Reverse-defenestration-- which Seiya's decided is probably his new favorite word ever-- was certainly not somethin' he had planned for the night.

Really, none of this was actually planned for the night; he hadn't expected to go and wind up turnin' on his noble employer because of a few kind words and gestures from one man, he hadn't expected to end up havin' tea with the guy while he softly chatted away 'bout his kids, and he really hadn't expected an attempt at a fun sparrin' match to turn into an all-out brawl with a bunch of mercs, with an old teahouse and the bamboo forest as their battlefield. But now Seiya's got two men down, presumably, assumin' the window did its job, and he's got three more to deal with, and he hopes that things are goin' okay for Cyran on the inside.

He doesn't stop moving once he's tossed that poor sap through the teahouse window, ignorin' the panicked yelps and hisses of pain that come with taking splintered glass to the face. He knows that has to hurt, and maybe some part of him feels kinda bad about it, but it ain't his problem; you play stupid games and ya win stupid prizes, pick stupid fights and you take stupid injuries. Go tossin' knives into the back of an angry half-demon, and yea, you shouldn't be too surprised when he tosses ya through a window.

Seiya swivels around to face the remaining three, a growl low in his throat as he turns his focus to the man with the gauntlets; he's lingered in the back of things so far, gauging the situation, lettin' his friends fight so he can step back and assess his opponent, but Seiya ain't keen on lettin' him keep his hold on that advantage for much longer. More tendrils of smoke burst from his fingertips, dark and stormy blue, unfurling into a shapeless blur as Seiya charges for the man in question, claws and teeth bared, one arm geared back for a punch.

His fist connects with metal, and metal connects with his abdomen, his fist caught in place by one gauntlet-bound hand while the second swiftly moves down for a clean and effortless uppercut, the ridges of metal scraping against Seiya's skin, blistering and painful as they land a second time, and then a third, careful and yet desperate, jabs made with the desperation of a man who believes he's fighting a monster.

A wet cough tears itself from Seiya's throat, the pain dulling as he forces his focus onto the stardust burning in his veins, his fingertips turning that strange and otherworldly blue once more as he moves to grab at the man's arm, the fury and fire of that lone and angry star spilling from his palm onto cloth and skin and armor, melting away at all it touches. [1] It is only then that the man lets out a pained yowl and leaps back, panic in his eyes as his skin burns, as fabric and armor corrode away like they are nothing-- and they are, ultimately.

In the eyes of the stars, everything is nothing.

"You bastard--! What the hell-?!"

"If we're bein' entirely fair," Seiya rasps, voice low and dark and angry, his eyes narrowed as he catches his breath, as that corrosive power slowly ebbs away, fading from his fingertips. "I'm gonna call that one self-defense."

The man opens his mouth to retort, and hey, whatever he's got to say is probably justified-- Seiya was the one to go for him first, technically--, but he never gets a chance to speak. It's a bit hard to say much of anythin' at all when someone cracks ya over the skull so hard it shakes the consciousness from your body.

Only two more left, now.

The other two seem to have been advancin' while Gauntlets had the upper hand, but withdrew a bit once the corrosion came out-- Seiya can't say he blames 'em. Weapons and the like ain't cheap, and mercs do prize their money. Not fond of losin' out on good metal, especially not to some half-demon who can just melt through 'em. So now the leader's just lurkin' with a bit of an odd look in his eye, and his last lackey keeps glancin' over at the teahouse like he'd rather take his chances in there instead of out here. Seiya's about a second away from settlin' on who to charge when he hears Cyran's voice, hears the sound of somethin' getting tossed, and he swivels just in time to see one of those wine crates flyin' through the air.

He yelps in surprise and immediately sprints into action, movin' as fast as his legs will carry him so he can catch it, prayin' that the fragile cargo inside ain't busted up by the impact of the box landin' in his arms-- he doesn't hear any cracking, so thankfully, it doesn't seem like there was. He lets out a sigh of relief and scrambles to his feet, just in time to narrowly dodge the merc leader's hammer once again.

Gods above, he can't catch a break-- and now he's lost his main weapon, too.

He grimaces, opting to aim a low kick to the man's knees to send him to the ground before bookin' it once more, trying to figure out where the hell to put the damn wine, when he remembers the last of the outside mercenaries-- remembers that he's no longer sure where he is. He glances around wildly, panic in his eyes, only for his gaze to land on the sight of the last of the lesser mercs positioned outside of the door Cyran had created--

and he's aimin' a throwing knife right for Cyran.

Oh, hell no.

Another growl tears its way from Seiya's throat as he races back over, a mixture of panic and anger in his voice as he yells "Here, catch!" right back, tossin' the wine crate right to Cyran before jumpin' right before that knife, too slow to stop the man from tossin' it but just fast enough to--

...catch it. [2]

Huh.

A look of utter surprise cracks across Seiya's face as he manages to close his fingers around the knife, albeit barely. His hand bleeds just a bit and it ain't the smoothest catch but it's somethin' and he's prevented this from getting caught in Cyran's back instead. He shoots a look over at the man who threw it, drinkin' in the sight of the panic in his eyes, and he does not hesitate to go whack him over the skull too before tossin' the knife to the ground, still astounded by the fact that he'd managed to catch it to begin with.

Learn somethin' new every day, eh?

---

[1] Corrosive Blast

[2] Steel Catch...albeit poorly

Hands free, Cyran could now deal with the mercenary that had threatened to drop the crate and break the goods, who had already moved to throw another dagger at him - too fast - Cyran’s only option was to raise his arm, the one still covered in ice, and catch it with flesh. Oh, the stab wound burned, but not any more than the poison coursing through his system already had. Cyran bit his lip to stifle the pained noise threatening to bubble out of his throat. He could not show weakness here. The Specter was not a man of flesh and bone. He was not meant to be touched by mortal blades.

The Specter was a being of shadow and dust, an echo held together by the last desperate wishes of an old man who should have died on that living room floor ten years ago.

Seiya had the crate. Seiya was depending on him. He had to hold onto that thought once more.

There was no expression on the assassin’s face as he picked himself up, save thinly veiled bloodlust, as calm and cold as the peaks of the World’s Crown. The pain lancing through his body, replaced with the desire to slash and cut at this intruder with steel and darkness until he was nothing more than an unrecognizable stain on the tatami mats. But with none of his blades on him, this would have to do for now.

With the ice-covered hand, he brought a fist down upon the mercenary’s face, feeling the crack of cartilage and bone at the same time he heard the sound of cracking ice, a fallen crystalline chandelier. Shards of ice sprinkled to the ground, a facsimile of snow that was normally expected around this time of year. He kicked upwards at one of the large shards, propelling it through the air and sending it right into the mercenary’s throat. One more down… now all they had left to deal with were the mercenaries outside, and Cyran had deprived him of his primary weapon. Despite the fatigue settling in his bones, and the heaving of his chest as he tried to catch his breath, Cyran pulled the knife still stuck in his arm out in a fluid motion, barely so much as flinching from the sudden pain. He’d deal with the blood later- they didn’t have time to worry about his wounds.

He made his way through the door, only to face down a knife sailing right for him -

The sound of a voice, frantic, forcing instinct to kick in. Cyran had to dive to catch the crate once more, just before it hit the ground. Glass rattled and clinked, threatening to break, but ultimately unharmed. At the same time, Seiya’s arm whipped out and plucked the knife from the air, coating his hand in blood, stained just like the rest of the wounds littering his torso, smeared blood like streaking stars, a constellation of crimson marking every single place those fuckers had touched him while he fought tooth and nail to protect the goods, protect Cyran.

They couldn’t keep going like this. The longer they fought, the more men would come out of the woodwork, the more opportunities they had to hurt Seiya. Cyran couldn’t let that happen. He’d promised them a good Winter’s Crown. He’d promised that he would make sure Seiya’s mother was happy.

These mercenaries had dared to harm one of Cyran’s own, and by the vengeful gods in the sky and every wretched demon down below, he would make them pay for it.

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on him!”^[1] All of the fear, uncertainty, and anguish in his voice finally bursting at the seams. The shadows responded to his pain, their wails echoing and reverberating along with him, echoing every bit of his sorrow until the air was filled with the cloying, heavy burden, so thick that you could choke on it. He screamed until he could no longer breathe, until his throat was raw and ragged, and he could no longer manage to produce a sound.

And the world.

Fell.

Still.

For a moment, no one could move, no one could breathe- not even Cyran himself. It took him a moment to realize he’d done this, and even longer still to recognize that everyone here had been placed under his thrall, frozen by his grief and misery… including Seiya himself.

Oh, gods.

He didn’t have time to feel guilty, not yet- the mercenaries had yet to move, had yet to resume fighting, and that gave them a chance. This hideout, this abandoned fortress, meant nothing to Cyran. But he had the goods, and Seiya was still alive… they had to leave while they still could. Things, places, those could be replaced. Cyran knew better than anyone that their own lives could not.

Frantic, he picked himself up, sprinting inside to collect his all his things - his knives, his belongings, his boots - all tucked back where they belonged before he tucked the crate under his arm, and rushed up to Seiya, still dazed from the effects of whatever Cyran had done. Brows furrowed, Cyran reached up a gentle hand and rested it on his cheek, voice soft as he spoke.

“Oh, Seiya, I’m so sorry… my fighter, you’ve done so well. But we can’t stay here for long - please, we have to go while we can. Your mother is waiting for you.” Words that he was unaware Seiya could not hear in his dazed state. But he grabbed Seiya’s hand nonetheless, squeezing it reassuringly - whether it was meant for Seiya or himself, he wasn’t sure. He certainly didn’t feel stable right now, as if he could drift away and simply meld into the shadows and never return… but Seiya needed him right now.

So he would continue to move, until he no longer could.

Assuming Seiya let him, Cyran would gently pull him away, dragging the two of them into the bamboo forest, towards safety. He wasn’t sure where they would go next, and it didn’t matter- but he would put as much distance between themselves and the hideout as possible. Whatever it took to keep Seiya safe.

---

1. Howls of the Damned

It takes a lot of strength to be able to hold your own when you're outnumbered; when it's you up against an onslaught of people who are determined to give their all to take you down, when they don't give you a chance to catch your breath between gettin' hit and hittin' back. It takes a bit more strength to admit it when you're runnin' out of steam, when you can barely keep your head above water anymore, when things are goin' south and the best thing you can do for yourself is get out with your life.

Seiya Maeda is a lot of things; he's a capable fighter who wears the trophies of old battles with pride, he's a craftsman who'd rather hold a wood-carvin' knife in his hand than a sword, he's the son of a gentle-hearted seamstress who taught him how to love before the world could teach him all the fine intricacies of hate. He's strong and he's a bit too easygoin' for his own good and anyone would be hard-pressed to call him smart, but he knows when there's a fight he can't win or when the outcome ain't worth stickin' around for, and with every cut and bruise that opens up on his body, against calloused palms or over old scars on his abdomen or wherever the hell else they hit him, he knows this fight is startin' to look like somethin' he shouldn't be draggin' out.

Cyran ain't lookin' too great, either; his expression's steely and unflinching as the edge of a knife, but there's the touch of weariness there, the corners of those silvery eyes edged with every subtle little flavor of exhaustion. He conceals it well for a moment, manages to hold himself together, maintaining that stern veneer so carefully and easily, but somethin' cracks like someone took a hammer to a window, glass shattering all around the point of impact, fire burnin' and burnin' until silver turns molten and distress becomes flame, and--

And then there's a furious cry, and then there's near-silence.

Seiya's ears ring, the only sound he can process being that continuous resonance of howlin'; there are no chirpin' crickets, no whistle of the wind, not even the noise of the remaining mercs around 'em. All he can hear is the echo of that scream, anguish pourin' into his brain from every possible corner, any sound that tears from his own lips only discernable as a vibration in his throat, as the ghost of a breath passin' through his lips. It's unbearable, the pain from the sound so palpable that tears almost sting at the corners of his eyes, and he has to bite at his own lip to keep 'em down.

His head spins, still tryin' to fight through the sound, tryin' to tether itself back to the familiarity of the bamboo woods around him, but it feels damn useless. All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and hope that it fades soon.

But then there's somethin' touchin' him-- a gentle hand against his cheek, and Seiya cracks an eye open to get a look at Cyran, who's holdin' that crate close, who has an urgency in his face and an apology in his eyes, his lips movin' with words Seiya can't quite parse. He takes a shaky breath, unsure of what the man is sayin' but giving a nod anyway, squeezin' Cyran's hand right back when the other one finds its way to wrap around one of his. There's a desperation to that, too, the way he holds onto him, and Seiya can't say anything about it now, but he can hold onto him right back, be his anchor in this strange and hellish storm.

He'll stay his anchor, still, as they stumble away from that abandoned teahouse, leavin' bodies and blood behind beneath the light of the pale moon. He's got questions, sure, plenty of 'em, but it ain't his place to ask them right now-- not like he could, either.

Right now, all that matters is gettin' out with their prize and their lives, and leaving their enemies behind in dust, blood, and moonlight.