The Shattered Crowns

Sylvan prowled through the shadowed streets, his thoughts heavy with unanswered questions. Something was wrong with the orphanage. Snake's blood—the vile plague that twisted its victims into grotesque monstrosities—should have tainted the children, possibly even the woman in charge. Yet, there was no trace of it. Immunity to Snake's blood existed, but for an entire group to escape contamination? Impossible.

As if summoned by his grim thoughts, one of the Venadicta shuffled into view, dragging itself across the cobblestones. The creature was still in the early stages of infection. Once human, it now bore the telltale signs of corruption.

The parasite—a writhing appendage sprouting from the Venadicta's neck—resembled a grotesque, fleshy serpent. Its boneless head swayed back and forth, its grotesque tongue—a wriggling mass of veins—flicking out as it searched for prey. The host's body, though humanoid in shape, was a mockery of life. Its skin had hardened into scale-like ridges formed from calcified veins, and jagged bone-teeth jutted grotesquely from its slackened mouth.

This was how the plague earned its name. The parasite transformed its host into a vessel, mimicking the form of a snake until it claimed total control.

Sylvan observed the Venadicta for a moment, his expression cold. These creatures were far too common in Franzisch, the gothic city forever plagued by its shadowed horrors.

As the parasite lunged, Sylvan's blade flashed, severing the serpent-like appendage in one clean stroke. The host shuddered violently, the corrupted body writhing as the plague lost its grip. For a brief, pitiful moment, the remnants of the man it had once been seemed to flicker back to life. Then the body crumpled, lifeless and empty.

Sylvan lowered his sword, the tip brushing the damp stone. Killing Venadicta had become routine, but it didn't make it any less grim. This one had probably been cast out of its home, left to fester in the sewers during the day and stalk the alleys during the cursed Lunar Storms that cloaked Franzisch in eerie light.

The severed parasite writhed on the ground, its fleshy coils burning as sunlight crept over the rooftops. Fire always killed them. Hunters like Sylvan joined the fight thinking it was this simple—slay one Venadicta and call it a day. Then they faced the true horrors of Franzisch: the Tainted-blood, those who wielded the plague like a weapon, and they rarely lived to tell the tale.

Sylvan moved on, stepping lightly through the streets until he came to a nondescript building. A rusted hatch caught his attention. With a glance to ensure he wasn't followed, he pulled it open and slipped inside, closing it behind him with a soft clang.

The room was dark and sparsely furnished. Sylvan lit the lanterns one by one, their flickering light casting jagged shadows against the walls. A single chair and table sat in the middle of the space. He lowered himself into the chair, sighing as he pulled a thick, leather-bound book from his satchel.

The bestiary.

Setting a piece of charcoal against its yellowed pages, Sylvan began to write. His hand moved deliberately, the strokes precise and practiced. He detailed the Venadicta he'd just killed, comparing it to the one from the other night.

The last had been a brute—a "Vrylakas," as the Tainted-blood called them, hulking creatures that relied on raw strength. The one tonight was more insidious, akin to the "Lucerian's Brood," the slithering horrors hunters called Howlers.

Sylvan paused, his gaze distant. Both were merely pawns of the upper echelons of the House of Blood, their corruption rooted in Franzisch's decaying core.

He resumed writing, pouring his observations onto the page. If this bestiary could save even one hunter, then it was worth the effort. The work stretched long into the night.

When he finally set the book down, his hands trembled, knuckles pale from gripping the charcoal too tightly.

"Calm yourself, Sylvan," he muttered, voice low and steady. "The hunt gnaws at your nerves."

He inhaled deeply, using a breathing technique learned during his battles with the Karnen. The steady rhythm calmed his thoughts. Even the strongest of men needed moments of reassurance to face the horrors of Franzisch.

Sleep came reluctantly. Dreams followed quickly—dreams of laughter echoing through a frozen winter and the cold, hollow gaze of the Prince of Dreams.

The sound of the hatch sliding open jolted Sylvan awake. His blade was in his hand before he could think, his heart racing as he prepared for an attack.

A figure stepped into the room. Sylvan relaxed only slightly as he saw the telltale shimmer of a silver veil covering the woman's lower face. Her chestnut braid swayed as she moved with deliberate grace, her presence commanding the dimly lit space.

"Easier to find than I thought," she said, her voice muffled but unmistakably amused.

"What do you want, Lemi?" Sylvan asked, lowering his blade but not his guard.

Her silver-tipped arrows clinked softly as she shifted. "I came to find you."

"Well, you've succeeded."

"I heard you were hunting. Thought I might join. It'll be just like old times."

Sylvan studied her, his face impassive. Lemi—known among the hunters as the "Silver Huntress"—was both admired and feared. Her terrible beauty was matched only by her lethality. Men whispered of her behind their cups, calling her the "Flayer of Men."

He had no interest in her reputation, only the complications her presence brought. He couldn't afford to have her here, prying into his hunt. The Tainted-blood wouldn't speak with her around. But turning her away? That would only sharpen her curiosity.

Damn the woman. She smelled the hunt like a wolf scents blood.

"This will be a multi-week hunt," he warned.

"Good," she said, her lips curling into a grin beneath her veil. "It'll be just like the Night of the Long Moons."

For all her faults, Lemi's skill as a hunter was undeniable. Her movements were effortless as she glided over the slick rooftops, her lithe form bathed in the pale light of Rhea. Each arrow she loosed struck true, her silver tips dispatching Venadicta with quiet efficiency.

They reached a building across from the orphanage, crouching on the edge of the roof. Sylvan settled into his stakeout, his sharp eyes scanning the scene below.

"What are we doing here?" Lemi whispered, her voice low but insistent.

He ignored her.

"You can't just keep me in the—" she began, but Sylvan silenced her with a gloved finger against her lips.

"Enough," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the orphanage. "You wanted to join. Now we wait."

Lemi frowned beneath her veil. "We should go in, force them to talk."

Sylvan gave her a sharp look. "I don't draw blood without cause." His tone was clipped. Then, as if to himself, he muttered, "I've already tried that."

"There are ways to get answers that don't involve violence," Lemi countered.

"And what would you ask them?" Sylvan's question hung in the air, unanswered.

Hours passed as they remained still, the night thick with tension. Then, at last, a sound: the soft creak of the orphanage's front door.

A woman stepped outside, clutching something tightly to her chest.

"What kind of fool braves a Lunar Storm?" Sylvan muttered, leaning forward. The woman's movements were hurried, erratic, as she rushed toward the back of the orphanage.

Sylvan climbed down the building without hesitation.

"Wait, you damn man," Lemi hissed, following him with practiced ease. She landed beside him as Sylvan peered past the orphanage's walls, his hand raised for silence.

The hunt had begun.