be thankin' someone profusely for. A show of kindness like that felt awfully unnecessary.

And so here Seiya is, walkin' through the edges of the bamboo forest, finally pausing at the sight of what looks to be an abandoned building nestled between the bamboo stalks. From the looks of it, it seems like it might've once been a teahouse; it's got that right kind of vibe, like it could've been cozy and charming once upon a time, but has fallen apart in the time since it got left behind. Abandoned buildings like that always make Seiya feel a little sad, really; they meant somethin' to someone, once, only for time to tear 'em away. It's a strange sentiment to carry, but it ain't like he can help it, and his ma always told him it was better to let the weirder sways of the heart take their course than to repress 'em.

He makes his approach warily, glancin' around to ensure there's nothing dangerous waiting for him before he reaches the door to the teahouse, immediately pausing as he looks it over. It's worn, all of nature's usual signs havin' taken their toll on it, dust and dirt and weather and insects, all that good stuff. He pauses for a moment longer before lifting a hand, rapping his knuckles against the door as gently as he can manage.

It's better to knock on the door than kick it in, he's told. That's just manners, right there.

"...hey," he calls out, trying to balance his tone between hushed enough to not draw suspicion and loud enough to get his mysterious rogue's attention. "You, uh. You in there?"

Soon enough the air was filled with the comforting and familiar scents of warm water and spices. Cyran was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed as he replayed the evening’s events in his mind. He tried to recall the exact moment everything had gone wrong, where everything had shifted on its axis until he was no longer able to complete his mission. The longer he thought about it, though, his failure had been decided the moment he refused to raise his blade against the obstacle, started seeing that young man with fury reflected in the moonlight bouncing off of his eyes, and love for his mother in his heart.

You should have finished the job, some quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind, faint but ever-present, lingering like the dull ache of the scars on his back that had never quite healed. Instead, you led him right here to kill you. You’re a fool if you think he won’t.

“Oh, hush you.” He muttered to no one in particular, as if physically speaking to the dark, distrustful thoughts that had crept into his mind unbidden would shoo them away.

The voice, which sounded suspiciously like Rowan’s, faded away, leaving him with his own muddled thoughts.

The truth was that he felt he could give that young man the location of his hideout because he felt he could trust the kid. There had been anger, and injuries dealt on both sides- the wound in his shoulder was an ever-present reminder of that fact. But Cyran also remembered his promises that he didn’t want to kill the thief, and the almost hopeful tone in his voice when he asked for a spar. Cyran hadn’t made it this far in the business without becoming adept at reading people, and he could tell that kid wore his heart on his sleeve. That kind of innocence deserved to be protected.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by a soft knock on the door.

Cyran paused, cracking open his eyes. He wasn’t expecting company, aside from the very young man that had just been on his mind. And he doubted that entrance would be particularly friendly. Silent as a mouse, he stood, careful to avoid disturbing any old wood while he drew his dagger. Cyran crouched low, wary of whoever might be on the other side, when a voice caught his attention. A familiar, gruff voice that sounded confused, certainly, but there was no promise of a fight in his tone.

Cyran sheathed his dagger and straightened.

Hmm. Somehow he hadn’t expected the young man to simply… knock on the door, as if this were a house call between old friends and not between thief and bodyguard. For a moment, Cyran had to wonder if the young man had even told Madam Seriko about the note Cyran left in his pocket, or if this was a secret meeting, meant to be kept between them. Perhaps he truly did want answers, which Cyran would happily provide, along with the promised money to make sure the young man’s Winter’s Crown was a good one.

… And perhaps he was a smidge grateful that this encounter was not accompanied by smashing doors and walls yet.

Brushing himself off, Cyran breezed to the door as if this were a natural occurrence before opening it. As expected, there stood the bodyguard from earlier- shifting his weight from foot to foot, a guarded expression on his face, as if he was expecting to be ambushed any moment. Cyran gave him a small smile, opening the door wider to allow him in.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.” He said in lieu of a greeting- he wasn’t sure what else there was to say. Pleasantries and whatnot felt… empty given the situation they were in. “Please, come in. I’ve just set tea on to boil, and I’m sure you have questions… questions that I’m happy to answer.”

He gestured towards the festering wound on the young man’s torso, the one he’d inflicted with his own hands only hours ago. There was genuine regret in his voice as he spoke. “And I’m sorry about… that. I’m no medic, otherwise I’d attempt to patch it up for you. Sadly, my talents lie elsewhere.”

The silence that fills the air after Seiya speaks feels like it lasts an eternity.

It doesn't, of course, because it couldn't; even with his father's accursed blood flowing sickly in his veins, it ain't like bein' half-inugami adds the kind of years to your life that bein' an elf would, even if it tosses a few extra onto the stack. Even so, the quiet that hangs around this run-down little teahouse feels way too loud and way too long for every second it lasts, and all Seiya can think to do is shift awkwardly in place, glancin' about the stalks of bamboo arching overhead like they're gonna do something interesting.

He doesn't remember much about the person who might've left the address in his hands-- not a feature of their face, not the tone of their voice, none of the important details that might give him a bit of an idea of what to expect here. It's a bit of a gamble, really, to wander out this way, with not a soul meant to know the specifics of where he was goin', no one who might be able to bail him out if things went south; it ain't like Seiya's the type to count too much on backup to begin with, but part of knowin' your own strength is knowin' that of others. And... if he's walkin' into some kind of trap here, baited by a couple of Solars and some arbitrary offer of kindness, unprepared for a fight, then...

He thinks of unsent letters, rich with optimism and promises, ones that swear he'll be comin' home.

He thinks of a cottage gone cold, one with blankets she's still savin' for him, not knowin' he'll never use 'em again.

He thinks of weekly correspondence suddenly stopped, and a woman wonderin' what the hell happened, and why another person she loved just had to go and leave her.

Seiya shivers in a way that has nothin' to do with the whistle of winter dancin' 'round his bare skin. He hates thinking about these kinds of things, the kind of morbid thoughts that come with the potential of defeat, of betrayal. The more he dwells on it, the more he starts to wonder if he should maybe just turn and leave and think about some smarter way to go about all of this--

And then the door slowly opens, and he's left face to face with some gentle-eyed, softly smilin' elf man, not a speck of sharpness to be found on him.

"Oh-- uh, hey," he practically stammers, glancing around awkwardly as soon as the door swings open wider, as if this really is just some normal teahouse and this guy's just welcomin' him in. Gods above, what a weird night. "Uh... y-yea, sure, uh. If it ain't a problem, I won't turn down some tea. And... yea, I've got some questions."

Makin' himself seem small ain't an easy accomplishment, and he almost wonders if he should even bother before he slips through the door, careful to mind his ears so they don't brush against the wood. Still, he can't help but feel like he's intruding all this way out here, even if he has just been invited in, and it's inevitable that he'd feel kind of awkward about it. It ain't like he's hidin' it well, either-- Seiya's never been the stoic type, and his unease about all of this is written all over his face, from the way his lips twitch in a poorly-hidden frown, to the wariness swirlin' in that rose and violet maelstrom of his eyes.

He pauses, though, clearly taken aback when the stranger mentions his wound.

"Huh?" he blinks, scarred fingers ghosting over the ink-touched claw marks marring his chest. Seiya wavers for a moment before bursting out into a bout of laughter, unabashed and unrestrained. "Oh, you don't gotta worry about that-- it's just one more for the collection! Part of fightin' means you're gonna get a few marks here an' there-- I'd be a damned pathetic fighter if I broke down over a couple'a scratches."

He glances about for a moment before opting to sit on the floor, settling as comfortably as he can manage, offering a broad and sincere grin at the man above him.

"Ah, not that it doesn't hurt-- it sure does, but they're kinda cool," Seiya says, eyes glinting. "Now, none of that-- what'd'ya say about an introduction? The name's Seiya-- ain't gonna give out my Ma's surname, don't know if I trust ya that much, yet. But Seiya's just fine. What can I call you?"

It was almost endearing, the stark difference between the young man’s confident demeanor in the warehouse and his hesitant attitude now, like a guest who was afraid to invite himself inside out of fear of angering his host. The smile didn’t leave Cyran’s face as he ushered the young man in, completely unguarded. If the bodyguard had any intention of attacking, Cyran had the feeling he would have done so by now. Those kinds of tricks did not seem like his style, given his upfront nature and blatant request for a spar. “Make yourself at home.” He said, as if this were his home to offer such courtesies.

The young man seemed to draw in on himself while Cyran led him through the narrow halls, a bull in a china shop who was impossibly self-conscious of his size. Cyran breezed through the halls in front of him, occasionally glancing back to make sure that the young man was still following. There was an uncomfortable expression on his face, still unsure whether he’d be attacked or not. His features lit up in amusement, however, when Cyran brought up his injuries once more.

Cyran tried to keep the horrified expression off his face when the young man simply shrugged it off, as if earning such scars were a treasure rather than a blight. Where Cyran wore his scars like shackles, the bodyguard believed his were medals, signs that he’d survived to fight another day. A quick glance at his torso revealed a litany of scars, a bouquet of faded pinks and purples that only made Cyran’s gut twist with worry as he wondered where every single one came from. The kid looked so young… Cyran hated that he’d only contributed to that.

“That doesn’t mean you should have to live with that…” Cyran trailed off as he twisted his fingers, an idle gesture to brush away the nerves. “I’m glad that you- you think they’re cool.” He finished, unsure of what else to say as he diverted his gaze from the festering claw marks that his own hands had caused. “But at least let me attempt to take care of the wound.”

At least he had a name to go with the face now- Seiya.

Cyran did not look offended in the slightest that Seiya didn’t offer his last name. He offered his hand for Seiya to shake, all manners and formal poise that came off a touch awkward, but genuine. He didn’t bother with aliases. “You can call me Cyran. Forgive me if I neglect to offer my own family name, as I don’t have one to offer. It’s lovely to meet you, Seiya.” He cleared his throat. “Under better circumstances, this time.”

He led Seiya through an old, moth-eaten curtain into the dilapidated tearoom he’d taken up residence in for the time being. It was obvious at first glance that this was not Cyran’s home, as spiders had made their homes in the corners and dust coated nearly every available surface. Despite the dilapidated feel of the room, there was currently a pot over a fireplace to boil, and a couple of cups and a mug placed on the table. It was as homely as Cyran could make it. He settled himself down, gesturing for Seiya to take a seat across from him. A few seconds later and two mugs were full of steaming hot tea for the both of them.

Cyran took a sip from his own cup first, a sign of good faith to show it wasn’t poisoned.

He set the drink down on the table with a small sigh, running his fingers along the rim of the porcelain. “I’m sorry to have left you so confused. I hadn’t intended for our fight to end this way, nor to leave you at the mercy of your employer without any explanation as to what happened. I hope she wasn’t too upset with you for losing part of the shipment. I didn’t want to leave you stuck between a rock and a hard place, but given I’d invited you to my hideout, I didn’t want to leave anything else that could be traced back to me to protect you. Call it... plausible deniability.” And perhaps a bit of insurance for his own safety.

“But now that you’re here, I can give you what I promised.” Cyran only hoped it would keep Seiya out of further trouble with rich families who only wanted to use him to further their own gain.

It's real strange watchin' the way this guy's face shifts all of a sudden, all subtle but not subtle enough, the gentler edges of his face twistin' into somethin' akin to muted shock over how proudly Seiya talks about every scar on his body. He ain't freakin' out too badly or anything, but he's definitely pretty damn surprised, those silvery eyes of his all foggy with concern, shiftin' around just a little like he's lookin' for an answer in the air around him. It's kinda odd. Seiya knows that most ain't too keen on flaunting physical proof of old pain, but it's never been something that bothered him-- but oh, it sure does bother this stranger. He can tell that much.

He can't tell why. There's a whole storybook scrawled across his skin in different letters, jagged lines and ghosts of burns and lacerations, from men and monsters alike. Some of 'em sting a bit more than others, both with literal pain and phantoms of it, but they're all just evidence of the hell and brimstone he's walked through, uncaring of the way flame licks at his skin. It ain't so bad, really-- these dark magic-stained scars are just a memory of the night, a testament to the promise they've made for a glorious sparring match in the future.

It's kinda odd, really, that this guy doesn't see it the same way.

"Hey, really, it doesn't bother me one bit," Seiya says honestly, careful to cool his tone. He doesn't want to unsettle this guy any more, and it's clear that his nonchalance is kind of stressin' him out. "I promise ya, I'm pretty tough. I've fought a displacer beast with my bare hands before-- a swipe's nothin' in comparison. But if tryin' to heal it up will really make ya feel better, then I won't talk ya outta it."

As soon as this man-- Cyran-- offers his hand, Seiya's quick to take it in his, his grip surprisingly gentle for hands so strong. He offers a warm smile as he shakes his hand, keepin' that careful hold; he knows Cyran's hand likely wouldn't shatter or anythin' in his grip, but he's learned to be careful about his strength anyway.

"It's nice to meet ya, then, Cyran," he says brightly. "Yea, I'd say meetin' over tea's way nicer than... however things went earlier."

The easy introduction is all it really takes to clear the lingering traces of nervousness from Seiya's eyes, his whole demeanor completely relaxed as he follows after Cyran through the dilapidated teahouse, all too happy to settle down across from him at the table. He doesn't give a second glance to the cobwebs or dust or all the signs of neglect, nor does he seem to think about the possibility of the tea having been poisoned-- he eagerly picks up the porcelain cup, cradlin' it in his hand and takin' a long sip, a contented exhalation followin' as soon as he sets it back down. His guard's completely down, and he ain't gonna pretend otherwise.

"Nah, ya ain't gotta apologize-- she was gonna be pissed no matter what," Seiya shrugs. "I ain't upset or nothin'. I got yelled at a little bit, but whatever. Not the end of the world, nothin' out of the ordinary-- it's what I expected. So you ain't gotta be sorry, Cyran. Uh, actually, um... I don't care about apologies or nothin'. I wanted to ask ya if you were the one who left all those Solars with me, and... if ya were? Thanks. Really, that... wasn't necessary."

He shifts awkwardly, lifting his teacup again and downing a significant bit of tea once again, gaze flittin' off to the side to stare at somethin' more interestin', like chipped paint or wood patterns or some shit.

"...uh, what's that, then? The promise?"

How old was Seiya? Perhaps a touch older than his own menagerie of wayward kids- Cyran thought of how he’d react if any of them came home covered in such wounds, creating a canvas littered in jagged slash marks, burns, and bruises as a monument to their near-brushes with death, and grew sick to his stomach. “I’m no doctor.” He winced. “All I can do is wrap it up in some cloth for you.” But it was the least he could do after he’d been the one to cause such a nasty-looking injury, one that seemed to radiate a miasma of dark energy, magic that had come from him. The guild gnawed at him as Seiya immediately launched into another story about a displacer beast, as if what Cyran had done to him truly didn’t matter.

Cyran wasn’t sure how to feel.

“I don’t doubt your strength.” He’d experienced such a blow from the young fighter firsthand, after all. He still didn’t fully understand how he hadn’t received serious damage from the punch, but those were musings for another time, another day, when he was alone with his thoughts, he would look over his shoulder and finally see the spirit that had taken residence in the space behind his back. But that would not come now. Not when he was so focused on Seiya’s nonchalance, the ease with which he insisted he was fine risking his life, and-

And he was just so… young.

They all were.

Not even more than two decades old, barely out of the house, and already off wrestling monsters and catching thieves and Cyran was left to wonder how long this young star would blaze before he eventually burnt out.

And he was so trusting, accepting the cup of tea from a complete stranger- a criminal, no less- without so much as a second thought that it might have been tampered with. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, ungraded despite the fact that there was any number of ways Cyran could already have the kid dead at his feet with any one of his concealed daggers. Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn’t. Or maybe the simple truth of the matter was that somehow, he already trusted Cyran.

The thought made his eyes sting as he sipped at his tea.

“Still.” He said, returning his attention to the subject at hand- Seiya’s employer. “The loss of shipment wasn’t your fault, so there was no need for her to yell at you.” He did brighten somewhat at the mention of the solars. “Yes, it was what I had in my pocket at the time. I didn’t have my money with me- too risky to bring it to a job.” He’d been robbed one too many times to risk it anymore. “But I suppose that brings us back to what I promised you.”

He stood, brushing off his coat before leaving the room for a moment, stepping into the closet where he’d stored his own personal belongings he didn’t want to risk getting damaged during his mission. A bag of trinkets. A neatly-folded black cloak with stars adorning the hood that he’d found on his bed wrapped in parchment paper just before he departed for this trip. A small, metal flask. He first shrugged off his current jacket before gently putting on Iryla’s cloak, carefully fastening the silver clasp. He then sifted through his things until he found the coin purse and returned to Seiya, offering the bag to him.

“I believe I promised you two things- the first was to help with your holiday funds. You said you took this job to give your mother a good Winter’s Crown, and I don’t like the idea of coming between families, so I promised you money to help give your mother a good holiday.” With the hopes that he would wash his hands of this entire mess. There was no need for Seiya to add to his collection today, not more than Cyran had already painted across his body.

“And the second was a spar.”

He flashed Seiya a small smile, one that might have been called similar to Marlow’s, but there was far more kindness behind his eyes.

“… Though I’ll admit, I’ve never sparred before, so you’ll have to forgive an old man if I’m not as up-to-par as you.”

...Huh. A shift like this ain't gonna be easy to get used to.

Seiya's not the type of man who goes pickin' fights with strangers, usually-- he's drawn to beasts more than anything, to hulking creatures and dangerous beasts, the kinds of things that could probably flatten an ordinary man. He's grappled with a displacer beast, maybe a harpy here or there, chased down an elemental; none of 'em were easy, and he wears those scars with pride, too, but he's not big on really brawlin' with humanoids, or even other yokai. Sparrin' is one thing, of course, and he'll leap at any chance to test his mettle against a good fighter, but fightin' someone with the aim to really hurt 'em ain't somethin' he's all too keen on. His memories are foggy, but he's distantly aware he probably threw a few punches at this guy-- had to have, if Cyran landed a hit like this on him.

It's weird that Cyran's... sittin' all civil with him like this, eyes all gentle, voice all soft. He ain't tossin' around the usual lines Seiya'd expect after a skirmish; there's no harsh words about demon's blood, not a breath of a lineage of blood-thirst, no bitter hissin' about the Gods-damned Dog Prince and his legacy of violence and his no-good half-demon son. There ain't hatred lurkin' in those eyes. There ain't disgust.

There ain't fear, not like-- not like--

Indigo, easier to see than ever

There's a crack. Seiya loosens his hold on his teacup just in time to prevent the tiny chip formin' at the rim of it from spreadin' further down.

"Whatever makes ya happy, Cyran," he says with a shrug, pretending he hasn't just nearly shattered a cup in his hand, acquiescing to whatever treatment the other man feels like administering. May as well. "Uhh... Really, though, does it bother ya that much? I can... stop talkin' 'bout it all if it's just gonna upset you. I thought hearin' about other stuff I'd done would make ya feel better, not worse."

He shifts awkwardly in place, lifting the teacup to his lips once more so he can sip at the tea, letting out a quiet sigh. It's pretty damn good, to be honest-- Seiya's not all that picky about drinks and all, but he's got a soft spot for tea the same way he's got a soft spot for good wine. One's a good post-victory drink, pairin' well with the coppery taste of his own blood on the tongue, and the other's just... nice to wind down with. Nice to sit and sip at while he pieces his scattered thoughts together, on those days when he ain't sure what to do with 'em all.

It's nice in a confusin'-ass situation like this.

"Eh, I'm just lucky she didn't stab me. Looked like she was thinkin' 'bout it for a second," he laughs, mostly joking, but he ain't sure how much of it he's confident is a joke. Marlow had been pretty pissed, but nobles ain't keen on dirtyin' their hands or nothing, so lucky him! "Yellin' is fine, though. Nothin' I ain't used to."

He trails off as soon as Cyran continues talking, as soon as he rises to his feet and goes siftin' through some belongings of his-- Seiya doesn't say a word, optin' to stay silent while Cyran keeps lookin', but a different kind of silence settles over him when this man he's known for one night and one night only on the ugliest terms imaginable turns and offers him a coin purse.

His mouth goes dry as he tries to find words.

This doesn't make sense.

"...that-- you don't--" he fumbles over the words, voice crackin' round the edges just a bit. People don't do things like this, offer kindness for free, not to men like him, and yet Cyran's eyes are kind and wise and betray nothin' more than an earnest wish. Seiya only falters for a second before takin' it in hand, heart already poundin', maybe a couple'a tears startin' to brim 'round his eyes, already wonderin' over what kinds of things he can go and get his mama after all is said and done. "...I... thanks. I don't know what to say. I... Mama'd appreciate this a lot. I know I do."

It's easier to piece together his confidence as the topic turns to sparring, a language he knows better-- flesh and steel are easier to understand than soft words, sometimes.

"Hehe, I dunno 'bout that-- I think you're more capable than ya think, 'old man,'" he says with a soft smile, the look in his eyes one of unabashed warmth. "Don't think a teahouse is a good place to throw down, though."

Seiya’s ears flattened against the top of his head in concussion, gaze faraway as he blinked, the kind of moon of someone who was unaccustomed to the kindness of strangers, didn’t know how to accept an extended hand for fear it would come with claws. But Cyran’s own were tucked away now, and desperate to cover up the pain they’d already caused despite Seiya’s insistence that he was fine. Cyran was reminded of a child, one who came running home with fresh cuts and bruises before insisting that he was a big boy, that he could handle the pain. Even the strongest shoulders should never be forced to bear such a burden.

Cyran sighed, a soft, weary sound. “It’s not that it upsets me.” Fingers with naturally darkened nails traced around the rim of his tea cup. When had they turned black? He could no longer rightfully remember. It was another sign of the dark magic’s grip on him. The sound of chipped porcelain echoed in his mind as Seiya awkwardly set the cup down, a young man unaware of the limits of his own strength. It was only natural, Cyran supposed, that he would want to test them. Want to know how far he could go so he would not hurt the ones he loved. “I am simply… unaccustomed to what it means to fight for pleasure.” Nor did he understand what it was like to wear your kills like a badge of honor. Cyran had murdered countless before, perhaps not the same kind of monsters Seiya had, but ones parading around in human’s skin. But not all of them had been as such. “I hear your stories and cannot help but imagine what it would be like if it were my own child in that situation.”

Seiya could really not have been older than Cirice herself, perhaps around the same age as Vi’ira- and the thought of any of them being covered in scars much in the same way Seiya was made something horrible lodge in his throat, a sick feeling that would not dissipate, even as Seiya had already moved on to describe his meeting with his employer. Cyran pursed his lips at the mention of her possibly stabbing him. Would a noblewoman go to such drastic measures? He knew that Madam Seriko had a temper, but would she really harm someone? The answer was probably not one Cyran wanted to dwell on. He pushed those thoughts aside in favor of retrieving the money and his cloak.

He did not expect the tears that came to Seiya’s face as Cyran offered him the coin pouch. Why would he not give what he’d offered? It was the least that he could do. Cyran patted Seiya on the knee nonetheless. “Just focus on giving your mother, and yourself, a good holiday. She’s raised a fine young man.”

He could tell that much just from his brief acquaintance with Seiya. He’d been raised with manners, and despite his strength- or, perhaps, because of it- he was mindful of others around him, though it saddened Cyran to see him draw in on himself, too afraid of the damage his hands could cause. Cyran patted his knee before standing, back popping as he did so.

“I will be right back.” He promised before disappearing briefly into another room. A few minutes later, and he returned with an old bedsheet, which he took his dagger to with the ease and efficiency of a surgeon to their scalpel. In a few seconds, the sheet had been turned into an improvised bandage. He motioned for Seiya to get closer before wrapping the sheet tightly around the wound on his torso, careful to tuck the scars behind layers of soft cloth with trembling hands that were unused to healing rather than harming. It took some time, and a few incorrectly-tied knots, but he managed to at least patch it up so it would no longer be exposed to the open air. Just as he was finishing up, his eyes widened in alarm as Seiya spoke with considerably more enthusiasm at the promise of a spar.

“You want to now? With this-“ He pointed to the wound before letting out another sigh. “I suppose we could take this out back…” Seiya was right, for the most part. Cyran was quite capable of lethal violence. How could he be sure he would not still his dagger right before striking skin, or draw his magic back just enough to prevent from serious harm? He supposed he could just try to use something else and pretend it was a dagger…

An idea occurred to him. He pulled out a jar of what looked like bright blue slime- a strange gift he’d received in the mail from an old friend just before departing. The slime itself was a strange gift, but Cyran knew firsthand that it was good for molding into something else. Seiya would no doubt be confused as the slime shifted into a real dagger, taking on the near-identical appearance of Cyran’s favored weapons, Spell Slicer and Cold Steel.^[1] It may have looked eerily similar, and hold the same weight; but Cyran noted with some satisfaction as he tested it on his palm that the blade did no damage.

It would be perfect. That way, he wouldn’t risk adding more to Seiya’s collection.

He gave Seiya a small smile as he tucked the fake dagger into his belt. “That should do the trick. I suppose if you really want to fight, we could take it outside.” The bamboo woods would provide a natural covering for them, and Seiya could go all out without damaging anything. Behind him, the ghost smiled in anticipation at the prospect of another fight, another chance to draw blood.

Perhaps it was a good thing that neither would stray too far, though. Unbeknownst to either Cyran or Seiya, Marlow Fenastra had learned better than to put her eggs all in one basket. Nor was she so naive as to trust that Seiya really remembered nothing about the encounter. Well, if the half-demon was a turncoat, then that suited Marlow just fine. After all, he would suit his purpose indirectly leading her team of bodyguards straight to the Red Rogue. If he wouldn’t finish the job, they would.

---

1. Shaping Putty

"I hear your stories and cannot help but imagine what it would be like if it were my own child in that situation."

Something changes in Seiya's face at those words.

Those sharp eyes harden for all of a second, that violet-rose maelstrom a tempest, a hurricane of some unholy feeling before it settles, hard angles softening, sharp lines and dark shadows melting, the storm clouds fading away until all that's left is a wistful lilac rain. His jaw clenches, canines jutting out from beneath his upper lip for just a second as they dig just so into the lower, a thousand unspoken thoughts cycling through his head as he studies Cyran's face, searching the depths of those silver eyes, the concern tucked into the edges, the sadness saved for a stranger--

"I, uh," he starts, voice all strained, and he likes to think it's just 'cause of the lingerin' feelings over the kind gift Cyran's given him. Seiya shifts in place for a second, starin' at the tea on the table, like all the secrets of the world are contained in that muted amber liquid, wisdom imbued into steam. "I didn't... know you were a dad. That's... that's nice."

Usually that nebulous bad feeling starts stirrin' up during meetings like this, when he comes face to face with men who've got kids of their own runnin' around the world somewhere, but as Seiya sits and stares at Cyran's face, listens to the softness of his voice that ain't all too different from his mama's, a different sort of feeling sets in. It's kinda like a worm with an apple, chewin' away at pretty golden fruit until there's just a hollow cavern around a core, leavin' this desperate, achin' yearning for somethin' to go there when nothin' will.

Lucky kid. Or kids, whoever they are.

Seiya sure hopes they appreciate what they've got.

That far-off look in his eyes doesn't leave even as Cyran slips away with a promise to return, and return he does-- he's got an old, weathered bedsheet in his hands, one he immediately takes a knife to, cuttin' it into strips without a single bit of issue. He's awful precise-- hell, it ain't all too different from watchin' his mama work, watchin' her work with bolts of fabric, careful as she measures 'em out over patterns and sets to work on makin' art from silk for maybe half of what she really should be gettin' paid. It sets a little surge of nostalgia goin' through him, one that only sparks to life even more with all the life of Avasha's storms as Cyran beckons him closer.

He sits still as Cyran carefully wraps those strips of cotton around his chest, coverin' jagged, shadowy scars up with soft fabric, his hands shakin' all the while. He's so careful about it when he really doesn't need to be-- Seiya ain't fragile, after all, and he sure as hell has never been handled like he is, but... there's somethin' kinda nice about this. About being treated like he's just as breakable as any other person, instead of...

...

It's nice. It's just... nice.

A distant thump-thump-thump sounds behind him, and he startles just a little, sure it's gotta be footsteps or somethin', but-- oh, nope. It's his damned tail, jumpin' to life, whackin' the wooden floor in some odd rhythm.

"...Thanks, Cyran," he says, maybe just a little sheepishly, hopin' he ain't gonna get made fun of for getting startled by his own tail. Cyran doesn't seem like the type to poke fun at him or nothing, but still. "But, uh, yea, if ya don't mind, I ain't opposed to sparrin' right now! Sounds like a damn good time t' me!"

Seiya brightens immediately as he watches Cyran produce some weird kinda slime thing, curiosity and then awe sparkin' to life in his eyes as he watches it mold into the shape of a dagger-- holy hell, how cool is that? Seiya ain't keen on weaponry himself, considerin' he's got his own two fists, but Gods above, he can't help but envy the cool things others can do with 'em sometimes. Maybe one day he'll think about gettin' a sword or somethin', like the ronin he sees wanderin' the Isles-- or bladed gauntlets... ah, hell, he doesn't know. That ain't the point right now.

As soon as the offer is thrown forth, Seiya's quick to run outside in excitement, ready to launch into a practice fight with a man he's already started admirin', but as soon as he steps out into cold winter air, the chill hittin' his bare skin full-force, he pauses.

Somethin' doesn't feel right.

He falls silent, brow furrowing as he glances back at Cyran before scannin' the bamboo woods before them, eyes narrowin' at the distant rustlin', the slip of a shadow.

"...hey, Cyran," he whispers, voice raspy with the effort of keepin' it quiet. "...I don't think we're alone."

Something in Seiya shifted as Cyran mentioned his worries, and with a start, he realized what he’d let slip in his carelessness. Exactly what he’d just shared with Seiya. Information about himself, that was fine- he was only putting himself in danger by sharing it. But the information about his kids, that was… another matter entirely. He cursed himself internally for the mistake, but perhaps there was a chance he hadn’t. Cyran was not often a man who hedged his bets on hopes and dreams, but a small part of him hoped he truly could trust Seiya. The young man had done the same, short of protecting his mother from a man whose intentions he had not been aware of at the time.

“I am.” He replied honestly, gripping the cup in his hand tighter- if he was aware of the action, he did not make any moment to stop it. His eyes seemed faraway as he thought about the children he’d lost to the past, and the ones he’d been granted. “Some of my own flesh and blood, some not. But each and every one of them my reason for living.” Now, a fond smile drifted to his face as he ran his fingers along the edges of the cloak. That one had been a gift from Iryla- not that she’d left her name on it, but Cyran recognized the art that had been drawn on the careful packaging.

Yes, he truly was blessed. Fortunate to have girls that seemed to care about him as much as he did them. And…

Others that Cyran could no longer see.

He thought of nights spent huddled in a large, empty room and feeling a little less lonely together.

He thought of men shoving him down while a man who he could no longer call his father held her in his arms, dragging her away.

He blinked, and shoved those memories down. Marlow was far away from here, and he could only hope she was happy and safe and cared for, doing better without him in her life. That she would be as far away from his own rotten influence as possible.

Seiya reminded Cyran of his kids, in his own way.

As he finished wrapping Seiya up, he heard a strange sound on the wood. Immediately, he stiffened, immediately worried that someone was breaking in, but the rapid thumping was too quick and rhythmic to be someone knocking down the door. He tilted his head when he spotted the appendage behind Seiya’s back moving up and down. Was he… wagging his tail? He was happy? Cyran found his heart warming, relieved that he’d managed to do some good despite the fact that bandaging Seiya’s wounds felt like a useless endeavor with his lack of medical knowledge. He reached up and ruffled Seiya’s hair between the ears right before Seiya brought up the spar.

Cyran straightened, hesitant as he followed Seiya, who was bounding outside with considerable more enthusiasm, longer legs and natural enthusiasm carrying him out to the cold winter air first. Cyran chuckled, trailing after, hand resting on the hilt of his fake dagger. “Hold on now, I’m not as young as I used to be…”

He trailed off immediately as he realized that Seiya was still at the door, unmoving. Seiya whispered to him that something felt wrong, but Cyran already knew that by the time the words left his lips. It was more an instinctual feeling than anything- as if the surrounding shadows recognized him as their master, ratting out the traitors hidden within their depths, those who simply hid with their depths. They did not become one with the shadow the way Cyran did, did not speak with them. Cyran’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, spotting their blurry, wispy outlines where they squatted in the nearby bushes.^[1]

Five men in total.

Cyran narrowed his eyes, immediately on guard. In a second, he was no longer the same kindly man he’d been, silver eyes sharpened like the points of the daggers he’d foolishly left inside. Stupid- he knew he could let his guard down around Seiya, but Cyran had failed to account for dangers besides him. And now he’d led Seiya right outside into the lion’s den.

He shifted his stance, plucking the dagger from his belt. It was not Spell Slicer or Cold Steel, but it looked the same, and it would have to do. When he spoke next, his voice was calm, cold, and authoritative. He wasn’t concretely sure who had sent them, but given the job he’d just been given, and the bodyguard who just defected, he could form a solid picture.

“If you value your lives, I would not get any closer.” He warned, not quite adopting a battle stance but not relaxed. “Your employer probably thinks she’s dealing with some ordinary, run of the mill thief. This is my property, and I won’t take kindly to trespassers.”

His challenge was met with silence, for a moment. He sighed, resigning himself to a fight, when the nearby bushes shifted and one of the men stepped out. He held a hammer with both hands, but there was a calm look on his face that said he was the leader of this operation.

“Perhaps you should just give this up right now, Red Rogue.” He said with a smile that showed off his crooked yellow teeth. Cyran’s brows, once more, furrowed in confusion. Why did people keep thinking of him as this Red Rogue fellow? “Your little trick with the turncoat was interesting. What did you do to get him on your side? Bribe him, perhaps?” He mused before shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. Our orders are the same. Destroy hideout, thief, and traitor all at once, and retrieve the goods.”

“Enough chatter.” Cyran’s voice was cold as darkness began to gather around his arms. Under the darkness cast by the trees, the shadows that connected him and the mercenary leader responded to his call. From the ground, chains of pure shadow burst up, clamping around his ankles and wrists, preventing him from taking another step.^[2] He moved his arms around wildly, attempting to break free of the hold the darkness had on him.

With the leader blind, Cyran would try the peaceful option once more. Just because he was capable of snapping the neck of everyone in this forest didn’t mean he wanted to. “Take your men and go. Tell your boss that the wine she’s stolen is for the people, and it will be returned to them, one way or another.”

And then, the leader burst out in quiet laughter.

“Does something amuse you, sellsword?” Cyran demanded.

“Oh, I just find it interesting that you assumed we were the only ones here. You must be awfully distracted, Red Rogue. I somehow thought you’d be sharper than this.”

Cyran’s eyes widened, whirling around just in time to hear glass crashing indoors.

---

1. Shadow Sight
2. Shadow Binding

There ain't a word in any language spoken in Charon that's good enough to cover just how lucky Cyran's kids really are.

He talks about 'em like they're a gift from the gods 'emselves, like they're little divine packages that he just so happened to find and take under his wing, like they really, truly are his reason for gettin' up in the mornin', better than any radiant sunrise Solaria could paint across the horizon. And he ain't lyin', either-- the longer Seiya studies his face, searchin' those old, wise eyes, all he can see in those silver depths is love. Some of it's touched by sorrow, wistfulness for things he may not have the same way he might've had 'em before, but it's love all the same, the kind you save for the people worth givin' your very life to give even just one more day to.

Cyran's the kinda man who'd put himself on a pyre and let himself burn for the sake of lightin' up his kids' faces, the kinda man who lives for his family above all, and it's hard not to wonder how different his own life could've been if even an ember of that kind of fire lived anywhere in Kamui's soul. It ain't like Seiya would change much about the way he's lived his life; he's always been pretty damn content with livin' with just him and his mama, even if they didn't have much, even if... there were some roadblocks, yea, but he can't help but wonder what things might've been like if Setsuna Maeda could've been loved the way she deserved to be, and if he could've known what it was like to have a father who loved him as fiercely as Cyran loves his own children.

His thoughts are caught in this weird back-and-forth tonight, between bitterness and softness, vaulted from his own envy into the joy of bein' the recipient of Cyran's kindness. Seiya won't try and stifle it or nothing, knows it's better to just let it all run its course, but it's weird to be caught in the heart of somethin' so tempestuous.

"You're a good father," he says confidently, finally, in those last few moments before he runs off into the outdoors, before he lets excitement for a spar carry him forth. Maybe his voice shakes just a bit 'round the edges, but he doesn't falter, knows what he says is true. "I... your kids are lucky t' have ya. Real lucky."

Those were the last things he said, anyway, before runnin' off, not waitin' for an answer from Cyran, a bit scared to hear what he might've had to say in turn.

And now here they are, side by side, starin' down a line of Marlow Fenastra's lackeys-- ones Seiya had obliviously led right to Cyran's doorstep, each and every one of them now well aware that they're dealin' with a no-good traitor on top of the Red Rogue they were instructed to handle.

Ha. This is one hell of a way to repay Cyran's kindness.

Seiya scoffs, bristling, darkness dancing around his fingertips as a low growl pours from between clenched teeth, but he notes the way Cyran stands, the way he speaks;  he ain't jumpin' into combat, ain't itchin' for a fight, keen on takin' the peaceful route, no matter what this seems to hold. Even when the obvious leader of this band jumps out, armed and ready, Cyran's takin' the defensive, optin' to restrain the guy instead of dispatching him, givin' him an out--

But then there's the laughter and shattering glass, and Seiya gets the nebulous feeling that this night's about to get real ugly.

"...you take the indoors, I got these bastards," he growls, glancing sideways at Cyran as he cracks his knuckles, feeling his blood roaring to life in his veins, shadows pouring into his claws as he stares the row of five men down, pink eclipsing violet in his eyes. For a moment, he looks wild, furious, every bit the spitting image of the dog demon he's meant to be, shadows unfurling from his skin in wisps of smokey blue.

He sure hopes these bastards are ready to deal what opens the door they've come knockin' on.

Between him and Cyran, he doesn't think they will be.

It was nice that Seiya thought he was a good father. Cyran thought the reaction was entirely unwarranted- Seiya didn’t even know him enough to make that kind of opinion, after all. Still, the compliment made him feel warm as he followed Seiya outside, a feeling that immediately came crashing down once he realized they were being ambushed. Cyran didn’t want to leave Seiya behind, but when the younger man suggested it, he knew they didn’t have time to argue about this. He pursed his lips, making his displeasure at the situation known.

It would be fine. Seiya had proven himself capable in the past.

That didn’t mean Cyran had to like it.

Seiya was like a blazing comet- the kind of energy and strength that blazed a trail through the night sky as he carved a path through life. Cyran would just have to make sure it was not here that he fell.

“Be safe. I’m a shout away.” He relented, giving Seiya a reassuring nod before turning and sprinting back inside, leaving the enraged half-demon to deal with the mercenaries outside, just as the last vestiges of shadow shackling their leader in place began to fade away, chasing back after their master.

The inside fared no better than the outside- down the hall, he heard the dull THUD of something being knocked over in the tea room, accompanied by the shattering of porcelain cups against the hard mats. Cyran immediately slipped his shoes off, placing them delicately on the floor. In the bones of an old home like this, any wrong step and creaking of wooden floors would give away his position, an advantage he couldn’t afford to lose. Moving lightly, he crept through the hall, with none of his daggers on his person but no care in the world, until he could hear the sound of voices, faint, but irritated.

“... They ain’t in here.”

“Well, where the hell are they?” Another voice demanded. “They were just sitting here a minute ago, trading secrets.”

“Yeah, the tea’s still steaming. Look.”

“You two, shut up!” A third voice snapped. “They’re probably out front, getting killed by Goddard n’ his men. Just means more time for us to trash the place and find the stolen shipment. Now get a leg on and start lookin’ for the crates!”

Cyran immediately hid in the shadows in the hall as the three men left through the door, immediately stalking off towards the back rooms.^[1] He held absolutely still, right until the moment the third one passed- like a snake darting out from the bushes, Cyran reached out and grabbed him with both hands, one over the mouth, and one clamped tightly to the neck, nails digging into the tender flesh, before dragging him back into the darkness.

The mercenary tried to cry out, but with Cyran holding him in a death grip, he didn’t even stand a chance.

He didn’t bother with the pleasantries- there was no point. He knew why they were here, and he knew who’d sent them. Instead, he just tightened his grip on the mercenary’s neck, the shadows stirring around them as if responding to his anger, as he sapped the lifeforce out of the man until he went limp in a daze.^[2] And then, Cyran’s hands grew black, nails sharpening into claws, before he quickly finished the man off with a slash to his throat.^[3]

It was a small mercy, he supposed.

As Cyran was setting the body down on the floor, another crash in another room grabbed his attention, reminding him that he was on a timer here. Cyran didn’t care about the rest of the building, but he couldn’t let them get to the shipment. Straightening, he pulled up the hood of his cloak, the stars Iryla stitched on the inside forming silver constellations on the inside that calmed him somewhat. He set off through the winding halls in search of the others, until he came upon a room in the back where the door had been bashed in, reduced to splinters on the floor. Inside looked like a kitchen of sorts, with pristine countertops covered in dust, and utensils hanging from the walls. An old fireplace for cooking sat in the middle, which one of the mercenaries currently had his head shoved in, before pulling out with an irritated look on his face. Given that his head was now covered in soot and dust, the effect was rather comical.

“It ain’t in there, either.”

“Did you seriously think the Red Rogue would shove wine bottles up some old chimney?”

The second mercenary thought on that for a bit before shrugging. “Ain’t the myth that he’s supposed to come down from one of these things before he robs you blind? It isn’t too far fetched that he’d put things back up it, too.”

The first, the one Cyran thought might be the leader, only gave the second a bewildered look before shaking his head. “You weren’t hired for your brains, I reckon. And where the hell is Iain?”

It was at that point that Cyran decided he’d had enough of listening to their back and forth banter and plucked the fake dagger from his belt and made his way in. There were only two of them left, both armed with nasty, jagged-edged swords and the leader holding some kind of bottle on his belt that sloshed with an unknown alchemical liquid. Cyran was outnumbered, and possibly outmatched.

He’d faced worse odds, he supposed.

Both mercenaries immediately turned and drew their weapons as Cyran approached, face still obscured by the hood of his cloak. “It’s the Red Rogue!”

“Why does everyone keep calling me that…?” He murmured to himself, idly twirling the fake dagger in his hands before raising it, pointing it at the both of them. Another warning- perhaps he was getting soft. “I’ll give you two one chance to step away from this now. Leave the wine with me, and I’ll let you walk away now.”

One of them- the leader- scoffed. “You ain’t as tough as the legends make you seem, thief. We’ll find the stolen goods, one way or another.”

Cyran sighed, a soft sound. Why did they never want to just give up? It only meant more heartbreak and more blood on his hands. He’d wanted a clean job for once, with no death involved, but the assassin’s life liked to cling to him. Remind him that he could never leave no matter how he wished it. But for a moment, sitting with Seiya and drinking tea, it had been nice to pretend otherwise.

“Then I guess your families will simply be left to wonder what happened to you.” He shrugged before raising the dagger and throwing it at the nearest mercenary.

---

1. Pass Without Trace
2. Vampiric Touch
3. Death Swipe

As soon as Cyran dives back indoors to go and exterminate the problem startin' to fester inside, Seiya gives him one last nod before lookin' back over the row of mercs standin' before him, drinkin' in the sight of each of 'em; there's the leader, standin' tall and proud, holding an impressively forged hammer in both hands and wearin' one hell of a punchable expression on his face. He thinks one of 'em has a shortsword, another's got reinforced gauntlets-- and hell, who knows what the last two have? Ain't like he can see too well from where he's standin'. They're an unknown variable, armed with the element of surprise, and Seiya's just gonna have to be careful to not get carried away.

Shadows still dance at his fingertips, dying his nails in ink, his fingertips an ethereal blue, smoke billowing off of his skin in those ominous wisps, the way it dances between the trees and bamboo of the woods the yokai haunt. This is the sign of no mere trickster, though, no strange and playful demon looking to hunt or haunt; in this moment, Seiya's eyes blaze with barely-restrained murderous intent, and his claws gleam sharp.

"Don't they teach ya it ain't wise to go playin' with the yokai 'round here?" he huffs, barely capable of keeping the rasp out of his voice, the hatred. That star does not burn tonight, is nowhere in sight in those cloud-touched night skies, but Seiya feels its influence all the same, the burning of wicked stardust stirring beneath skin and bone and sinew like it's merely another part of his body. "I thought that was a common link between all of the villages. 'Don't go stray into the woods alone, keep your mind clear as you walk, don't go pickin' fights with monsters in men's skin.' And yet, here you are. I'm gonna give ya one chance to turn tail, but if ya don't wanna take it... then it ain't my fault what happens, y'know?"

There is a moment of hesitation from the back line, flickers of worry sparking to life in shadow-shrouded eyes, but the man with the hammer merely scoffs, drumming thick fingers against the pole of his weapon, one brow raised in contempt as he looks Seiya up and down. Not a trace of fear touches his face. No, there is only callous indifference, the face of a man who is completely and utterly unimpressed with the display before him.

"Men who feel the need to speak so much so rarely can back up their words," the leader says, glancing to his men as though he is a commander, trying to boost morale among his soldiers. "There's five of us, and one of you. Those odds don't exactly look good for you, yokai or not."

"You must not be from 'round these parts," Seiya says simply, letting out a heavy sigh. "Well. Don't say I didn't warn ya, pal."

And from then on, the chaos begins.

Seiya ain't the dodgy type-- ain't exactly one for armor, either. He's got his speed and his willpower and that's about it, so when a bunch of mercs come chargin' at him from different angles, he's gotta pick one direction and stick with it-- and the one he picks is down, divin' to the earth to go straight for the legs of the guy with the sword, sendin' both of 'em back against the grass in a tangle of limbs. The sword goes flyin' somewhere, the guy's hold on it probably having loosened in his surprise, and Seiya ain't all too keen on lettin' him get a hold of it a second time. He sets one hand against this guy's chest, pinnin' him to the earth as his claws spark to life with wisps of shadows, terror bursting to life in this man's wide and wild eyes--

He hesitates.

Gods above, is he really-- really about to kill a man?

It ain't like he's given much time to think about it, because then there's a sharp pain in his shoulder, and a sharp hiss slips from between his teeth-- he glances back, able to catch sight of the hilt of what looks to be a knife. Well, shit-- that answers one of his earlier questions. Not the time to stress about it, though-- he swivels back to face the man beneath him, bracin' his arm up for a good solid punch instead, aimin' it so the man's skull strikes the earth just quickly and sharply enough that it knocks the consciousness right outta him.

He doesn't wait-- Seiya jumps to his feet, kickin' the limp form of the man aside so he can turn around to face the other mercs, jumpin' back just in time to avoid the swing of that hammer. Damn, for all his effort to pay 'em the courtesy of not killin' em, they sure ain't doin' the same in return.

Once again, somewhere in his veins, his blood hisses with ancient, star-bound wrath, and once again, he must quell it.

The knife's still sittin' pretty in his shoulder, but he ain't dealin' with that right now; nah, he should probably just deal with the man throwin' 'em. It takes a moment, a few more steps spent weavin' in and out of attempted strikes, but then his eyes land on the thin frame of a man lurkin' in the back, rows of knifes kept carefully in a holster on his thigh, and Seiya knows he's found his target.

Without thinking, he charges, pushing forward and goin' straight for him, aimin' one punch to his abdomen and another to his jaw, just enough to knock him to the ground, sending a few of those pesky knives flying to the earth. The guy looks dazed, still blinking blearily in the wake of the strikes, but he ain't gettin' off easy-- no, that's when Seiya dives in to scoop him up like he doesn't weigh a thing [1], runs for the nearest window, and tosses the man through it with a yell of triumph, watching glass and what is probably just a little bit of blood scatter across the earth.

Well-- this ain't goin' as well as he'd hoped, but he's holdin' up alright.

He just hopes Cyran's doin' okay, too.

---

 [1] Bull's Strength Tattoo

The knife that he had thrown, of course, was fake, with no real blade to speak of. Cyran was fully aware of that fact when he threw it- the mercenary, on the other hand, was not.

The man gasped and rapidly drew his jagged blade up in an attempt to block the projectile, taking his attention off Cyran for the briefest second, completely noticing his silent approach right behind the knife. The dagger bounced harmlessly off of the blade with a PING, clattering to the floor uselessly.

“WHAT THE-“

But Cyran didn’t give him a chance to finish that exclamation, driving a fist coated in a thin layer of sharpened, glimmering ice crystals right into his face.^[1] Ice crunched and chipped, dropping to the floor at his feet like a shattered crystalline wine flute. The mercenary screamed and swung his sword, marking a long line up Cyran’s shoulder as he dove to the floor and rolled- the pain made him gasp, nearly losing his trajectory as he dove for one of the jagged shards on the ground, vision going entirely blank for a brief moment.

Was that blade poisoned? The searing, agonizing bubbling sensation in his flesh told him that it was.^[2] The sensation was so overwhelming that he couldn’t even move, couldn’t even think or cry out in pain, and all he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and-

No. Stop. He had to… he had to focus. He had to see the mission through to the end. The shipment, the meager part he’d gotten his hands on, needed to be distributed to the merchants. The Specter never left a job unfinished.

And more importantly, Cyran still owed Seiya a spar.

Even through the pain Cyran managed to focus enough to drive the jagged ice shard into the thigh of the mercenary leader, right at that vulnerable spot. Blood immediately gushed from the wound, staining his jacket red- it was only sheer luck he moved quick enough to readjust Iryla’s cloak in time and avoid getting a mess all over it. In his pain-riddled mind though, Cyran couldn’t help but realize that the Red Rogue moniker was considerably more apt now.

“You’re gonna pay for this, rat!” The second mercenary cried out- the leader was currently too busy collapsing to the floor from sheer pain and blood loss to manage any kind of coherent threat. He raised his serrated, poisoned blade, ready to strike at Cyran once more-

Somewhere, glass crashed-

His head turned for the briefest second. Another foolish distraction. No matter how good these men were, they apparently hadn’t learned the cardinal rule of never taking your eye off the enemy. Cyran would just have to remind them what a poor idea that was.

It was a lesson he would only learn once.

Cyran raised his hand, which was still coated in that thin layer of ice, before pointing a finger at the mercenary’s eye, firing off a round of black lightning.^[3] The lightning hit him right in the eye as he turned back to Cyran, crackling and festering, turning the skin around it black. He, too, collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain, leaving Cyran the last one standing.

He stood, plucked his fake blade from the ground, and continued on out of the kitchen. The crashing of glass worried him, and if more people were breaking into this hideout, he simply had to keep going until either they were the last ones standing or he was. His arm still ached, and his sleeve was torn where the cut had been made, but Cyran couldn’t bring himself to look at the mess that had been made of his flesh. After. He could deal with that after. His current objective was simply to find the sneaky mercenary and make sure Seiya was alright.

Cyran received the answer to both of these questions nearly as soon as he rounded the corner.

Glass coated the floor where moonlight streamed in through a giant hole in the window- but most importantly, a man stood in the middle, currently covered in nicks and scratches where the glass had cut him. It didn’t take a genius to piece that one together. The man stared at Cyran, bewildered, while Cyran stared right back. He steeled himself, readying for another fight, but after being thrown through a window the man wasn’t too keen on taking another challenger, it seemed, as he made a mad dash for the nearest door, locking himself in.

That was the room with the wine!

Cyran picked up into a dead sprint, barely managing a glance out the window as he turned. As he suspected, Seiya was out there, handing four men now- breathing haggard and a dagger sticking out of his shoulder but otherwise okay. Cyran wasn’t sure how long that would last. They needed to wrap this up quickly, grab the wine, cut their losses, and escape. The door was locked, but once more that didn’t prove a problem for someone like Cyran. He traced a thin line around the door, creating a shadow that he stepped through, frantic to get inside and stop that mercenary from going anywhere with the crates he’d found, one of which he was currently picking up.^[4]

“Stop!”

Caught red-handed stealing back what Cyran had already stolen, the mercenary froze, startled that Cyran had managed to snake in so easily. But with the crate in his hands, he held all the cards, which became rapidly apparent to both of them as his lips curled up in a wicked smile.

“You’ve got a lot of funny tricks up your sleeve, Rogue. But you and your little demon friend out there have been outnumbered, and outmatched. We’ll be taking this stuff back to the lady now.”

“Don’t call him that.” Cyran seethed, voice as cold and sharp as the ice still coating his arm. “And I’ll be taking that shipment back, if you don’t mind.”

He received a scoff in response. “And just how do you plan on doing that?”

Cyran’s eyes flicked down towards the fake dagger in his hands. There was no way that feint would work twice, was there? Only one way to find out, Cyran supposed, right before launching it at the mercenary’s face. The man immediately raised his hands to block it, the dagger bouncing harmlessly off- in his panic, he’d forgotten exactly what he was holding, letting the crate drop to the ground. Cyran immediately dove for it, barely catching it in his arms before the expensive wine shattered everywhere- he’d saved the goods, but his hands were now full, and he was right within striking range of the mercenary.

He had to do something, get the wine somewhere safe now. Cyran couldn’t hold onto it right now while he was fighting, where the mercenary could easily break it. He needed to get it as far away from here as possible, free up his hands.

There was one option he had left. Cyran didn’t hesitate for a second about putting his trust in Seiya.

He immediately turned, looking through the door he’d created where he could still see the window, and Seiya holding his ground right outside of it. “Seiya! Catch!” He cried out- the only warning he gave before launching the crate with all his strength through the air, where he had implicit faith that Seiya would protect it from harm.

---

1. Cold Fist
2. Enemy: Serrated Blade Enchantment and Parasite Poison
3. Chaos Bolt
4. Create Door