The Shattered Crowns

The streets curved in uneven loops as Sylvan finally made his way to the guild. The building loomed out of the mist, squat and imposing, its thick wooden boards weathered with age and darkened by years of rain and grime. Stones lined the lower half of the structure, each engraved with faded insignias—emblems of the hunters who had come before, of their guilds and fallen heroes. The etched symbols seemed ghostly in the dim light, remnants of another era when Franzish had been more than a rotting city.

Sylvan rapped three slow knocks on the heavy door. A faint creak came from the other side as if the ancient hinges could barely tolerate the motion.

"Who is it?" came a hesitant voice, soft with trepidation.

"It's me. Let me in, Ana," Sylvan said, his tone curt and weary.

There was a pause before the door opened fully, revealing the petite figure of Ana, the guild's serving girl. The firelight from within cast her features in a warm glow, a stark contrast to the perpetual chill of the mist-filled streets. Sylvan stepped inside, yanking off his bloody overcoat as he crossed the threshold. The warm air wrapped around him, a brief reprieve from the cold.

Ana took the coat and grimaced at the state of it. The thick fabric was soaked through with blood and rain, sticky to the touch. "Early night, Sylvan?" she asked, her voice tinged with forced cheer.

Sylvan grunted, his words heavy with the exhaustion of the hunt. "Seven hunters dead. Not a good night."

"Seven?" Ana's eyes widened, her hands tightening around the coat. "What happened?"

"Tainted-Blood," Sylvan replied, rubbing at his temple. "It got to the Vendicta first. Bastard ate it whole. No signs of an injection needle on its body." He exhaled sharply. "Lucky the fire did its job. A low-blood, but still…" His words trailed off, as if even speaking about it cost him strength.

"At least it's dead," Ana offered softly.

Sylvan's jaw clenched, and he forced himself to stay calm. "We can't afford to waste talent like that. Those were new hunters. They shouldn't have died." His voice was sharp, though it was clear the anger wasn't directed at her.

Ana nodded quickly, shifting her grip on the coat. "I'll have the blood out of this by tomorrow, Sylvan," she promised, her voice small and unsure. She didn't dare press further, her expression one of quiet unease.

Sylvan turned and headed for the stairs without another word. He was halfway up when a drunken voice slurred out from the corner of the room.

"Another kill for the Grey Hunter, eh?" The words were drenched in mockery, rising above the low murmur of the hall. "How many died this time for your fame? Twenty? Thirty?"

Sylvan paused on the stairs, his hand tightening on the banister. He turned his head slightly, just enough to cast a cold glance at the drunkard below. "Go out into the night and see if you come back, Robert. Or did you forget you ran like a coward after your first hunt?" His voice was razor-sharp, cutting through the room like the snap of a whip.

The drunkard stumbled to his feet, but Sylvan was already climbing again, dismissing him with a flick of his coat. He didn't have time for petty arguments. Not tonight.

In his quarters, Sylvan peeled off his blood-stiffened shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin. He grimaced at the faint stench of charred flesh that lingered on his clothes—a stench that seemed to follow him after every hunt. His fingers combed through his raven hair, slicking it back out of his eyes as he tossed the shirt aside. One by one, he removed his boots, the wrappings around his legs, and the rest of his gear, until he stood bare in the cold air of the room.

The bath sat waiting, its water icy and still. Sylvan lowered himself into it slowly, the chill biting at his skin. For a brief moment, his body protested, but then the cold settled into his muscles, soothing the ache from the night's battle. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the edge of the tub, and closed his eyes.

The faces of the fallen hunters came to him unbidden, lingering like ghosts in his mind. A boy, barely older than his sister, who had swaggered into the guild just weeks ago, boasting of his strength. He had died screaming, his body torn apart like paper. Then there was the girl, a baker's daughter who had dreamed of a life beyond kneading dough and cleaning ovens. She'd had grit, real grit. But grit didn't stop claws or teeth.

Sylvan sighed, his breath rippling across the water's surface. They shouldn't have been there. None of them should have been there. But Franzish had a way of grinding people down until the hunt was their only option. And the Tainted-Blood didn't care whether you were ready or not. It consumed all the same.

The bathwater cooled as Sylvan's thoughts drifted to darker places. The weight of the ancestors hung heavy on him tonight. The Karstein bloodline had passed down Kemeris for generations, a gift—or curse—he wasn't sure of anymore. The people of Cordia whispered about Kemeris in fearful tones, calling it blasphemous, unnatural. But Sylvan's family had long embraced it, honing its two principles: reaction and decay.

Reaction was simple enough. A mixture of elements, manipulated through resin as a catalyst, could unleash devastating power. It was how Sylvan created his fire, the snap of his fingers igniting the volatile compounds. Decay, however, was far more dangerous—a process that broke elements down to their base forms, causing rot and entropy. Few Karsteins dared to use it. Fewer still lived long enough to master it.

Sylvan pushed the thoughts away as he rose from the tub, droplets of water cascading down his scarred body. He dried himself quickly and dressed, pulling on fresh clothes that smelled faintly of lavender. As he headed back downstairs, the hum of voices reached his ears. The guild had come alive in his absence, the hunters returning from their nightly hunts.

Ana was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, holding his now-clean overcoat. "Got most of the blood out," she said, holding it up for inspection. "But for the love of Rhea, Sylvan, try not to burn anything next time. The smell of smoke and charred flesh is impossible to scrub out."

Sylvan took the coat with a faint smirk. "Thanks, Ana. I'll try to use less fire," he lied, slinging the coat over his shoulder.

She rolled her eyes. "Mars and Lemi came back just before you. They're in good spirits. Will you join them?" she asked.

"No," Sylvan said flatly. "I've had enough company for one night."

Ana sighed, but before she could protest, a smooth voice called out from the hall. "Come on, Grey Hunter! Don't be so sour!" Mars, one of the senior hunters, rose from his chair, his easy grin practically glowing in the firelight. "Seven dead, and you still walk in like it's nothing. Celebrate with us. Lemi and I took down two Tainted-Bloods tonight. Let's raise a cup to that!"

Sylvan turned, his hand brushing the hilt of the ciquesdia at his side. "Not tonight, Mars."

Mars crossed the room, his confidence unshaken. "Ah, don't be like that. We all know the Silver-Blood life's short. Might as well enjoy it while we can."

"I've no intention of forgetting," Sylvan replied coolly.

Mars raised a mug, addressing the hall. "To the hunters of Franzish! May our blades stay sharp and our drinks stay full!" The room erupted in cheers.

Sylvan turned and pushed open the door. The guild's warmth faded as the mist of the streets enveloped him once more.

The blood-soaked streets of Franzish were quieter now, but the Lunar Storm's mist still lingered, curling around buildings like a predator stalking its prey. Sylvan moved with practiced ease, his eyes scanning every shadow and alley. Three Tainted-Blood Houses had marked him for death. What was one more?

He made his way to a small house above a tavern, tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the city. The stairs creaked beneath his weight, the wood rotting and splintering with age. He'd need to fix them soon.

The door creaked open with a gentle push, and warm light from a single lantern greeted him. The sight inside brought the faintest hint of a smile to his lips. A small girl lay curled in a nest of salvaged pillows and threadbare blankets, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Sylvan crouched by the bed, his hand brushing over her dark hair. He kissed her forehead softly.

"Big brother?" Irina murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hush, Devi," he said, using the warm nickname he'd given her. "I just got back."

"You smell like smoke," she muttered, burrowing deeper into the blankets. "Are you hurt?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Sylvan replied. "I'll still take you to the market tomorrow."

"Good mules don't talk back," she teased, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sylvan chuckled, pulling off his coat and boots. As he lay on the floor beside her bed, his eyes lingered on the blackened, scale-like scar on her neck. It had grown. Damn the Snake's Blood. Damn this city.

He closed his eyes, listening to her breathing. He didn't dream anymore. Dreams were a luxury hunters couldn't afford. Only the future mattered now.

And for Irina, he would carve one out, no matter the cost.