The eve of Winter’s Crown had dawned, and Marlow Fenastra was in a rage.

“What do you mean they escaped? I thought you had the place surrounded!”

“... Not sure.” Goddard Markov was not a man who was easily intimidated, much less by the likes of the little elven princess in front of him pitching a bitch fit. Who the hell cared about a couple of crates of wine? All nobles were the same, just trying to protect their own asses for the sake of coin. He didn’t give a damn about their petty squabbles, but what he did care about was getting paid. And if the little Fenastra heiress, queen of a crumbling empire, wanted some godsdamned elf and some demon bastard dead at her feet, then he’d bring her their heads, as long as she was payin’.

And oh, she was paying them handsomely.

So no, Goddard didn’t really care that she was a madwoman on a mission. He’d be the executioner that dragged the Red Rogue and his traitorous accomplice to the pyre if Marlow wished. He just hadn’t been expectin’ them to actually be able to put up a fight.

Marlow paced in front of him, anguish apparent on her face before she forced herself to calm once more. He was pretty sure that whatever she feared - whatever had her in this state - had nothing to really do with the thieves at all. They were nothing more than dirt under his boot, ants who’d gotten a little bit lucky in buying themselves time.

“... No. The Red Rogue has proven himself a slippery bastard. He somehow managed to secure himself a guard dog… though I still have no idea how he got Seiya under his thumb.” She grimaced, biting her nail, some subconscious habit she hadn’t even seemed to notice. “But that doesn’t matter. This all ends tonight, you understand me? Madam Seriko has offered her own men to take care of this problem, as well. Tonight, I want you to lead an assault on the city and find those rats. Leave no stone unturned. I want them brought to me, and I want them to pay.”

Goddard huffed out a laugh, one that made Marlow turn and glare at him, sharp silver eyes hauntingly familiar… he just couldn’t place where he’d seen ‘em before.

It was on the tip of his tongue.

“And what, may I ask, is so funny?”

Goddard crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you know I don’t intend on double crossin’ ya just like your first guy?”

“Oh, please.” Marlow scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “I don’t expect you to actually believe in any of that altruistic bullcrap. I’m guessing the Red Rogue must have roped Seiya into his cause by feeding him some line about how they’re actually doing some good in the world. Stealing from the rich and giving to the needy. But you and I both know that telling yourself that is a fool’s errand… validation disguised as altruism. The Rogue might have pulled the wool over his eyes, but I know you’re smarter than that.”

Then, under her voice, quieter - “I should have known better than to trust him.”

“Suppose that’ll teach you better than to know a demon could keep his word.” Goddard flashed her a grin- his teeth, crooked and yellow. Combined with a nasty, jagged scar that marred the right side of his face, his mug made for a hell of a sight. His looks might’ve been nasty, but it was obvious he’d seen his fair share of battles. You didn’t make a killing as a sellsword around the Crescent Isles without encountering the Yokai, and he knew all about their nasty tricks. This Seiya kid was just another apple with a rotten core, same as all the rest.

He’d killed plenty of demons before.

This one would be no different.

Marlow’s brows furrowed for a moment - barely a second. Uncertainty crept into her core, doubt dousing the righteous, desperate fire that burned in her soul. She wasn’t even sure what compelled her to say what came out of her mouth next, and the second she said it, she wished she could take it back. “I don’t think him being a yokai rightfully matters, does it?”

Goddard let out another laugh, harsher than the first. “Trust me, Fenastra. Spend a little more time in the Isles and you’ll learn exactly why it matters.”

“I… of course.” She smoothed out her skirts once more, a nervous habit she’d never been able to quite train herself out of like the rest. She felt quite silly for such a thing, defending her enemy. And yet, for some reason, Goddard’s hatred didn’t sit with her quite right. If she were being honest, the mercenary’s intensity scared her a little. He was one of Madam Seriko’s best men, and she knew he could get the job done. That’s what she had wanted, in order to fix her own mistakes. But she could not help but wonder how far the sellsword was willing to take things.

… No. That didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Grandfather had taught her to accomplish the goal, no matter what means necessary. Softness and kindness were sentiments her fool of a father had held, and his own weaknesses had gotten him killed. That’s what she’d been told. So she would do whatever she could. Goddard was crazy, but where Seiya had failed her, she had faith Goddard would succeed.

“Trust me, Fenastra.” Goddard said. “You’ll get your thief, and his little guard dog too. My Winter’s Crown gift to you.”

That clever bit of magic had allowed them to give him the slip, but they wouldn’t be able to run for long. Now, it was personal. The Rogue had killed some of his men. An eye for an eye, so they said.

He turned, giving the signal to his men that they would be setting out. The sun was already beginning to dip low in the sky, dark clouds beginning to gather, threatening to rain down sleet and snow.

The perfect weather for a manhunt.

---

It was the eve of Winter’s Crown, and Cyran was trying his best not to panic.

Despite the warm weather that the Crescent Isles normally enjoyed, it had grown cold enough that snow had begun to fall around them in a light dusting a couple of hours ago. The cold was beginning to slow them down, as if their injuries hadn’t already. They were exhausted, running low on energy, and they needed somewhere to rest. Somewhere safe.

He couldn’t get in contact with his employer. Ever since he and Seiya had left the hideout a couple of days ago, it had been swarming with mercenaries, all waiting to see if Cyran was foolish enough to attempt a return. There was no way in hell he could go back to that tea shop. He needed to get Seiya somewhere that they could hunker down and wait out the storm that Madam Seriko threatened to send after them.

The walls were closing in, and Cyran wasn’t sure what to do.

At least whatever fog he’d accidentally caused Seiya had begun to clear up. Cyran still wasn’t sure what kind of magic he’d used, but at least it wasn’t permanent. He didn’t think he could live with himself if it had been. But the injuries that the mercenaries had caused him were still a present reminder, one Cyran couldn’t bring himself to look at.

Eventually, they’d reached an alley between a couple of streets. They’d taken refuge in Starlight City for the time being until Cyran could figure out what to do, always moving, never staying in one place for long. One would think that being a tracker himself would make Cyran adept at hiding, but he couldn’t hide the both of them forever. And they were both beginning to slow, the constant vigilance taking a toll on them.

A sigh escaped his lips, accompanied by a puff of cold air.

He turned to Seiya, who was currently slumped against a wall behind a trash can in an attempt to hide. It was difficult for someone of his stature to hide, but they’d stuck to the shadows of the night, while hiding in the daylight. But with the sun setting, they’d need to move again soon.

He turned, and crouched until he and Seiya were sitting together again. With one hand, he reached for the silver chain around his neck, tucked protectively under the safety of his jacket. A gift that had been given to him by Cirice, on a cold evening not unlike this one. Its healing enchantment only contained enough liquid for one, but it would have to be enough for now. He’d suffered worse.

“Here.” He offered, tone gentle, but with little room for argument as he uncorked the bauble and offered the liquid inside to Seiya.^[1] He waited until Seiya drank - the contents inside did not taste pleasant, but they would do the job and close up the nasty knife wounds he’d accrued from their last battle. Once he was certain Seiya was healed, Cyran slumped, returning the empty necklace back around his neck, tucked under his jacket where no harm would come to it. Tired eyes flicked towards the crate, the job that had gotten them into this whole mess.

“... I was supposed to distribute this to the merchants tonight.” He mused. The haul he’d managed to get was pitiful, but the goods were expensive, and probably enough to still feed those families for a long time. They would be waiting for him at the drop off point all the way on the other side of the city. “There’s no need for you to get yourself tangled in this any more than you already are.”

That had been the entire reason Cyran had reached out to him in the first place, to keep him from getting involved. And yet, things seemed to have snowballed into this mess… Cyran could handle being hunted, but he couldn’t do that to Seiya. He needed to find the kid somewhere safe, so he could return to his mother. It was the least he could do for inadvertently dragging Seiya further into this squabble.

Cyran stood once more, aware of the ache in his bones and the drag of his injuries. He held a hand out to the younger man in an attempt to help him up. “Let’s find a hiding place for you to sit and wait all of this out. I need to finish what I started, and you need to get back to your mother.” Despite his calm tone, there was still worry in his eyes, flicking towards the outer streets every so often.

All was quiet, but he was under no illusion it would stay that way for long.

---

1. Essence of the North

There's never been a time in Seiya's life where he's been on the run. Not really.

He's gotten into all kinds of weird bits of trouble before, yea-- he'd punched some wicked village kid square in the jaw when he'd been real young, once, all because the little bastard made a foul comment about his mama, as if he knew a single damn thing about her, and the kid's parents had raised hell, but he'd faced down their shoutin' with stone-cold eyes. He's fought monsters at too young of an age and run from 'em, come runnin' into his mother's arms after tryin' to strike down things he was too small to understand, but even then he'd just promised to himself that he wasn't runnin' for good. He's followed blue lanterns and had sake in the woods with strange yokai, followed voices he shouldn't've, gotten into all kinds of trouble he'd've been better off avoidin', and still, it's never followed him far.

Not this way, where it seems to hunt him and Cyran like it's gotten their bloodscent, chasin' after any trace of 'em it can find until it leads it straight to 'em. Seiya's always been a bit more on the easygoin' side, takin' every bit of trouble he'd get himself into with a smile, but this doesn't feel like the kind of thing he can smile over all too easily. Nah, it's easy enough to shrug off his own worries with an easy grin, but it ain't so when someone else gets tangled up in it.

The walls of the buildin' at his back are cold, the chill of stone stingin' his skin as he leans back against it, but he can't really bring himself to care much for it right now. No, right now, all he can really think about is how tired he feels and how tired Cyran looks, how tired they both are after all this runnin'. They've run themselves ragged after a fight like that, and tryin' to keep movin', tryin' to stay out of sight, tryin' to keep as much distance between themselves and the wrath of people far more powerful than the both of 'em is startin' to weigh on them both.

As Cyran sits at his side, Seiya's quick to lean against him, just so-- not enough that Cyran would have to support him in any way, but just enough so Cyran can feel he ain't alone, can feel the fact that he's got someone by his side out here in this cold and lonely alley. But then he's shovin' some fancy-lookin' little vial in his hands, insistin' that he drink the contents, and--

"Really?" Seiya asks, givin' him a dubious look, one that gets answered with the kind of stern expression his mama used to get when she knew he was lyin' about the origin of a scrape or a scratch, and Seiya just sighs and downs the contents without argument, wincing at the bitter taste on his tongue. "Ugh. The hell?"

He's about to ask what kind of weird medicine that was when he feels the dull ache of his wounds ebb away like the tide, fading slow and easy, and he pauses, starin' at the way his injuries patch themselves back up like they were never there at all. It takes a second before he shoots Cyran a look, one of disapproval, a quiet kind of anger stirrin' within him over the fact that Cyran had somethin' like this and then saved it all for him only.

"...why didn't you use it for yourself?" he sighs. Gods above, Cyran really is just unfairly wonderful, ain't he? "...thanks, though. I... thanks."

Seiya falls silent, then, for just a little bit, his eyes nearly slidin' shut because of how tired he's startin' to feel, but that's when Cyran calls his attention back to the wine crate, talkin' about goin' out and finishin' what he started while Seiya finds someplace safe--

Oh, hell no.

"...You don't really think I'm lettin' you do this alone, do ya?" Seiya asks incredulously, his gaze sharp as he turns to face Cyran. "I ain't waitin' anythin' out. Wherever you're goin', I'm comin' with. No argument."

He did not miss Seiya’s own anger as the young man realized exactly what Cyran had done, anger simmering on the surface as the wounds he’d accrued from the last fights stitched themselves together, magic weaving skin and bone until he was restored back to fighting form. He could be mad at Cyran all he wanted - so long as he was still awake and alive to do so. “I am fine.” His tone was firm, dismissive. His own wounds still burned, the last vestiges of parasite poison still lingering in his arm, but in the moment, that felt rather irrelevant. “Besides, my injuries will heal soon enough.”

To make his point, Cyran twisted his wrist, where blood was still caked on his arm from the nasty work the mercenaries had managed to do to it. Dark magic stirred as the blood began to move of its own accord, coalescing into the form of a wicked, curved scimitar.^[1] Cyran grimaced, face covered in sweat. The effort of using so much magic over the last few days was beginning to take its toll on him. Made him feel… unmoored, even on solid ground. The sensation was not a particularly pleasant one.

But it would service just fine.

He spun the sword in his hand, barely managing to conceal the momentary pain that the action caused him. The scimitar was one he rarely used, save dire situations like this, when simple daggers would not be enough.

“Don’t you worry about me.” He wasn’t sure the assurances would do anything to assuage Seiya’s concerns, but they would have to do for now. They didn’t have time to argue. “I’m no healer, but I have not made it on my own thus far without some tricks up my sleeve.”

The scimitar was tucked safely away on his belt as Cyran prepared himself for the grim task of setting off through Starlight City on his own, when Seiya stopped him, stubbornness set in his jaw and eyes blazing, as if daring Cyran to push him away after everything that happened. Cyran met his gaze with equal intensity of his own, steely silver meeting vibrant lavender as neither man backed down. Really, Cyran should have expected this. Seiya approached life with the very same stubborn fierceness to drive him through walls despite Cyran’s best attempts to keep him away, to throw himself into every battle he came across with the desire to grow stronger, that Cyran feared would keep him going until he could no longer sustain himself.

Cyran’s lips twisted into a wry smile. Gods, he was so tired.

“You never go down without a fight, do you?” He huffed, resolve finally crumbling away to ash. “Very well, Seiya. Then we shall finish this how we started." Together - but this time, as allies rather than enemies.

“I only ask one thing.”

He reached out and grabbed Seiya’s hand in both of his own, feeling the younger man’s callouses and scars, before squeezing it tightly, another small moment of weakness. Not only convincing Seiya that everything would be okay - he could hardly make such a promise when he was unsure of the answer himself - but reminding himself that Seiya was here and had not been harmed by the mercenaries, that he was still flesh and bone and not stardust and blood. He closed his eyes, lips pursed together before meeting Seiya’s gaze once more, this time, resolve having ebbed away into worry.

“If anything happens, I want you to promise me that you’ll listen to me when I tell you to do something. No questions asked. If that order is to retreat, you turn tail and run like hell. You got that?” There was a lingering sharpness in his tone, not born out of anger, but out of fear.

There was little that the Specter was scared of, but losing his kids, or watching any harm come to them, was on the top of that list.

He would not budge from this spot until he got Seiya’s confirmation, no matter begrudgingly given. Only then would Cyran relax and move to pick up the crate of wine, tapping his boots together to trigger the hidden mechanism and call out the concealed knives under the soles.^[2] It would at least give him a little more speed… and serve as a weapon in a pinch. Lunala willing it would not come to that.

The sun was beginning to set. Dark clouds settled over Starlight City, the light snowfall providing a small bit of cover, at least. Seiya was not especially stealthy, but with any luck, they could stick to the shadows and make their way to the drop point on the other side of the city.

“It’s almost over.” He promised Seiya, voice low. “Just hold on a little while longer.”

The two set off down the street, unaware of the manhunt that was already combing the streets in search of the Red Rogue.

And Goddard had brought along some dogs of his own.

Wouldn’t be long, now.

---

1. Crimson Armaments
2. Ice Skates

There ain't any point to tryin' to hide the concern that flashes across Seiya's face at the way Cyran grimaces, expression split in discomfort as the blood still clingin' to his arm starts stirrin' to life like it's gotten a mind of its own, crawlin' down Cyran's arm, twistin' and solidifying into the shape of a weapon forged from scarlet steel. He blinks as he watches the way the other man handles the eldritch weapon spun from his own blood, watches the way exhaustion flashes in those silvery eyes for a moment before fleeing out of sight like a rabbit who's heard a hawk's harrowing death-song, watches sweat drip down that paradoxically old and young face, and...

And yet he's still actin' like it's all gonna be alright. Like he ain't one or two bad strikes away from collapsing on the stone paths of Starlight City, like Seiya was somehow any more deserving of his fancy little magic cure-all, like he's strong enough as he is to walk through fire for his mission and escape the flames unscathed.

Not one bit of it makes sense.

"I don't care if they're gonna heal in five minutes or five days, I'm still gonna worry," he says with a huff, but he doesn't argue any further. There ain't any point in complainin' about somethin' he can't change; it'd be a waste of time and breath at this point. "...still. I guess you're right. It ain't like you're the incapable type or anythin', I just... yea."

Seiya trails off in the midst of his own words, anything and everything he could string together suddenly failing him; it's one of those rare and impossible moments where he in all his tall and musclebound glory feels small, feels fragile and foolish, feels like the weak little wide-eyed kid he used to be all those years past. Cyran is older and wiser and so, so willin' to place his safety on the line, to walk through hell with someone else on his shoulders just to spare 'em the sting of the brimstone, and Seiya can't help the way the urge to try and help him right back rears its head, even if it feels pretty damn impossible to be able to do anythin' like that for him.

And yet, Cyran takes Seiya's hand in his own, his fingers gentle as they smooth over his scar-split skin, and... and then he's layin' forth his one condition, askin' Seiya to do somethin' as crazy and impossible as turnin' tail and runnin' if things get bad, and...

And that just ain't possible.

"...I. You want me to promise you I'll abandon you if it comes down to it?" he says slowly, disbelief sewn into his tone as deftly as the stitches of his mother's handiwork. He narrows his eyes, rose flashing within violet as he looks Cyran up and down, his mind already runnin' wild with thoughts of Cyran's children, of those faceless strangers he spoke of like he'd kill and die for 'em. "...I can't promise you that. I can promise that I'll listen to ya, but... don't make me promise to do somethin' like that. It goes against all I am."

He rises to his feet properly, shakily, tension flooding through his weary shoulders as he moves.

"Count on me to... to be able to get us both out. How about that?"

Somehow, Seiya manages a weak smile as they approach the edge of the alley, hopin' Cyran finds some reassurance in the light of his smile as they traverse the shadows of the winter-kissed city. He ain't sure of how this is all gonna go, ain't sure of if this is gonna be smooth or not, but...

All he's ever had is hope.

Seiya so adamantly expressing his worry was a strange thing. Cyran had friends and acquaintances, a growing list of people who cared about him, and whom he cherished in turn. Concern for his well-being was no longer a rarity like it once was, but he still didn’t know how to accept it. The part of him that wanted to rely on others was a broken, damaged thing, one that felt utterly undeserving of the gift of Seiya’s energy and worry. “I appreciate your concern. Truly, I do…” He paused, struggling to find the proper words to express that he merely didn’t want Seiya to waste his own energy with what-ifs on the man that put him in danger in the first place. They did not want to come.

So instead he asked Seiya to make him a promise. One the younger man rebuked as vehemently as he had Cyran’s insistence that he run should they get overwhelmed. Cyran suppressed his frustration - Seiya’s fire was an admirable quality, but they didn’t have time to draw this argument out, linger in their fear of seeing the other harmed. “I’m not asking you to leave me. I can take care of myself when I’m on my own.” He was the shadow’s favored child, he’d learned. They would not relinquish their grip on him so readily. Their presence was a comfort and a graveyard all at once, but it was a place where Cyran fit. Loathe as he was to draw upon these powers more, it was what Cyran did best, and there was no changing the course now that it had been set.

“I could never ask you to abandon your morals.” He whispered, voice firm. “I know my strengths, and I know yours. I can take care of myself. I can’t take care of us both. I’m asking you to trust my tactics, and listen to them, even when I don’t have time to explain what I’m doing. I have no intention of sacrificing myself, and I won’t let you do so either. Tonight, we have a part to play.”

They were the Red Rogues, and they had a mission to carry out.

Cyran’s professional nature when he was focused on the task at hand was already beginning to settle in - his posture was rigid, jaw set and eyes sharp as he scanned the area. He could sense the shadows closest to them, feel the darkest pathways that might grant them the most natural coverage. He led Seiya as best as he could, down winding street paths, keeping a hold on the shipment. Tension carried them through the streets, the light smattering of snowfall making it difficult to conceal the path they were taking. Nevertheless, the back alleys were silent, agonizingly so, making this path feel more like a walk to the gallows. Every shift in the shade, or the sounds of people moving around in their homes, left Cyran on edge.

But the city could not stay still forever.

They came upon a well-lit street at the end of the alley. Cyran paused, holding out a hand to stop Seiya from venturing out blindly. “Wait.” Something felt wrong here. As the two stood, the sound of distant footsteps grew louder, somewhere around the corner - he couldn’t crane his neck around to look. But they didn’t have to wait in suspense for long. Three men, armed to the teeth with weapons strapped to their back, came into view. Their pace was languid, unhurried, before they came to a stop under a nearby street lamp, whispering to one another. Cyran strained, listening in on their conversation, but it wasn’t difficult to guess what they were here for… or what they were speaking about.

“Shit. They don’t look like they’re going anywhere soon.” They could try to sneak past, but… he glanced at Seiya. They didn’t have time to wait out these mercenaries. Confrontation might be their only option.

For a moment, only a moment, Seiya's expression becomes unfathomably difficult to read.

He's never been the stoic type-- there may as well be a pane of glass sittin' over his ribs, showin' off the way his heart beats to anyone who'll look, every emotion that sparks to life within him vibrant and violent and volatile, felt in its highest form. And yet, there's somethin' illegible in his eyes, now, swirls of rose and violet stagnant with some indistinct emotion, lips drawn into a thin line, jaw set tightly as he searches for the right thing to say, as he glances between the frost-kissed cobblestones of the street beyond the alley and the certainty shining in those silver eyes. He's known Cyran for all of a day, gone from brawlin' with him to brawlin' beside him, and now Death is chasin' after their bloodscent and all they have in this moment is each other, and all Seiya can do is trust his word.

Silence hangs in the air between 'em both for a moment longer than it should, tense, wired tight with worry, but ultimately, all Seiya can do is nod, that silent stress slippin' away in one slow and steady rush.

"Alright," he says, voice just a little bit strained as the words leave his lips, a quiet echo of stress shining low in those vibrant eyes. "Alright-- I'm trustin' your word there, y'know, Cyran. I doubt I'll regret it, either, but... still... be as careful as ya can be, okay?"

It's a rare thing, really, for Seiya to toss his trust at the feet of another so readily. He ain't keen on bein' wary, ain't fond of jumpin' to the worst possible conclusion about the people he meets-- nah, he'd rather greet others with compassion and give 'em a chance to show the kind of person they are, but it ain't like he'd throw his life into the palms of just anyone. Fire learned to burn him long before he ever learned how to put it out, and he won't risk throwin' himself on a pyre when he can't be sure how high the flames will rise. But Cyran's warmth ain't the kind that lingers at the edge of hellfire, and... and Seiya's pretty sure he can trust in his word.

And so he follows, trails along behind Cyran as quietly as a man like him can manage-- he can't make himself seem small, can't hide who or what he is, can't tuck himself into the shadows of the buildings the way Cyran can, but he does his best to stay silent all the same, his footfalls carefully contemplated, each one made with a kind of precision he's never had before. With the way Cyran moves, flinchin' at every odd sound and shying away from the touch of the light, Seiya knows he's made a good choice in at least tryin' to bother with some stealth.

And yet, inevitably, stealth can't carry 'em too far-- not when suddenly Cyran's throwin' his hand out in front of him to stop him from movin' forward, urgency undercutting his tone, silvery gaze drawn to a small group of three men, their weapons glinting in the dim streetlight. They've each got the build of a mercenary and all the arsenal of one, too, and if it looks like a tengu and squawks like a tengu, then...

Looks like they've run into some of the very men huntin' 'em down.

Joy.

Seiya can't help but grimace at Cyran's words, his brow furrowin' at the inevitability it presents-- if these guys want to stick around and patrol this area, then... well, looks like their only option is to fight their way through. He ain't keen on the idea of startin' a fight in a place like Starlight City, but it's not lookin' like they've got options.

"...if we've gotta fight, we can at least try and handle it quietly," he murmurs, cracking his knuckles, stardust simmering in his pulse once again. "I... y'know what? Stick back here-- just for a minute. I can at least try an' keep their eyes off you so you can, uh... handle 'em quietly."

Seiya lets the implication hang heavy in the air as he takes a few steps forward, letting the lamplight wash over him as he makes his way out of the shadows of the alley, gaze fixed steadily on the cluster of men before him. As soon as their eyes snap to him, a light kindles in their eyes, low and predatory, the faces of men who think they've won before the battle's even started. One of 'em draws their sword, twirlin' it in hand as they look him up and down, comfortable in the odds of three men against one.

Good.

"Hey," he says with a chuckle. "Lookin' for someone?"

Seiya was giving his best attempt at stealth, Cyran knew. It was difficult for a man of Seiya’s stature to conceal his presence, but Cyran could see the young man out of the corner of his eye mimicking his footfalls and movement through the shade. Something like soft pride blossomed in Cyran’s heart. It was a silly thing to be happy about, amongst the fear and the fatigue and the uncertainty, but watching Seiya give it his all, a young man that he had only known for a brief amount of time, following in his footsteps - quite literally - gave him a small amount of joy.

That feeling was short lived.

The mercenaries on the other side of the street posed a problem. Cyran was not foolish enough to believe they could avoid combat entirely, but he had been… hopeful, perhaps. That maybe they would be granted one small Winter’s Crown miracle and get to the drop point without any conflict. He glanced at Seiya, who’s brow was pinched with concern, popping his knuckles in preparation for the fight, whispering something about giving a distraction while Cyran conducted his business…

Oh.

Cyran could hear the reticence in his voice at the words, as if the implication itself made him uncomfortable - something he knew was a necessary evil, but didn’t want to witness. For all his unmovable strength, it was easy to forget there was a soft young man, still so inexperienced in the ways of the world, under that exterior. Cyran remembered bodies left in the wake of Seiya’s brawl back at the tea house - unconscious, chest’s still stirring with the telltale rise and fall that meant they were still breathing. Taking a life was easy for Cyran. Uncomfortably so. But he could forget that it was not the same for others.

Cyran nodded, pressing his hand on Seiya’s shoulder for a brief moment.

“Okay.”

He worried his lower lip with his teeth as Seiya walked out into the open street with a devil-may-care attitude, as if no man could harm him with their puny weapons. There was a casualness to his movements, as if he’d been in this situation many times before. Staring down multiple opponents with nothing but his fists to carry him through. Cyran had to wonder how many scars on his body had been rendered by human hands rather than monsters.

He could muse later, once this was all said and done. For now, he had to make good use of the opportunity that Seiya had provided him. With all eyes on the bright star, it was all too easy to miss the void left in its wake, the endless, ever-present darkness that carved up the night sky.

“You got a lotta nerve showing your face like this.” One of the mercenaries spat. “What, no Rogue with you? Did he leave you behind when he realized you were no longer useful?” There was a cruel, mocking quality to his tone, though his eyes flitted expectantly around the street, as if expecting the sneaky rogue to make an appearance any second. He caught no sight of Cyran, still concealed in the shade of the alley, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“What, you come running back to us with your tail tucked between your legs?” One of the other mercenaries scoffed. “You think the little lady will take you back if you beg? That ship has long since sailed. She’s pissed as all hell. Won’t stop ‘till she has you and the Rogue at her feet.”

Provocations that were met with Seiya’s unwavering stare. Not backing down, even now. The three shared a look, shrugging while they drew their weapons. “May as well have a little bit of fun. Goddard will be here soon, and once he arrives, it’s all over for you.”

One of the men took a step forward.

That was Cyran’s cue.

He stepped into the shadows - his domain- and allowed himself to be enveloped in their cold embrace. There was a dangerous moment, one where he was suspended between the physical and immaterial worlds, where Cyran thought he might be pulled apart if he stayed for too long. But here, he could sense all the darkness around him - shadows playing from street lamps, the darkness that cling to Seiya… they reached out to him. Called to him. But there was one shadow in particular he was interested in, one belonging to the mercenary currently pointing his sword at Seiya.

There.

Cyran took a step into the darkness and manifested out of the mercenary’s shadow.^[1]

With a quick movement, he plunged Cold Steel into the small of the man’s back.^[2,3] Quick, hopefully painless - and even more important, delivering a quick blow that would render the man unable to fight, while not killing him in front of Seiya. He would respect the man’s morals during this fight.

The two had already pointed their weapons at Cyran before the first mercenary dropped to the ground, no longer able to use his legs.

Cyran turned to stare at them, face blank.

“If you value your lives you’d drop your weapons now.” He uttered, tone as empty as his expression. “Leave this all behind. It doesn’t have to get messy.” The warning was implicit in his words - leave me and mine alone. No one would harm Seiya on his watch. As he stood in the middle of the road between Seiya and the mercenaries, he shifted his shoulder, allowing them to get a look at the sigil emblazoned on his cloak.

The mark of the Specter.^[4]

---

1. Shadow Walk
2. Back Stab
3. Ice Rune
4. Banner Lord

It's a funny thing, human confidence.

A place like Charon's host to all kinds of monsters and worse things, things designed to destroy and kill and rain hell down on whatever poor sap's unlucky enough to cross paths with it. And yet, as far as he's seen, there's always gonna be some fool ready and willin' to go chasin' after those sorts of things, even if magic doesn't sing in their veins or if they're bound by their mortality-- heh, not like Seiya can talk, really, considering how he'll go chasin' after any monster he can lay his eyes on. But it's a little different when you're just an ordinary human, armed with nothin' more than steel and willpower-- it's a little different when you don't respect your opponent the way they deserve.

Respect is the furthest thing on the minds of these men, now-- Seiya knows it well. And yet, they're confident in their numbers, borderin' on cocky-- they ain't takin' the time to stop and think and question why he's on his own, and that's their first mistake.

"Heh, it's funny that ya think I'm lookin' to come back," he chuckles, barely restrainin' a sneer as he stares the mercs down, eyes sharp and stern as they lock on to each one of 'em, tryin' to gauge their strength. "I've never begged a human for a damn thing in my life, and I ain't plannin' on startin' now."

And really, he hasn't-- what's the point in beggin' when they ain't gonna listen anyway? What's the point in tryin' to persuade when they've already made their mind up that they're dealin' with a monster? What's the point in lowerin' himself just to appease someone else, in kneelin' at their feet and pawing at scraps of mercy and faux compassion, in chasin' after approval from people who ain't ever gonna give it? Seiya's never begged for a damn thing from a human, not for attention, not for mercy, nothin'.

That ain't changin'.

It never will.

He cracks his knuckles as one of the men steps forward, murderous intent shining in his weathered eyes and steel shinin' below the lamplight, and Seiya's quick to match him, stepping forward just the same. Shadows swirl at his fingertips, that dark star's influence staining his skin and claws, and he shoots the man a smile full of sharp teeth as he watches him raise his blade--

And then Cyran slips out of the shadows, blade glinting as he digs it into the small of the merc's back, sendin' him falling to the ground in a pained heap.

Seiya takes a deep breath.

"That's on you for expectin' an easy win," he growls, careful to hide the tension in his shoulders as he, too, turns to face the mercs pointin' weapons Cyran's way. "How stupid do ya have to be to always guess the upper hand is yours?"

Still, whatever he says barely seems to hit either of the men still standin'-- their attention's locked onto Cyran, their eyes wide, their bodies stiff and frozen with what has to be fear. It's hard to tell what exactly has 'em scared like that-- maybe it's the shock of one of their own bein' taken out so easily? Hell, Seiya doesn't know-- ain't like he cares much, either. If they're startled, this is their chance to get the hell outta here and make for their real goal!

He reaches forward and claps a hand against Cyran's shoulder without warning, grabbin' onto it and pullin' the older man along as he starts racin' away, hellbent on puttin' space between the two of 'em and the stunned-still mercs before the sense gets knocked back into 'em-- bonus points if they manage to dodge runnin' into whoever the hell Goddard is for now. Seiya ain't fond of runnin' from a fight, but they've got a drop point to get to-- if he needs to split some skin, it's better to wait till their key deed's done.

"C'mon, old man," he shoots a grin Cyran's way as he drags him along through the snow-dusted streets of Starlight City, hardly fazed by the speed he's goin' at. "Let's get this mission done! We can go merc-huntin' if we need to later, yea?!"

Cyran was prepared to finish the job.

Cold hands held his daggers in a death grip, snow falling in rivulets that dusted his face - white flakes sticking to his hair, stars twinkling against the backdrop of the night sky. Even prepared to inflict death, he looked peaceful.

And then, through the fear, breaking the Specter’s visage, a hand rested on his shoulder, breaking him out of his reverie.

Seiya.

He was right. They could not afford to waste their time on these grunts, not when they were this close to making it to the drop. Cyran gave the young man a weak smile - the fatigue seemed to stretch his face, making the task difficult. “Yes, you are right. We are so close now…” And he could still hear the hounds in the distance. If they dallied, that would give the real threat a chance to catch up. Where Seiya was a stranger to tactical retreats, Cyran was far more familiar with them.

“I would very much prefer not to go on a hunt after this, if it’s all the same to you.” He said, a spark of humor in his voice. Yes, once this was all said and done, he would relish the opportunity to do nothing but rest for an entire week.

Neither wasted any time sprinting through the streets, the weather growing more turbulent around then. Cyran was breathless, still injured, and utterly exhausted, but in that moment, he felt free. There was no greater experience than that.

And then-

They reached the drop point.

It felt deceptively easy.

Cyran brought Seiya to a back alley behind a restaurant, where an empty, upside-down waste can sat. Cyran gestured for Seiya to watch his back and look out for any mercenaries while he smoothly slid the crates underneath. The drop would be picked up soon by his employer, to be distributed to the people that needed it. It was pitifully little product, but even these few bottles would net hundreds of solars. An inconsequential amount to a business mogul, but money that would make all the difference to the common folk of Moonglade. He straightened, adrenaline fading from his body as he turned to Seiya.

It was over.

Mission complete.

He turned to Seiya, a smile on his face. “We shouldn’t waste much time around here in case there are any mercenaries around, but… thank you. Truly. For all of your help. You did not have to endanger yourself by defecting, and yet, I am grateful all the same. You have a good heart, Seiya. Never forget that.”

Seiya blinks, surprise flashing across his face at the gentle tone of Cyran’s words before a smile pulls at the corner of his lips.

“Hey, hey, no problem— ain’t like I had any kinda attachment to Marlow Fenestra anyway. Doesn’t matter how much money she’s throwin’ my way at the end of the day— I’d rather pick what’s right.”

And Cyran’s world.

shattered.

---

“Daddy, I’m cold.”

Cyran moved to wrap Marlow’s cloak tighter around her, rubbing his daughter’s arms encouragingly. It did little to stave away Salina’s frozen tears, but the hot cocoa he handed her afterwards did. “Be careful. Little sips, songbird. It’s hot.”

Marlow’s wide smile betrayed the dimples on her cheeks and the gap in her teeth where one had fallen out a few weeks before. Too excited to wait for the drink to cool, she took a long gulp, only to wince when she burnt her tongue. “Ow!”

Cyran patted her hair with a laugh. “That’s why you must exercise caution, poppet.”

She jutted her lower lip out, legs dangling off the bench where her legs couldn’t quite reach the ground. This late at night, in this district, Eclipse City was empty - most nobles had taken to the safety of their homes, enjoying lavish meals and warm dinners. On the other side of town, the Fenastra-Pavyre alliance were settling down for a dinner of their own, a dinner conspicuously absent of the patriarch’s son and granddaughter. But Cyran found he didn’t care. They could consider his actions as improper as they wanted.

“What are we doing outside?” Marlow asked, beaming up at Cyran with curiosity brimming in her eyes. She was at that stage where she had far too many questions, far too much curiosity. “If I’m not in bed then the Rogue won’t bring me presents.”

“Oh, I’m sure the Rogue knows right where to find you.” Cyran scooped her up and placed her in his lap, allowing her a better look at the sky. “Have you been a good girl this year?”

“Uh-huh! The best!”

Cyran pinched her cheek and she let out a squeal of delight. “Then I’m sure the rogue will bring every single gift on your list.”

“Really?” Marlow bounced in his lap, elbowing him in the stomach in her excitement. Cyran let out a soft grunt.

“Yes, really.” He wheezed. “… But I brought you out here for something even more special. I’m going to let you in on a secret.” He leaned into her ear and whispered, “If you stay outside late enough, and wait for everyone to go inside, you can catch a glimpse of the Red Rogue’s sleigh.”

Stars sparkled in Marlow’s eyes. “Really, Daddy? Will we? Is his sleigh really pulled by reindeer? Does he really steal from evil people to give gifts to good kids?”

“It’s true.” Cyran said with a wink. “I’ve seen his reindeers with my own eyes.”

“Well, duh, of course you’ve seen them, daddy! You’re old. You’ve seen everything.”

“Ouch.”

“But what do they look like? Do their noses really glow red? Do they have big horns and-“

“Focus on the sky or you’ll miss it, poppet.” He nudged her in the shoulder, directing their attention to the air. The two kept their eyes peeled for the telltale streak of the flying streak in the air, the flash of red cutting through the snow.

And when he saw the look of joy on her face when she spotted the sleigh dashing through the air - Cyran couldn’t resist making a wish of his own. He squeezed Marlow tight, smiling right alongside her.

May this Winter’s Crown - and every other afterwards - be peaceful and joyous for her. May she always be safe and happy and gifted with everything she deserves.

He would do anything he could to give her that.

---

A promise Cyran had made years ago.

And one he had broken today.

Perhaps Seiya spoke, maybe he didn’t. Cyran couldn’t hear anything save the rushing of his heartbeat in his ears. Marlow was here. In the city. She was alive, and well, and… Cyran had just stolen from her.

Winter’s Crown was over. Their mission was complete. And yet, any feelings of victory had dissolved into ash, leaving Cyran feeling hollow, guilty, and utterly alone. He clutched Seiya’s arm, unable to stand by himself for fear he would fall and unravel completely. That he would take one step and dissolve into shadow.

He would deserve that.

Cyran looked up at Seiya, eyes wide and unsure. His face was as white as a sheet. There were a million questions he wanted to ask. How did she look? What does she like now? Was she okay? Did she say anything about me? Does she look like she’s eating well?

There was only one thing he could bring himself to say.

“What have I done…?”

It’s real easy to see just how tired Cyran is.

They ain’t known each other all that long, but Seiya knows weariness when he sees it, and even though Cyran’s smilin’ at him, he can see the tightness in the corners of his lips, the strain workin’ its way through his whole face even as he fights to maintain some kinda cool and easy composure. Even his voice sounds tired, despite the little thread of humor woven through it– despite the fibers of joy shinin’ through, most of the tapestry is sewn together by exhaustion alone.

Well. The end’s in sight, now– they ain’t got too long to go. All they’ve gotta do is get the hell out of dodge, keep the damned mercs off their trail, and make it to the drop point without losin’ their package. Easy. They’ve come this far after so much, after fightin’ each other and fightin’ some of the most cutthroat bastards Fenestra could throw their way, and while Seiya ain’t sure what kinda hell Cyran’s been through before, he’s sure it’s probably a lot harsher than some merc hunt and package run– and Seiya… well, Seiya’s marched his way through hell and demanded a fight with the devil at the end of the road. The two of ‘em can do this. They’ve gotta do this.

“Yea? A hunt sounds a bit much, come to think of it,” he laughs, clapping Cyran lightly on the shoulder, careful to mind his strength. “Think a good nap’s more my speed after all this, eh?”

He doesn’t waste any time waitin’ for a response as they start off through the streets– he ain’t too familiar with stealthier pathing, so he follows behind Cyran most of the way, keeping out of both lamp and moonlight as they sprint forward, not stoppin’ once for a breath or a break, not botherin’ to glance back to see who might be chasin’ ‘em. As far as Seiya can tell, they ain’t got anybody on their asses– he doesn’t hear any footsteps or smell the blood off the one guy Cyran had gotten with his knife, so it seems they’re in the clear.

Hell, he hopes they’re in the clear.

He rides that high of hope for the entire duration of their run, all the way to the back alleyway Cyran leads him into– it’s easy to ignore any burnin’ in his bones and muscles when hope and adrenaline are soothin’ him, assurin’ him that they’ve almost made it, that this is it. And as soon as Cyran slides the crate underneath the wastebasket and turns toward him, relief painted all over his face, Seiya has to bite back the urge to let out an uproarious laugh.

They’ve done it– they’ve actually done it.

It’s been a wild couple’a nights– he’d gone from tryin’ to fight the man standin’ in front of him to fightin’ to keep him safe, workin’ alongside him to do what the both of ‘em could for the people of Moonglade, even if it meant they’d be hunted by the pawns of some woman with a freakish amount of power and money. He may not be walkin’ out of this with Marlow Fenestra’s coin weighin’ down his pockets, but oh, his heart is singin’, and it is singin’ loud.

It… is sort of a weird feelin’, really, to do somethin’ like this– humans ain’t ever really treated Seiya all that well. He’s used to being seen as a monster or a brute or a fool or even all of the above– he’s used to people hating him before they know his name, to being seen as the spittin’ image of his father before he’s allowed to prove them wrong. It’d be a lie to say Seiya didn’t hate humanity right back for it, at least a little bit; he remembers bein’ pushed around and ridiculed and havin’ things thrown at him when he was still too little to understand why humanity would hate a child for havin’ a demon’s blood in his veins.

But at the same time, he remembers runnin’ home into his human mama’s arms– remembers the softness of her indigo eyes, the gentility of her hands as she brushed tears from his face, the sweetness of her voice as she told him he was good, truly good, even if people were only ever cruel. He remembers how she remained kind, how much she loved and loves him still despite the trouble and pain he’s brought her, despite all the things he’s done, all the ways he’s proven to be the monster those kids once said he was, and…

And, well. Maybe this is kinda like payin’ her back a little bit. Doin’ somethin’ for those humans with nothin’ who are just like her– and, maybe, he can just… trust her word from all that time back that not all humans are so cruel.

Warmth floods his heart with the memory of his mother, and it only overflows as Cyran tells him he has a good heart, that he shouldn’t forget that–

and then in the next moment, what Seiya has to say ruins it all.

Those dark eyes of Cyran’s get all wide, his ears unhearin’, his skin pale– no matter what Seiya does, for the next couple’a minutes, nothing seems to reach him, and Seiya ain’t sure why. He– He didn’t think he’d said anything wrong. Had he? Just what had it been, then?!

“Cyran? Cyran!”

Still nothin’-- Gods above, Seiya’s about to start freakin’ out himself–

and that’s when Cyran whispers, so softly, so fragilely: “What have I done?”

Shit.

Seiya ain’t any expert in helpin’ someone goin’ through somethin’ like this, but all he can think to do is drag Cyran out of this alley to get him out of the cold, to get him somewhere warm where he can work through whatever this is in peace. He still ain’t sure of what caused this, but he knows it’s his fault.

He owes Cyran for that, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to him.