Sylia, the Dark & Light Saint

The table fell into silence, thick and waiting—until the sound of the tavern door opening broke it.

They looked up as one.

Mathias Herves Dwarions entered without hesitation.

There was no dramatic pause, no glance toward them. He stepped inside already in motion, his steps quiet but unwavering across the polished floor. A soft Bordeaux coat—flawless in its stitching—brushed against his legs, its matching cape settling perfectly across his shoulders. His waistcoat, just a shade deeper, was pressed and neatly buttoned. Even his shoes gleamed. Every line of him spoke of wealth not wasted but controlled, not paraded but made precise.

His dark brown hair was combed with exactness. Not a strand out of place despite the rain and wind outside. He looked every bit the man the Gentry both whispered about and feared. Not Noble by name but by blood. Mathias Herves was bred better than most of them, and they knew it.

Only his eyes betrayed his unusual state.

Red-rimmed, heavy-lidded, and shadowed like someone who had spent the night before wide awake, staring at a ceiling—or something worse. They weren't dull. They were sharp, still alert. But worn.

Mathias Herves barely glanced their way, noted Juran. He knew at once his friend was not in control of that body. Not at the moment. But soon. He had promised him that much.

Instead of heading their way, Mathias approached the counter with familiar ease. The manager straightened the moment he saw him and gave him his best smile.

"Master Herves," he greeted warmly. "We are happy to have you tonight."

Mathias Herves nodded, saying nothing. A young woman behind the bar stepped forward as soon as she noticed him. She said something too low for Juran to catch.

Mathias leaned in and kissed her softly on the cheek. A natural gesture, not showy. As if it had been done a dozen times before.

The woman smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.

Only then did Mathias turn his head toward them—his expression unreadable.

He raised one hand and gave a simple gesture with the magical words before heading their way: Private room.

Juran stood immediately and shook his hand. Dio lingered on the other hand.

Mathias did not miss it and said as he stared down at a nervous Dio. "We are going to talk in the back room. It was cleared for us."

The look he gave Dio cut through the air like frost. Cold. Absolute. The kind of stare that did not require explanation because it had been earned long ago and never forgiven.

Dio followed, his jaw tight, his eyes lowered.

The group trailed after Mathias down the side hall. The tavern's corridor smelled of fresh polish and old wood, and the door at the end was already being opened for them.

The private room was quiet, clean, and lit by a single wall magical lamp. The long table bore no clutter. Five chairs had been arranged neatly, as if they'd been expected.

Mathias entered first.

He seated himself at the head of the table, his hands bracing against the wood, fingers tight around the chair's arms.

The same young woman returned a breath later with a bottle of wine, a berry wine carafe and Mathias' usual black bottle of old bourbon. Another waitress served him some stew then deposited smaller stew plates in front of the children. Mathias thanked the women and quickly ordered more food and drinks for all of them.

When the waitresses left, he let out a breath, one hand briefly lifting to rub his temple. His shoulders didn't slump, but they didn't hold the tension of performance anymore either. Just gravity.

"I haven't eaten almost all day. You should eat too children. Your mother always loved stew here," he said into the room—not for sympathy. Just to mark the truth aloud.

Juran did not speak.

Because for all his poise, all his polish, all the power he carried like breath—there was something in Mathias tonight that felt just slightly… off.

Only his eyes were strange though.

But sometimes, the eyes said more than the man ever would.

Mathias ate slowly, each motion precise yet unhurried. He didn't speak. He didn't rush. The warmth of the stew rose in soft curls of steam, and for a time, the only sounds were the quiet clink of his spoon against the side of the bowl and the faint creak of chairs settling beneath shifting weight.

Juran kept his gaze low, but he was watching.

The children—Seron and the girl—had not touched their plates.

It took a moment, but Mathias noticed. He paused, eyes flicking up to them.

"You should eat while it's hot," he said, his voice calm but direct. "It might take some time for them to prepare more food."

His spoon hovered over the bowl for a moment longer, then dipped back into it.

"It's venison stew. This is good for you. I heard your grandfather and uncle Jiro used to sell some of the meat they hunted. Your paternal family's always been into that."

The words were kind, but they weren't entirely casual either. There was a faint trace of something held in check—tension, or perhaps memory.

The children exchanged a glance, then both gave polite nods.

"Thank you," Seron said, and picked up his spoon.

The girl, though, shifted in her seat. She reached for her bowl, lifted it carefully, and turned to Dio beside her.

"You should have some," she said, offering the plate gently. "You didn't eat much today either."

The words were soft. Innocent. But they landed wrong.

Mathias' spoon stopped mid-air.

His gaze lifted slowly, settling on the two of them. Not with heat. Not with raised voice. But something behind his eyes had cooled further—tightened, quiet and unreadable.

Juran felt it from across the table.

The silence stretched.

Mathias set his spoon down neatly, the metal barely making a sound.

He did not say a word.

But it was pretty evident.

Mathias was angry and his energy was overflowing.

The silence held, thick and brittle.

Then the girl—Syn—shifted again, her eyes downcast. She seemed to feel it, the air pressing in around the table, the weight behind Mathias' stare.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she said gently. "I'm not that hungry at the moment. I like chicken and fish. I'm unused to this country's food. Particularly their spices. I avoid eating too much since the food has corrupted Mana."

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Juran blinked.

Across the table, Mathias' expression didn't harden—it shifted. His eyes widened, just slightly. The lines around them changed. Like something had landed wrong in his chest.

Juran cleared his throat, then spoke quickly, waving lightly toward the girl as he steadied his voice.

"I was going to introduce you," he said. "Mathias… this is Syn. My daughter."

He hesitated only a breath before adding, quieter, with more weight, "And this is Seron… your son."

He let that sit for a few seconds.

"You remember that time, right?" Juran went on, watching him carefully. "She must've left you some memories. Didn't block it all."

Mathias had gone still. His hand, still resting near the bowl, slowly drew back. He placed the spoon down gently, deliberately, without looking at it.

Across the table, the boy smiled—open, cheerful, almost oblivious to the heaviness in the room.

"Hi!" he said brightly, lifting his spoon. "I like this stew. It's growing on me."

Juran watched Mathias closely.

The storm had not broken yet.

But the air had changed.

Mathias looked at the boy for a long moment. No mask. No calculation. Just that stripped-down intensity, like someone trying to see not just a face—but a resemblance.

"You are my son?" he asked, voice low but steady.

Seron shrugged with easy calm. "Apparently I am."

Juran exhaled again, more slowly this time. He leaned back slightly, letting the silence fill the space before he began.

So he told Mathias.

He told him everything—quietly, without apology, without drama. He explained about the children's circumstances.

He told him about the Prince. The marks. The trap. The worm and the husk it left behind. How they'd handled it. How Seron, his siblings and their mother had all but started a war.

All the while, Seron quietly finished his stew.

There was no great interruption. No gasp. No slammed hands or cold refusals. When Juran finally reached the end—when he mentioned the body left behind, the dead Prince who had attacked them—Mathias simply nodded.

"Good," he said, brushing his fingers lightly against the rim of his now-empty bowl. "Good."

He leaned back in his chair slightly, eyes unfocused, calculating.

"It is best to leave the body by the road," he added evenly, "but far enough so that it won't disturb the traffic. Too far and they might miss it."

Seron's face lit up. He turned to Syn, jabbing his spoon gently toward her in triumph.

"See!" he said. "He does get it. Your father's just too nervous and scared."

Juran watched Mathias, waiting for something—denial, alarm, any flicker of rejection.

But the man only reached for the bourbon bottle, and poured himself a quiet measure. Juran noted that Dio had drunk a great deal. He had known that the man's bloodline was quite tolerant to alcohol. He did not know the man well enough to judge.

Dio's brothers, Guntaz, Gyuntez and Gened, he knew better.

Juran rubbed the bridge of his nose, already regretting the drink he had not had yet.

"Mathias," he said with a note of incredulous frustration, "please. Try at least looking shocked when I tell you they started a war!"

Mathias didn't even blink. He calmly took a sip from the small bourbon glass he'd poured himself, then set it back down with precision.

"Wars," he said mildly, "have been fought at all times for less."

Syn, who had just started prodding her stew with a spoon, turned to him and tilted her head slightly. "You are strange," she said matter-of-factly. "Now I know why Seron is peculiar."

Mathias turned his eyes to Juran, one brow lifting in slow, irritated defiance. "She takes after you," he muttered, "but with the tart responses of her mother."

Juran met the look head-on and did not flinch. Mathias' attendant arrived with a polished tray, placing a fresh row of whiskey shots with a new decanter along the center of the table. Juran grabbed one glass without a word and tossed it back in a single motion.

He set the empty glass down just a bit harder than necessary.

It was going to be that kind of long and difficult night.

Seron, spoon now scraping the last bits of stew from the bottom of his second serving of bowl, glanced up at Mathias with unguarded curiosity.

"How long have you known my mother?" he asked. "That part's never been clear to me. I'm also told you're older than your official age."

His sister turned to look at him, visibly surprised. But Mathias didn't flinch.

Instead, he grew quiet—truly quiet—for the first time since he arrived. His eyes lost their edge, gaze slipping slightly downward, not unfocused, just… elsewhere.

"Let me think," he said at last, voice slow and unhurried. "I met your mother over six years ago. I might have known her longer, though." His brow creased faintly. "I'm positive I've known her for more than eight years now. One could say we met… eleven years ago, on far lands."

He paused. His tone had softened—not in warmth, but in distance.

"She keeps blocking my memories," he added with a faint, ironic smile, "so I don't interfere with her. So I truly have no idea when I first met her. I just know it was my… no, our destiny to meet. As for my age, I am over thirty after spending time in places where time ran faster. I was supposed to die this year so we were likely not meant to meet…not while I resided in this unpleasant and imperfect body."

Dio's brow furrowed deeply. Juran stiffened.

Both men stared at Mathias as if the man had just grown antlers and begun quoting scripture backwards.

Even Syn, poised and distant, looked at him with clear distaste now. There was no mistaking it. The man sounded strange. Different than what she had expected. He sounded bitter—like someone who had once loved a riddle and now hated the answer.

Then Mathias turned slightly, resting his forearm on the table.

"First, I should say that my God, Mazeros, and one of your mother's Goddesses are linked somehow. We both could communicate with them."

Juran stared. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked, voice low and sharp. "We both met Cesynda—no, Cesylia—around the same time."

Mathias smiled, and it was maddeningly calm.

"Well," he said, "that can be both true and false."

Syn frowned, the expression sharper than her voice. "You speak in riddles, old man. Like you're a different person from the one who walked in here earlier. Your face—no, your eyes—don't even show that exhaustion anymore."

Mathias gave a slight nod and lifted one hand, palm turned upward in a casual, almost theatrical gesture.

"Yes, it does happen sometimes," he said, the corners of his mouth curling faintly. "When I am tuned with my God…or one of his Sub-Gods."

The table stilled.

Even the shadows in the room seemed to hesitate—uncertain whether the words were heresy, madness, or truth left too long in the dark.

Juran blinked slowly.

And for the first time that evening, he wasn't sure what kind of man sat across from him anymore.

Juran pushed his chair back slightly, expression tightening as Mathias kept speaking in that strangely calm tone.

"What in the hell are you talking about, Mathias?" he said, voice sharp. "Have you gone mad again? Do you still hear those voices?"

Before Mathias could answer, Syn cut in.

"No—wait," she said, staring intently. "Something was wrong earlier. His eyes—when he walked in—they looked like they were about to shed blood. That's a Red Blood Church mark."

She turned, looking directly at Mathias now. Her voice dropped. "You were doing something."

Seron looked at her, confused. "What are you talking about?"

But Mathias just smiled, slow and soft, as if pleased she had noticed.

"I am now tuned with one of the Sub-Gods of Mazeros, Mazeltor," he said simply. "This is the Sacred Blood Year for my main Churches. I had to go pay my tribute… to keep on living."

Juran blinked, thrown by the clarity of the statement more than the words themselves.

"My time was limited from the start," Mathias continued, folding his hands. "I was supposed to return to the ashes early this year. During the Blooded Month of January. But something changed."

His gaze moved to Seron.

"I remained. And I had to pay even more tribute to have my son returned to me… on better days."

Syn froze.

Her lips parted, and for once, her sharp voice faltered.

"What kind of tribute is that?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

Mathias met her eyes without hesitation.

"It differs, depending on the Gods' wishes," he said. "We're given a list. We pick from it."

A faint shadow passed over his face—not regret, but memory.

"For me, it is almost always the same. I collect blood, Souls… and Micro-Spirits—what you call Minor Spiritys. I owed hundreds already, so it became more than usual."

His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.

"A thousand Souls. From those who upset the Gods of my Churches. Massacred. In the most gruesome and blood-soaked ways possible. That is the tradition of the Blood Lords' Churches."

The room was dead silent.

"This time," Mathias said, his tone still steady, "I had to bring in more. Thousands more. To allow my son to reincarnate again—sooner, stronger."

Syn gasped.

Mathias turned to her with a sharp glance.

"Do not look at me like that, girl."

His voice was colder now.

"You may not have started paying your tributes yet, like your mother and I. But you will. Soon."

He pointed to Seron.

"I'm sure he already has—with death and bad Souls drawn to him. I just happen to be… a bit different from you two."

Juran said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

Not yet.

Syn trembled, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of her plate.

"How… how different are you?" she asked, voice barely more than a breath.

Mathias laughed—not cruelly, but without warmth. It was a dry sound, like wind moving through old stone.

"You wish to know, girl?" he said, eyes glinting now, not with mischief but with something ancient and tired. "Fine. I can tell you."

He leaned forward just enough for the light to catch the edge of something too still in his face.

"My Soul is linked to the Spiritual Soul of Mazeron," he said. "The Avatar of Mazeros' Flock. I am not your typical human being."

Juran stared, frozen.