The Smell Of Blood

How much of yourself are you willing to lose in order to save the ones you love? By the time it's all over, will you recognize yourself in the mirror?

badooga

Crimson Skies: The Smell of Blood

How much of yourself are you willing to lose in order to save the ones you love? By the time it's all over, will you recognize yourself in the mirror?

Content Warnings: blood, gore, death, self harm; intrusive thoughts/compulsions; references to human trafficking

More By Badooga

⚠️ content warning

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Along the Deer Path to the Conclave of Reeds, the December snowfall patters gently against the dense, leafless trees. Two bright young men trot the winding trail through the forest, the soft crunch of snow and sticks beneath their feet disturbing the otherwise timeless tranquility of this wooded Way, who want nothing more than to return home.

"Why are you veiling tonight, Theo?"

Beneath his antlered mask, Theo smiles coolly in return, but it takes a mere glimpse for his soft blue eyes to betray the enthusiasm he holds for the question presented to him. Matching his eyes is a winter coat, speckled with snow and wood shavings; in his hand is a wooden flute—one of several he has whittled—which he fiddles with idly.

"I figured I'd dress up for the occasion. Rumor has it that the mystery announcement for tonight is Quinn's advancement to a fully-fledged sidereal."

"Really? I'd expect Hershel to make them do at least another five years of training for the job."

"What other training do they need at this point, though? They've been shadowing him for ages. If Hershel were to retire today—and for all we know, he very well could—Quinn could step up to the plate and take charge of the conclave without any issue. They were born for this role, Sylas."

Beneath their reddish cowl, the ever-serious Sylas weighs Theo's words carefully. They wish deeply for him to be correct, but they know better than to get their hopes up so soon.

"I simply can't fathom a world where Hershel wouldn't find an excuse to delay it even further than he already has."

"If it were anyone else, I'd agree with you. But Quinn is practically a walking encyclopedia for the Order's history and shit, and ever since they figured out their gender, they've been pretty solid on the whole spreading healthy masculinity front."

"Being a gay nerd isn't sufficient. What about their magic?"

"While you've been out on hunts like the diligent Warden you are," Theo teases, "I've been sitting in on Quinn's practice sessions. They may have struggled with their magic in the past, but certainly not anymore. Hell, I think they've become even better with their spells than you."

Sylas' brow furrows. "I'd still beat them in a fight."

"Not everything is about fighting, love," chuckles Theo, "no matter what your Warden duties might tell you. While you're out there hunting homophobes and transphobes, Quinn is using their magic to seek spiritual enlightenment. It's quite impressive, really."

"Spiritual enlightenment does nothing if we all get killed," Sylas retorts.

"Yeah, and safety means nothing if we're not using it to enjoy life to the fullest."

Sylas grunts. "Regardless, you're overdressed. Even if they announce that Quinn's becoming a sidereal, the actual ceremony for it wouldn't be tonight. You're going to stick out like a sore thumb amongst all the other stags."

"Eh. Let them stare."

Sylas smirks. "Besides—if Quinn does get the job, they would definitely want to see your face in all its handsome glory amidst the audience."

"Quinn always wants to see my handsome face, though," Theo chuckles. "And kiss it, for that matter."

"As they should. It is, objectively speaking, rather kissable."

He grins. "Always happy to know that my boyfriends have excellent taste."

"Superb taste," Sylas claims. "Don't sell us shor—"

Sylas stops in their tracks; Theo follows suit. Ahead of them stands a deer—tall, proud, unwavering, but most importantly, seemingly unperturbed by the blood that stains its upper half entirely red.

Theo cocks his head. Sylas approaches slowly, putting out an open hand for the deer to inspect. It doesn't take long for the deer to determine its fellow stag to be a friend, rather than a foe, and nuzzle into their hand. Sylas searches for a wound of some kind that the blood can be attributed to, but after a few seconds, they hum in confusion.

Theo asks: "Is the deer injured?"

"It's entirely unharmed."

"Then… where did the blood come from?"

Sylas inspects the deer more thoroughly. If it had gored something, the tips of its antlers would be particularly soaked—but instead, its antlers are entirely untouched. The blood appears more like it splattered onto it from something else… another deer, perhaps? Or…

"Let's go find out."

Sylas and Theo cautiously continue down the winding Deer Path in search of answers. Sylas holds their bow in one hand and an arrow in the other, ready to pounce at any moment; meanwhile, a mote of magical frost hovers over Theo's unsteady hand. Unlike Sylas, Theo lacks all but the barest essentials for self-defense—as such, he is more than comfortable in his position several feet behind them, who scans the trees for any signs of danger.

The next sign that something is amiss is a collection of a dozen footprints—boot prints, to be more specific—going both towards and away from the Conclave. Amidst them are small splotches of red that stand out against the white snow.

"This is recent," Sylas says, bending down to inspect the blood further. "Wait. Do you smell that?"

Theo gives the air one hard sniff. "Is that… smoke?"

"We need to move. Now."

As the two fearful stags make the next bend, the Deer Path slowly opens up into a clearing. A thicker trail of blood, only recently dotted with snowfall, leads towards the Conclave proper. When they see a thick pillar of smoke rising up in the distance, their brisk approach turns into a frenzied run. Their own footprints mix in with those of the others, which hint at a gruesome story that neither stag wishes to accept.

Slumped up against the picket sign welcoming visitors to the Conclave of Reeds is the corpse of a man no older than twenty. He too wears an antlered mask, but the ornate dagger that pierces his gut isn't quite a willing fashion choice. Underneath the mask, Sylas finds an all-too-familiar face sporting a cold, lifeless expression.

Theo's voice quivers. "Is that Charlie…?"

Unlike the deer, Charlie's corpse hasn't a drop of red on it. Or in it, for that matter—somehow, his blood has been entirely drained, leaving a colorless, lifeless husk in its wake. Worse still is a red-robed figure, partially blanketed by snow, with an arrow piercing the center of its equally-lifeless back. Unlike with Charlie, Sylas and Theo find that neither the robes nor the face they obscure are the least bit recognizable.

There is no time to mourn. Even as more corpses of blood-drained stags and red-robed invaders greet them along their path, the two can only allow one objective to fill their minds.

"Quinn," Sylas mutters, "Oh fuck. Fuck. They always arrive half an hour early. They—"

"Quinn! Where are you? Quinn! Are you—"

Where a humble communal building once sat next to a gently flowing creek is now a column of flame that roars in agony. Sylas darts to the side, giving Theo all the room he needs to unleash a blast of magic that bathes the building's entryway in a thin layer of frost. The fire recedes, giving them a clear path inside, but their frantic searching only yields smoke and rubble, rubble and smoke.

Once the fire is fully doused and the building fully searched, the two exit the communal building on the other side. Normally, the Conclave of Reeds regularly gathers here to induct new members as fawns, and after some time, to promote them to the fully-fledged rank of stag—and, very rarely, to witness a stag become a sidereal that in turn leads and spiritually guides everyone else. But instead of a crowd of lively individuals—or worse, dozens of corpses having been slaughtered by these mysterious red robes—a single old man covered in blood kneels before the magic-scarred battlefield around him. A runic circle on the ground around him gives way to large, twisting roots of wood that had clearly weaved across the ground with startling might and speed. Suspended at their ends are the impaled remains of three red-robed individuals; one hangs over the winding creek that the Conclave of Reeds calls its home, with a steady stream of blood dripping down and being carried away by the ever-relaxed waters towards the horizon.

Sylas and Theo rush over to render aid to Hershel, but a gaping hole in his chest that leaks exorbitant quantities of blood leaves their mouths hanging agape.

Sylas is the first to speak up. "You're… I'm so sorry…"

Hershel mutters to himself, barely cognizant of his surroundings. "What have they done…"

"Hershel," Sylas asks slowly, "what exactly happened here?"

"We scarcely had time to blink before they were upon us… they—" Hershel hacks up more blood. "They took them all… what… what have they done…"

"Who is 'they'?"

"The Red God's servants. I tried to fend them off, but there were… there were too many, I…"

Theo finally chimes in. "The 'Red God'—do you mean the Scarlet King?"

Hershel nods weakly, and Sylas and Theo give each other a grim, fearful look.

"Nearly everyone was abducted with bags put over their heads." Another cough, this time with tears. "Those who tried to resist, they… oh Gods… "

Sylas asks frantically: "Where's Quinn?"

"Taken with the rest. They tried to negotiate, but it didn't… they couldn't… it all happened so fast…"

Sylas' fingers anxiously grasp at the leg of their pants; Theo's next words are more croaked out than spoken aloud, as though it had taken tremendous effort to emerge from their throat.

"…It's alright, Hershel. You did your best."

"…I wish I did. Quinn leapt into action, but… I froze. Theo, I froze. Everyone is gone because I—"

Hershel sputters breathlessly; Theo holds the dying man close as he gasps for air. Sylas steps back, and in this moment, the smell of blood and smoke around them sears itself into their brain.

Looking to Theo, Hershel asks weakly: "Promise me you'll bring them back. Theo, you… promise me you'll…"

An intense quiver halfway between a shiver and a tremor overtakes Theo. He opens his mouth to reply, but only a small cloud of condensation emerges from it.

A few seconds later, Sylas steps in to answer for him. "We'll bring them home, Hershel, we promi…"

They trail off. Hershel is already gone.

"Open lock, end strife. Come death, and pass life."

Beneath a neat row of five handwoven blankets lie the bodies of the brethren slain during the battle: Charlie, the doe-eyed fawn who had just recently dipped his toes into the wonders of the occult world; Alexis, Bren, and Damian, three courageous and foolhardy stags; and Hershel, the sidereal who had been a gentle, nurturing mentor for as long as anyone could remember. Soft motes of white starlight coalesce above the blankets, flitting gracefully through the air to the slow, somber melody Theo plays on his flute. Even as his fingers freeze up, sending some of his notes askew, Theo hopes with all his heart that his melody can guide the souls of the fallen to whatever afterlife the ever-enigmatic Sidereal Stag has in store for them—or, at the very least, placate It until the fallen can receive a proper funeral.

For Sylas, however, there is no time to mourn—not yet. With every whiff of blood and char that assails their nostrils, with every scarlet-robed carcass they drag off and search, with every minute that passes where their beloved partner and nineteen other dear friends remain in the clutches of vile, sadistic cultists that prey on the innocent in the name of their foul god, their mind retreats further and further into the flames of vengeance that burn hot within their chest. Every blink yields a vision of gore and death—gore and death that they weren't there to stop. Every drop of shed blood that stains their hands whispers rancid temptations in their ear, beckoning them with terrible, delightful thoughts of hunting down and rending the flesh of those responsible for this tragedy—thoughts that they know fly in the face of the anti-chauvinistic liberation promised by the Order of the Sidereal Stag. But without Quinn to guide them, to ground them, to comfort them through the suffocating weight of their own absence, how could Sylas possibly let their mind wander to anything else?

…

After Theo's rites are complete, the two reconvene to decide on their next course of action.

"I've texted everyone I could. A few who didn't attend the meeting said they'll be here later tonight to clean this place up, but beyond that? I think we're on our own, Sylas."

Sylas doesn't respond. Theo reaches out to hold them close, but is startled to find their body nearly vacant of feeling, life, or warmth.

"So… how do we go about this, exactly?"

Sylas removes their bloody fist from their coat and unfurls it before him; in their palm is a slip of red-stained paper. Theo examines it closely, and then he looks to Sylas with the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"Is that an address?"

"We start there," Sylas declares, and then the conversation ceases to be.

"This is close enough. Stop the car."

Theo's car crawls to a stop. Once it turns off, only the dim glow of streetlights and the occasional lightbulb shining through a window, illuminates the two of them. For Theo's beloved partner, navigating through the dark is as natural breathing—but for him, a peaceful alchemist, simply managing to clumsily lag behind Sylas is already quite the tall order.

At the iron gate welcoming them to their destination, Sylas pulls out his trusty bolt cutters—also second nature to them, to Theo's amusement and horror—and cuts the lock open in one swift motion. The gate swings open, revealing an upscale suburban home surrounded by old, decrepit trees.

Instead of taking the driveway and knocking on the front door, Sylas cups their hands and collects a modest ball of falling snow. After several seconds of rolling the ball around like putty—and mixing it with a wad of spit for good measure—Sylas breathes a swift incantation into their hands, which light up with a dim orange glow. It is then that Sylas, again to Theo's horror, jumps onto the trunk of the nearest tree. Instead of sliding down, the orange magic sticks to the bark, allowing them to climb up with ease.

Theo wonders if there's some sort of magic that can teleport him up there, but a rope that drops from the tree kills that naive bit of hope before it can arrive. Even with something to grab onto, he struggles for a solid thirty seconds, grunting all the way to the top until he finally finds a sturdy branch to stand on.

"This is why I never became a Horned Warden. Too much climbing."

Sylas ignores him. Instead, they take out a small wooden spyglass—a homemade birthday gift from Theo—and intensely examine the house from top to bottom.

"Sylas, I know we're busy, but… might I ask how you're d—"

"I see movement in there—at least three people. If we cling to the shadows, avoiding them shouldn't be too difficult."

Theo nods hesitantly.

"If we veer left and stay in the treeline, there's an open window we can make our way into. Ready?"

Before Theo can react, Sylas darts into the neighboring tree; Theo sighs and follows suit. After a few near-slips on his part, he finally makes it to the branch nearest the window. Once they're in position, Sylas whispers another incantation—this time brandishing a wad of acacia gum—and the two become almost entirely invisible.

Slipping through the open window, the two are met with the surprisingly pleasant aroma of old dust and older wood. The home is rustic, almost antique in its design, with dark brown walls contrasted by a sickening red motif consistent across its various adornments. Peeking through the open doorway, Sylas discovers that they are positioned halfway through a long hallway. With a silent hand motion, they signal for Theo to explore to the right while they veer left.

In addition to the red motif, the hallway is streaked with winding embellishments of green foliage that glisten in the moonlight shining through the windows. Even with the spell's muffling of their footsteps, the hardwood floor occasionally creaks beneath them; fortunately, the sound of a TV playing down the hallway is more than enough to drown it out.

The hallway opens up into a balcony overlooking a large living room, with a large painting depicting the silhouette of an imposing antlered figure hanging over a large flat-screen TV. Opposite the TV are two men, their scarlet robes haphazardly thrown to the opposite side of the couch they sit on, whose eyes are affixed to an episode of Pawn Stars playing on full blast.

Sylas raises an eyebrow, but decides to wait it out. On the next commercial break, the man on the right picks up a stack of unopened envelopes and works through them.

The man on the left sighs. "Any new shipments?"

"None yet. Looks like the next one is two weeks from tomorrow."

"That's practically next year."

"What, twenty of those deer weirdos weren't enough to sate your appetite?"

Sylas' blood nearly boils over on the spot, but then the man on the left continues: "But I didn't even get to lay a finger on them. It was, what, five hours between drop-off and pickup?"

"Quinn is alive and well," Sylas mutters to themselves in relief. "For now, at least."

"Something like that. Didn't they bring in the sixteen wheeler for them?"

"Yup. I had to load them all up at sunrise while you were sleeping in like a bitch. From what the driver told me, their cell leader wants them all alive and well."

"What for?"

"I dunno, what sort of ritual uses hippies as a component?"

The man on the right opens his mouth, but the one on the left cuts him off. "It's none of our business, that's what."

"Fair 'nough. Please tell me you remembered to give them the Bone Key they nee—"

"Shut up, asswipe. The show is back on."

What sort of monster do you have to be to treat kidnapping and trafficking so casually? A roaring column of fire and bile swells within Sylas' throat; their heartbeat slows to a crawl, and it doesn't take too long for them to unsheathe their bow and nock two arrows. Sylas has loosed their arrows against the forces of the Huntsman many times before; what's two more homophobes added to the list? They've never shot to kill, of course, but how hard could it possibly be when their targets are stationary? Two arrows directly to the neck, the gurgling of their warm, iron-rich blood spurting forth from their jugulars drowned out by television… there couldn't be a more perfect crime. Then again, is it truly a crime to rid the world of filth like them when no one else will step up to the plate? The Sidereal Stag doesn't disapprove of slaying those complicit in the kidnapping of its followers… so what if Sylas takes a bit of pleasure in it? They pull the string of their bow, itching to deliver the Scarlet King's servants to his own doorstep, and then—

A firm tug on their arm snaps Sylas out of it. They whip around, ready to loose their arrows on whatever pathetic excuse for a human has made the mistake of attacking them, but the sight of a mostly-transparent Theo causes the anger to recede in an instant.

Theo signs with his left hand. "What are you doing?"

"Getting results."

"I have results. I took pictures of a shipment log with an address on it. Let's get out of here before the spell runs out."

"Not before I get rid of these monsters."

"They're not going anywhere. We can come back for them."

"How do you know? I can't risk that."

"And I can't risk us getting caught when everyone is counting on us to save them. Let's hurry before the third one fi—"

Footsteps approach from down the hall. The two dart across the balcony and through an open door to the side. Merely a few seconds later, a third man, still wearing his robes, briskly walks to the balcony and yells down at the other two.

"Oi. Did one of you leave the door to my office open?"

Theo winces.

"What do you mean, boss?"

"Don't play coy with me. You snuck in there again, didn't you?"

"We've been here all night. We haven't touched anything, honest!"

"That's funny. I don't believe you."

Sylas and Theo make a break for the hallway; their invisibility spell fizzles into nothing, but the cultists' argument distracts them just long enough for the two stags to remain undetected as they escape.

…

Back in the car, Sylas and Theo peer over the trafficking manifest.

"This entry matches the time you're describing," Theo says. "GPS points to an abandoned factory just out of town. That's where we'll find them."

"How far?"

"Half an hour at most. If we time it right, we'll have the cover of darkness as we approach."

"Understood," affirms Sylas. "By the way, does the manifest make any mention of a Bone Key?"

"'Bone Key'?"

"Yeah. One of them mentioned something about giving the driver one of those. He described it as 'necessary' for something. Any ideas?"

Theo ponders for a moment. He then cups his face and sits back in his chair, letting his lungs entirely deflate in defeat.

"What's wrong, Theo?"

"Quinn told me about these. They're used to open certain types of Ways—without one, we won't be able to get to wherever this ritual is really taking place."

"Can we make one of our own? I have a few animal bones in my bag."

"I expect nothing less from you," Theo says affectionately, "but unfortunately, each Bone Key is uniquely tied to the DNA of the person whose bone it's crafted from. Without a different key to copy, we can't replicate it."

"So what do we do?"

"Well… Quinn was also telling me about a potion you can brew to bypass it. Apparently it spoofs the DNA that the binding receptors associated with the door are looking for? I don't know enough biology to explain it well."

"You're an alchemist. Surely you know how to brew it?"

"I'm not that knowledgeable, love—I would need another alchemist to teach me how to do it. And therein lies the problem: there's only one non-kidnapped alchemist I know of that fits the bill."

Theo sits up and sighs hopelessly.

"We need to talk to my ex."

Upon the doorstep of a wealthy home across town, Sylas asks: "Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely not," answers Theo, before knocking on the door twice.

No answer. Ten seconds later, Sylas repeats the knock again with as much strength they can muster. They consider knocking again, but the sound of approaching footsteps dissuades them. When the door swings open, the two are greeted with horrible sight of a man no younger than thirty in a white bath robe that leaves far too little to the imagination.

"Well well well," the man says. "Look what the Stag dragged in. And in uniform, too?"

"Shut up, Kevin," mutters Sylas.

Kevin rolls his eyes. "Alright, fine. Come on in."

The home is furnished with pure white furniture lit by oppressively white lights that nearly snowblinds both Sylas and Theo. At Kevin's behest, they take a seat on a sterile white couch with uncomfortable cushions.

"I noticed that you weren't at the Conclave meeting today, Kevin," sneers Sylas.

"Had an appointment with an important client," says Kevin, casual as ever. "Although, given the news you shared, I'm really glad I didn't show up."

Sylas mutters under his breath: "I wish you did."

"What's that, Simon?"

"It's Sylas."

"Oh. Whoops."

Sylas blinks twice; Theo says nothing.

"Anyway, what's this potion you need help brewing? Since we're clearly all business today, that is."

"Twenty peoples' lives are at stake, Kevin," pleads Theo, "and many more could be at risk if whatever ritual these creeps are planning comes to pass. I know we didn't exactly leave off on the best of terms—"

Kevin guffaws.

"—but we need to put that aside for now. Do you know how to spoof a Bone Key?"

"Of course," he boasts. "That's child's play."

"Then help me do it. Please."

"Alright alright, no need to beg like that. I've got you covered."

"…Thank you."

…

Kevin leads Sylas and Theo to a deck overlooking his expansive backyard. An assortment of alchemy supplies are haphazardly scattered along the floor, including a large black cauldron at its center.

"Some men grill," Kevin rambles, "but I brew. I'd like to think I'm better at my craft than they are at theirs."

"You do this out in the open?"

"From where I'm positioned, nobody can see what I'm doing here. It's fully discreet. Besides, would you prefer the fumes stay inside the house, dear Theo?"

Theo's shoulders tense up. "…I guess you have a point."

"Anyway," Kevin continues, "let me walk you through the steps first. Pay attention, m'kay?"

Sylas tunes out the alchemy discussion altogether. Instead, he focuses on their body language—Kevin's imposing, domineering stance, and the timid withdrawal it instills within their dear partner. It disgusts them to know that this man was ever permitted to be near Theo, let alone lay some sort of claim to him, but they nevertheless remain as silent and motionless as a mannequin.

"Us working together again… never thought I'd see the day, hm?"

"Just answer the question, please," Theo says, his level voice betraying none of the discomfort and anger Sylas knows is assuredly racing through his mind.

"Do you actually understand my steps, or do I need to go over this again? If you paid attention, you'd know why it has to be that way."

"I understand the steps, but I just don't see why you're mixing the elixir to that extent instead of just—

"Then you don't get it. Typical. I'm going to start again, alright? First, you need to—"

"I don't have to take this from you," Theo says with an extraordinary calmness that Sylas can't help but envy. "As it turns out, having partners that actually care about you does wonders for your self-confidence. Whatever game you're playing, I want no part in it. So please… can we get on with this?"

"Wowie," Kevin drolls. "You're as icy as ever, hm? Even your hothead boyfriend here can't seem to thaw out your cold dead heart. I'm just trying to help."

"Hey Kevin, word of advice?" shouts Sylas. Kevin flinches as though he had forgotten they were there at all. "Watch your mouth, or I'll get you removed from the Conclave faster than you can say 'I'm a raging cuck'."

"Sylas, calm yourself," Theo urges, which makes Sylas' heart race out of control. Remaining calm in the face of Kevin's venom-laced words is one thing, but he can't even bring himself to defend his own partner and their relationship?

"What Conclave, exactly? You need me to save them, remember? They'll owe me for my vital role in this rescue mission."

Kevin smirks, Sylas grits their teeth, and Theo's skin grows deathly pale.

Who does this guy think he is? If Kevin were a Knight of the Shadow Stag or some other bigoted servant of the Huntsman, it would be simple enough to just remove him from the equation—but he is, formally speaking, one of their own. Of course, informally, this sorry excuse for a man barely participates enough to count as a Stag at all—why does anyone keep him around? Men like Sylas have to start from nothing and invent their own masculinity from scratch, while this guy gets handed his ideal body and life on a silver platter? Theo knows how to brew the potion now—it would be all too easy for Sylas to dispose of Kevin now that he's useless, to stain his sterile white home red in a beautiful, cathartic shower of scarlet that liberates him from his past once and for all. They know all too well that they could end it in seconds—unsheathe the hunting knife that their hand rests on, plunge it into their gut and twist, watch as the life fades from his soulless eyes—

"Sylas," the ever-impatient Kevin asks, "why are you looking at me like that? What's wrong with you?"

A startling realization stops Theo in his tracks. "Wait, why is your kni—"

A sound halfway between a muffled gunshot and a whistle rings through the air. The left side of Kevin's skull explodes in a shower of blood and brains, and his body instantly falls limp. The glass door of the deck shatters; a gore-covered Theo screams in horror.

For the briefest moment, despite knowing that their knife and bow remain sheathed, Sylas wonders if this was their handiwork. It may be far messier than what they were going for, but seeing Kevin's eyes so devoid of color and life, his all-too-hollow skull burst into a dozen shards of bone, his blood splattering all over the floor and the wall and the cauldron and Theo and—

Theo.

"Get down!"

The two dive behind the cauldron. Another shot echoes out; a small pellet of crystallized blood skids along the top of the roof, damaging several shingles along the way.

"Who's firing on us?!" yells Theo.

"Give me your phone," says Sylas. Theo hands over the phone with a shaky hand; Sylas turns on the camera and peeks it out from their cover. With some fiddling, the camera reveals the shooter: a red-robed man, with a halo of identical blood pellets slowly orbiting their right wrist, positioned atop a neighboring building.

"Discreet my ass," grunts Sylas. "There's a red robe on the rooftop one house over."

"How do we get over there?"

"Make me an ice bridge after the next shot. I'll cover you."

"I love you," lets loose a tearful Theo.

Another shot; this one burrows itself into the floor of the deck. "Now!"

The duo leaps out from behind the cauldron and springs into action. A volley of arrows from Sylas forces the shooter to dive behind an adjacent chimney, and on cue, Theo unleashes a gout of frost that forms a narrow bridge of ice between the balcony and the neighboring roof.

Sylas hops over the balcony's railing and ascends the ice bridge with startling speed. The red robe peeks out and tries firing at them again, but another volley of arrows serves to be an effective deterrent. When Sylas is a little more than halfway across, the shooter instead emerges from his cover to fire at where the ice bridge meets the rooftop, causing it to slip free and hurdle towards the ground. Sylas jumps forward as a graceful deer would leap over a fallen tree, rolling onto the snow-covered roof with some difficulty and tackling their assailant just before another shot can go off. Losing their footings, the two slide off the top of the roof entirely, tumbling into an easily-shattering greenhouse and a cushioning bed of plants and dirt beneath it.

The two wrestle amidst the dirt, blood, and shattered glass, letting the coursing adrenaline propel their battered, winded bodies forward. After driving their knee into his groin, Sylas uses their leg to pin the cultist's hip to the side, preventing him from using his superior size to buck them off. They use the collar of their cloak to pin down one of his arms, but the other rises up and looses another blood pellet. The pellet grazes Sylas' cheek, leaving a thick trail of scarlet in its wake, and all at once their wound is subjected to the searing bite of cold winter air, sending a stimulating shiver down their spine. He winds up another shot, but Sylas thrusts a particularly jagged shard of glass deep into his rotator cuff, pinning him in place and putting an end to his feeble resistance swiftly and effectively.

The shard of glass extracts a scream from the cultist that serenades Sylas' ringing ears. It burrows itself deeply into their palm, but the surge of piercing pain simply grounds their mind further, binding them both in the ecstacy of this terrible, intoxicating moment. All the while, the rich blood that streams down the gash on their cheek blesses their tongue with a metallic tang, extracting even more excitement from their wretched soul.

Sylas whispers in the cultist's ear: "Who sent you?"

"Z-Zaryus, our leader, he—" the cultist winces in agony, "shit, I didn't think… fuck—"

The stag thrusts the shard a few inches deeper; the cultist shrieks in pain. "Why?"

"Cleanup," he cries out. "I was told to get rid of the ones who weren't there when we bagged everyone. I didn't think—fuck, I didn't think there'd be three of you, I—"

"What is Zaryus after?" Sylas twists the shard counterclockwise, rending a large tear in the cultist's flesh that exposes the alluring smoothness of his blood-soaked clavicle, the sinews of his now-shredded subscapularis muscle, the all-too-sliceable threads of the supraspinatus tendon that helps keep the shoulder together. Tears stream down the breathless cultist's cheek, filling Sylas with a deep gratification that spirituality could never match in fervor.

"He wants to bleed your precious Sidereal Stag dry," he moans. "Tonight. H-He's going to use everyone's blood to lure it out and crush it beneath his heel. Now please, don't—"

"Good boy," Sylas hisses; the cultist sobs. "Now, you're going to hold still for me, hm? I'm going to make sure you never even think of crossing me agai—

"Sylas, stop!"

Theo's voice thunders out from Sylas' right; an ice bridge crumbles to nothing behind him.

"What do you think you're doing, exactly?"

"As I told you earlier," Sylas pants, "I'm getting results."

"Through torture? Look at your handiwork! What sort of bloodbath is this supposed to be, Sylas?"

"He's a filthy cultist, he has to—"

Sensing an opportunity, the red robe extracts the glass shard from his shoulder and headbutt Sylas off of him in one fell swoop. Theo tries to freeze the cultist in place, but he barely dodges out of the way, barreling out the door and into the trees. Sylas attempts to limp after him, but Theo puts a firm hand in the way.

"Get out of my way."

"Not a chance. You're hurt."

Sylas growls and stares Theo down; after five seconds of gazing into his solemn, tearful eyes, they relent, falling limp in his arms and letting the world around them fade to nothing.

…

Sylas does not dream. The disorientation has a tight grip on their mind when they first wake, but they relent in response to the soft, comforting touch of Theo's loving hands.

"Wh… where are w—"

Theo hushes them. Their eyes open, slowly, and are blessed with the sight of their partner, his gorgeous face still covered in brains and blood and tears, surrounded by a halo of red and blue light from behind him. The two are nestled within a set of bushes a block or two away from the late Kevin's house, which is surrounded by a series of flashing vehicles of various shapes and sizes.

"Is that the police?"

"Worse—I think the Foundation got wind of our little stunt. I'll take the blame there—making an ice bridge in broad daylight may have been… unwise."

"Oh."

It all floods back to them. The chase, the blood spewing forth from their shoulder, the rage burning within their chest.

"Hold still, Sylas. This one stings a bit."

Theo applies healing elixir to Sylas' hand. They grit their teeth angrily, wincing sharply as their chest and hips spasm forward from the sting. The two stand up slowly, keeping themselves as low to the ground as they can, and flee to the nearest trees.

Theo asks hesitantly: "So, are we going to talk about what happened?"

"Shouldn't we double back and get your car first? It's parked a bit too close to Kevin's house for comfort."

"Not until you tell me what happened back there."

"With the red robe? I…" Sylas ponders. "I think I let my adrenaline get the best of me."

"No," Theo says, somberly. "I mean with Kevin."

Sylas blinks.

"I'm not blind. I saw your hand on the hilt of your knife before he was killed. Why?"

Sylas inhales deeply. "I wanted him dead."

"So did I, but that's a whole different story than acting on it."

"Only actions matter in this world, Theo. He was horrible to you, he hurt you, he was hurting you, I had to—"

"What gives you the right? He's my ex, not yours—we've talked about this before. You know this."

The color drains from Sylas' face.

"I…"

"And then you go on and take it all out on the shooter? What, were you angry that he stole your kill or something? And what was that back at the drop-off/pick-up site where you nearly loosed your arrows on them? Are you just on a murderous streak now, Sylas? Is this who my boyfriend has become?"

Something in them snaps. "Quinn and everyone else were kidnapped—and soon enough, they'll be sacrificed in some mad attempt to kill the Sidereal Stag. Our very way of life is under attack. I have to do something, it is my duty, it is my purpo—"

"Cut the crap. You're like this for yourself, and nothing more. Don't make your serial killer impulses everyone else's problem."

Sylas laughs maniacally, which only intensifies as their fight to hold back tears ends in a brutal loss. "I see how it is now."

"Oh?"

"Kevin was right. Your heart is cold and dead. Not even all of this could thaw it all out."

Theo's eyes widen. "What?"

"Poor, poor Theo. You don't know what it's like, do you? To go out day after day, to relentlessly hunt monsters that have the gall to call themselves humans, to put your life on the line to protect everything and everyone you hold dear? No—you sit back and brew your potions in your cozy little fantasy world. And now that your cottagecore paradise has burned down and everyone is dead or taken, there's nothing to keep your heart from shriveling into dust."

"I…"

"What, do you expect me to block out my emotions and take the high road here? Do you think I have the luxury of shutting it all off like you do? I failed, Theo. Everyone is gone, and I have nothing, and I have nobody. I have to do this."

"But you have me, you—"

"Do I? Do I really?"

Theo whimpers; Sylas exhales unsteadily.

"Fuck this," declares Sylas. "I'll figure this out myself."

"And how will you bypass the Bone Key requirement? I'm going to be brewing the potion, you can't just—"

Sylas shambles away; they dare not look back at the tearful Theo behind them.

"I'll find a way to lure them out, Theo. Just you wait."

Once more, the gate to the drop-off/pick-up site is no match for Sylas: with the lock still cut, it only takes one good kick to dislodge it from the snow and clear a path for them. Their mind is occupied only by the sight of Hershel's lifeless body, by Theo's helpless tears, by the missing Conclave members they let down with their absence, Sylas' body staggers forward on autopilot. Ignoring all sense and subtlety, they walk briskly to the front door and kick it down—after all, you can't climb a tree or turn a doorknob when you have a gas canister in each hand.

By the time the door hits the ground, Sylas has already sprayed half of the foyer with gas. The walls, the furniture, the floor, even their own shoes—no stone is left unturned. Sylas doesn't intend to stop until they're out of gas, out of blood, or both; no matter what happens, this place will go up in flames. They hurl one cannister down the hallway to their left, spewing its contents everywhere, and continue forward to the living room.

Sylas draws their hunting knife as they turn the next bend, but to their surprise, they are met with no resistance. Compared to last time, the living room is more akin to a disaster zone than an actual living space. The furniture is ripped to shreds, overturned, and utterly shattered. Four blade-minced, blood-drained corpses are strewn across it. The three mainstays of this place are impaled by shards of glass and wood, while the fourth—the very same who killed Kevin—was evidently hurled off the now-broken railing of the balcony above and crushed under the weight of the fallen television. Above where the television once hung is the painting of the Scarlet King, which has been defaced with a blood-drawn symbol that Sylas does not recognize.

Their mind finally returned to the present, Sylas drops the second gas canister and looks the bodies over. They've inspected the bodies of hunted game many times, but before cleaning up after the Conclave, they'd never seen a human corpse up close. Their gaunt, lifeless expressions tantalize and unsettle Sylas in equal measure, but their warm stiffness startles them entirely—this was recent. The fourth couldn't have gotten here much sooner than Sylas did, so whoever killed them—whoever robbed them of the opportunity to do it themselves—must have done this within the last hour.

A small red glint of light from the broken railing above them catches Sylas' eye. Taking a staircase up to it, the source of the light reveals itself: a shimmering slip of paper, barely visible to the naked eye until apprehended, containing a note hastily written in blood. It reads:

Sylas,

Sorry I couldn't reach out like a normal person—I couldn't stay for too long, and these days I don't really do phones anymore. Even after all this time, recognizing your spell signature is like second nature to me, so imagine my surprise when I found it here of all places. Since I know you're not the type to leave business unfinished, I figured I'd key a hidden message to your signature for when you return—worst case scenario, I suspect I'll find you meddling at the old factory tonight anyway.

If you are reading this, though, meet me at our old spot as soon as you can. (The spell I used also tells me when you've read this, so don't worry about scheduling or anything.) I suspect we'll have much to discuss. Bring your boyfriends too!

Your old friend,
V

The stress lines on Sylas' face recede slightly.

"Holy shit… V?"

Sylas approaches the diminutive, run-down diner with a slight pep in their step. An old friend—a potential ally— looking to reconnect and help them rescue their Conclave. The letter in their pocket is the best news they've received all day, bar none.

A few yards before reaching their destination, a voice Sylas doesn't immediately recognize rings out from behind them.

"Sylas?"

When Sylas whips around, they are greeted with the sight of a woman about their height covered head to toe in black winter clothes that contrast against her bright red scarf.

"V!"

V rushes forward, and the two embrace warmly. When the hug ends, Sylas suspects that it would have lasted longer if they didn't reek of gasoline.

"How have you been, V? I haven't seen you in ages."

"Pretty good! I see your transition has been treating you nicely."

"As has yours. I see you have…"

"Tits?"

"I was going to say 'much longer hair', but that works too."

"And you finally cut your hair! I told you it would look better at shoulder length."

"My partners are inclined to agree with you."

"How are they doing, by the way? I see they're not here with you. And hell, how have you been?"

"I…"

The two are interrupted by the slow crawl of Theo's car pulling into a nearby parking spot. Sylas is dimly surprised that Theo had checked his texts from them at all, let alone acted on them. He scarcely has time to exit his car before V dives in for a hug—and as Sylas suspected, the absence of gasoline means that this one lasts far longer.

"Hey, V," murmurs Theo.

"Hi Theo! It's great to see you. Looks like you're doing well."

No response. V looks to Sylas, and then to Theo, and then back to Sylas. It takes her a moment, but the realization hits her like a truck.

"Wait… where's Quinn?"

…

In the diner, a gloomy V spends her silence absentmindedly dipping her fry into ketchup. The equally gloomy Sylas and Theo sit across from her. Sylas is clung to the wall all the way at the end of the booth, while Theo hangs so close to the edge of it that he might as well be standing.

Finally, V breaks the silence. "Quinn was good to me, back when I was a stag. You all were. Even when I figured myself out and decided to leave, they were nothing short of a class act. Gods… I hope you know that I still think of you three quite often."

"Why didn't you ever call, then," Sylas asks bluntly, "or at least send a text?"

"As I wrote in my letter, I don't really do phones anymore. Or technology in general, for that matter. Suffice to say, it's a long story."

No response. Compared to the last time she saw them, these two are quite worse for wear, the thick dark circles under their eyes matching the somber intonations of their dwindling words.

Nevertheless, V does her best to keep the conversation going. "Now that I'm here, though… I want to help you get them back. They don't deserve whatever this 'Zaryus' guy has in store for them."

"Much appreciated," Theo says dryly.

"And, in turn, I think you can help us with something."

"'Us'?"

As if on cue, a second woman, clad in black robes that only partially obscure the esoteric symbols that adorn her face and head, strolls into the diner. Eager as ever, V scoots over and waves for her to join the group.

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss…" says Theo.

"Cassandra. The pleasure's all mine. After all, V has told me quite a bit about you two."

"Has she?"

"Indeed. Most importantly, I hear you two are… together?"

"More or less. We're…" Theo trails off, while Sylas squirms even closer to the wall. "Wait, how do you know V, exactly?"

"Cassandra is my boss," explains an unbothered (or perhaps oblivious) V. "Her and I have been tracking this cell of The Scarlet Church for a while now."

"Your 'boss'?" asks Theo. "How does that work?"

"About three years ago, V sought me out for guidance in the arcane arts. Ever since then, I've served as her mentor and patron. She's quite adept with her spells, you know—her education at your Conclave proved to be an excellent starting point."

"I'm glad she's been doing well," Sylas says with a smile. "From the scene surrounding the letter I got, it looks like you and her have been quite busy, to say the least."

"Indeed. The group I represent has a vested interest in destroying the Children of the Scarlet King," explains Cassandra. "The particular cell we've been tracking possesses a powerful relic that rightfully belongs to us. We seek to get it back."

"And we're looking to rescue our conclave from their clutches. The ritual involves…" Theo trails off, and his hand trembles upon the table. "If we don't rescue them, terrible things will happen."

"Your conclave being of the Order of the Sidereal Stag, I presume?"

Theo nods solemnly.

"V has told me some very interesting stories about the Order, you know. I hear its Horned Wardens are terrific hunters."

"Indeed we are," beams Sylas.

"If given the chance, I would ask you to regale me with tales of your exploits," Cassandra says warmly; Sylas relaxes their shoulders in response, while Theo rolls his eyes. "However, I believe time is of the essence. Tell me, Sylas: what preparations have you two made thus far?"

Sylas looks to Theo for the first time since arriving. He stares off towards nothing, as though he were less a person and more a hollow, icy shell. "My boyfr… Theo here has brewed a potion that can spoof the Bone Key we need. We know where the Way is, and we know the ritual is tonight."

"Excellent. Based on my prior experience, I suspect that the ritual chamber will be sealed by a triple-layered blood ward. Fortunately for you, V here has been training in the art of breaking those—so don't worry a thing, hm? You three will put an end to Zaryus' nasty little ritual, and I will go off and claim my relic. Everybody wins."

Sylas raises an eyebrow. "You're not joining us for the battle? Surely you can claim your artifact after I… we… kill Zaryus?"

"Sometimes, things are just that important," she grins.

Theo grimaces. "That's not an answer. And what is this 'relic' of yours, anyway?"

She chuckles "I would love to tell you boys all about it, but I am simply not at liberty to share anything. What I can say, however, is that the untimely recovery of this relic would prove disastrous for all parties involved. And if it's any help, I also plan to take care of any stragglers along the way that might get in the way of your rescue mission."

He raises his eyebrow and opens his mouth, but Sylas butts in: "That works well, then. Is there anything else we ought to go over?"

Theo sighs and shakes his head. "We can figure out the rest as we go."

"Perfect. We'll leave in half an hour," declares V.

Outside the diner, Sylas stares longingly from afar as Theo and V sort through their car trunks and take inventory of their supplies. Just as they work up the courage to approach the two, a long shadow cast over them from behind stops them in their tracks.

"Why hello there, Sylas," Cassandra says warmly. "How goes it?"

"…I'm doing alright, I think. Thank you for paying for the meal, by the way—I'm a bit strapped for cash right now."

"It's no trouble at all. I hope your situation improves soon, dear."

"Well, normally money isn't too much of an issue," Sylas continues, "but before I got here, I… spent everything I have on gas."

Cassandra sniffs the air; after a few seconds of contemplation, she smiles wryly. "Well, I'm sure Theo appreciates the gesture. The flames of passion drive you ever forward, eh?"

Sylas' heart skips a beat. They stand there anxiously instead of replying, their nails digging deeply into the side of their thigh, and stare off at Theo and V.

After some hesitation, Cassandra says: "Might I ask what troubles you, child?"

Sylas knows all too well that they are too tired to run anymore. "I… messed things up with Theo."

"Oh?"

Sylas sighs deeply. "When our Conclave was raided, something in me snapped. I started having these… no, I started listening to these terrible thoughts that I've never been able to shake."

"Violent thoughts", Cassandra says sagely, her hungry red eyes staring right into Sylas' soul. "You want to tear Zaryus to shreds, don't you?"

Sylas shifts uncomfortably. "…More than anything. But the more I let these thoughts become actions, the further Theo drifts away from me. We're barely even on speaking terms anymore. Without Quinn here, I truly don't know how to fix this."

She chuckles heartily. "You want to 'fix' this? Darling, I'm afraid it doesn't quite work that way."

"What?"

Cassandra steps closer. "These thoughts are part of you who you are, dear. Why deny them? You're not built for 'peace' or 'tranquility' like he is. You live to fight, to hunt, to kill. You can't afford to hold yourself back, not now."

"But the Order—"

"—Is nothing without your continued protection as a Warden, regardless of what their principles have to say on the matter. There isn't anything you'd do for them, is there?"

"…No. There isn't."

Cassandra leans in and whispers in Sylas' ear. "Then harden your heart. Talk to your Theo, reconcile with him, reaffirm your love… but conceal your urges until you finally get the chance to enact your vengeance. He'll never understand you, not really—but when you finally slay the monster responsible for all of his woes, he'll have no choice but to be grateful."

Theo's words echo through Sylas' pounding skull. You're like this for yourself, and nothing more.

"…Alright. I'll see what I can do. Thank you, Cassandra. And thank you for looking out for V, by the way. I'm glad she found somewhere she truly belongs."

"Of course. Good luck out there, hm? Young love is a precious thing. Don't waste it."

At that, the hesitant Sylas makes his way over to Theo and V.

"So, what's the deal with this 'organization' you're part of, V?" says Theo.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you've told me all about your swords, but not why you use them. What are you and Cassandra fighting for, exactly? Is it like a lesbian version of the Order, or…?"

V winces. "So, about that… most of us are lesbians, yes, but our goals aren't quite—"

"Sorry to interrupt," Sylas interrupts, "but… Theo, can I…?"

Theo's eyes water slightly. "Yes…?"

"There's a riverside park that's five minutes from here by foot. Can we walk there for a bit, just the two of us?"

The despondent Theo looks to V, who smiles warmly in response. "Go ahead, Theo. Be it far from me to get in the way of you two."

Theo nods wordlessly, walks over, and takes Sylas by the hand.

…

Bathed in the gentle orange glow of dusk, Sylas and Theo wordlessly walk along the calm, sun-kissed waters of the southbound river. Their hands squeeze each other almost hard enough to be painful, as though the starry sunset itself would collapse around them the moment they break from each other.

An eternity passes before Sylas finally speaks up.

"So, about earlier…"

Theo's pace slows to a crawl.

"I shouldn't have called you coldhearted. You're nothing if not kind, and loyal, and… the words escape me, love, but know that I never should have doubted you. I'm sorry."

"I forgive you. After all, you were right."

"What?"

Theo chuckles. "I tried to tell myself that I made my peace with what happened, shut off my feelings for the sake of the 'mission', but… truth be told, I don't know where I would be right now without you. Probably dead, like my piece of shit ex-boyfriend, or worse. This isn't the first time I've frozen up like this, and if we somehow survive everything tonight, it certainly won't be the last."

"But even as the nerves of battle get the better of you, all you've done is try to keep a level head and take care of us both. I'm the one who's been shutting you out."

"You say that as though you don't wear your heart on your sleeve, love," he says, tearfully. "I can see it all in your wonderful eyes—although actually acting on it is Quinn's department. I've never been good at that. It's hard enough keeping myself together in general—so when it all comes crashing down, and the fate of the entire conclave rests on our shoulders…"

Sylas sighs. "I wish Quinn was here. They always know what to do. Without them, it feels like we're…"

"…Falling apart?"

Sylas' eyes well up with tears. "Yeah. Exactly that."

The two continue walking with their heads held low. Fragments of their souls, once entrusted to their missing love for safekeeping, now drown in blood within the Scarlet King's insatiable maw, never to see the light of day again.

Some time later, Sylas speaks up. "What do you see in my eyes now, Theo?"

Theo stops to drink in the sight of Sylas' leafy green irises. "Fear? Anger? Confusion? You're a desperate, wounded animal. I can't fault you for trying to survive."

"I suppose you're right. This desperation you speak of… it's like I'm burning up from the inside. I'm glad I've finally had a chance to cool off."

"Burning up? Is that why you smell like gasoline?" he teases.

When Sylas blinks, the smell of smoke from the burning home returns to them all at once. Even as the decrepit trees surrounding it were charred black from the heat, Sylas savored the brilliant orange flames as they washed away the festering wound on the world left in the wake of the Children of the Scarlet King. It was an act of destructive delight, of guilt-riddled reclamation, of utter obliviation—a clean slate.

"…Something like that."

Theo smiles warmly.

"And how are you feeling, Theo?"

"Well, I called my boyfriend a selfish serial killer earlier, yet somehow I haven't been broken up with, even though I definitely deserve it. So… I'm confused, I guess?"

"You did say that, yes. I can't pretend it didn't hurt like hell."

Theo's tears flow in full force. "I never should said that, ever. It was spiteful, it was stupid, it was… I'm so sorry, Sylas. Gods, I'll never forgive myself for—"

"I know you didn't mean it, Theo. It's okay."

Theo breaks. He lets himself collapse into Sylas' chest, sobbing his heart out so that the light of dusk might finally thaw it. Sylas embraces him tightly, carrying with them the full weight of his burdens and woes, and inhales deeply. In this brief, breathless moment, Theo has nothing to fear, nothing to worry about, no one to mourn. Even as the smell of blood tightens around their throat, Sylas desperately clings onto their Theo, their love, their purpose.

After collecting himself again, Theo cups Sylas' face; his thumb gently grazes over the rough gash on Sylas' cheek, extracting from them a breathless, aching whimper. He then continues: "I just… I've never seen that look in your eye before. It scared me beyond belief. And now, I have to ask… what's going on? This rage, this violence… my love, are you alright?"

Harden your heart.

"…As you said," Sylas replies hesitantly, "the cornered desperation of it all simply got to me. Now that we've talked, I feel… calm again."

"When we face Zaryus tonight, will you… is that going to happen again?"

With their next lie, Sylas' heart snaps in half. "No—never again. You don't have to worry about me anymore, Theo. Everything's going to be okay."

"Thank the Gods…"

Theo relaxes in Sylas' arms, basking in the soft, pleasant texture of their fur cloak as it rubs against his cheek. Sylas grows eerily still as the guilt tendrils up their throat, but they swallow it down with some exertion, instead choosing to bask in the pleasant mineral smell of the river.

After sufficiently savoring the moment, Sylas breaks the hug and smiles. "I have something for you, by the way."

"Oh?"

From their pack, Sylas retrieves a wooden hair clip crudely whittled into the shape of a butterfly.

"I tried carving something for you while I was on the bus to the diner. Emphasis on tried, of course—I'm a beginner at this stuff, and the bus ride was quite bumpy. You can see that it's a bit misshapen on the left side here, and not to mention the dent on the—"

"It's perfect," Theo beams. "Gods, it's so perfect. I love you."

"I love you too."

The two then kiss, warmly and softly, under the dim embers of day.

When they arrive, Sylas is equally awed and unsettled to find the old factory utterly abandoned. Half of its windows are missing or shattered, with flimsy metal walkways rusted red and made precarious from time and rain. Greenery aggressively sprouts out from cracks in the brick walls, gaps in the concrete floor, and gaping holes in the snow-covered roof, ivy tendriling all the way to the top of a long-disused smokestack with what could very well be supernatural fervor. The suffocating grasp of modern civilization claims this domain no longer—but unlike the Conclave of Reeds, it also harbors a great darkness just below its battered surface.

When Cassandra exits her car, she takes a deep breath of winter-chilled air and smiles.

"You boys ready?"

"As ready as we'll ever be," Sylas replies.

Large gusts of wind sweep through the factory complex, gracing its littering of broken machinery with a light layer of snow. Save for the moonlight shining through the holes in the roof, little illumination can be found in this broken, barren place.

"What are we looking for, exactly?"

"Some sort of basement," V explains. "These guys like being close to the Earth. I'd look for a staircase leading down, or maybe an elevator shaft, or…"

"Does a hatch work?"

Tucked behind a cluster of machinery is a weathered steel hatch. Sylas gives it a good tug, but it doesn't budge one bit. Near the handle is a strange, oblong indentation in the metal—perfectly in size, they suspect, to fit a singular human rib.

After a careful tactile investigation, V says: "That looks to be it. Theo, would you do us the honors?"

Theo retrieves a large bottle of dark gray fluid from his pack, removes the cap, and carefully pours it into the indentation. Red magic sparks from it as it fills up, with the gray liquid sizzling and bubbling as it seemingly calcifies into solid bone. When the reaction finishes, a perfectly sized human rib is left in its place. The indentation hums warmly in recognition, and the hatch opens with a deeply gratifying click.

When Sylas yanks the hatch open, a red robe seated at a desk looks up at the party and frowns.

"What, are you bringing more stags tonight? Sorry, but the ritual just st—"

Before the cultist realizes their mistake, V leaps in and bashes them in the head with the hilt of her sword, knocking them out instantly. She peeks around the corner and takes a moment to check for any further threats before waving for the others to join her.

The Scarlet Den is a large complex of tall, interlocking hallways, each carved out of dark rock and engraved with intricate decorative patterns befitting of the Lord of the Throne of Despair and his vile servants. Torches of an otherworldly red hue line the walls and illuminate numerous visages of the Scarlet King, whose many-eyed depictions ensure that no privacy can be had in his sanctum in spite of its absence of bustling acolytes. The air is warm and stale, carrying with it a stench of blood and flesh that sends Sylas' amygdala into a panicked frenzy.

Theo whispers: "Why is it so quiet?"

"Some guard the relic," Cassandra muses, "while others are out in the world, spreading their king's vile untruths wherever they go. The rest participate in the ritual, which I suspect to be taking place at the end of this central hall."

The four skulk through the hall, casting long shadows on the side corridors as they go. Each corridor is marked by some sort of severed human part atop the archway leading into it: still-breathing lungs for living quarters, hands for weapon caches, and eyes for side exits. When they reach one marked by a still-beating brain, Cassandra stops.

"This is where I go off and do my thing," Cassandra says. "I leave you in V's capable hands."

"Good luck," Sylas says.

"You as well, Sylas," she grins. "I'll make sure no reinforcements reach you and interfere with your efforts."

Cassandra recedes into the darkness of the side corridor. Soon after, the remaining three reach the end of the hall, which is adorned by a throbbing heart. An intricately carved stone door—possessing no handle or knob with which it can be opened—is protected by three concentric rings of swirling red energy along its surface.

"So V," Theo asks, "how do you plan to open this?"

"With finesse," V says as she rolls up her left sleeve, revealing a varied assortment of large, discolored scars. "Although, I do suggest you avert your eyes."

"What do you m—"

In one clean motion, V draws a small, ornate dagger and drags it along the length of her forearm. Blood spews out from the wound, extracting a yelp of horror from Theo and a look of astonished curiosity from Sylas. Instead of spilling onto the ground, the blood leaps into the air as if by instinct, coalescing into a ring equal in size to the smallest of the door's rings. With her left hand, she then permits her blood ring to rotate along its central axis so as to match the rotational speed of the door's ring. After some careful adjustments, the two rings harmonize in a brilliant flash of light that dissipates them both.

"Holy shit V," exclaims Theo, "you do blood magic now?"

"I do," she says, grinning as she coalesces more blood into a second ring to break the next blood ward. "And for the record, I'm far better at it than these scarlet chumps."

"But do you always have to hurt yourself to use it?"

"Such is the blood price."

"The blood price…?"

"Quiet. I need to concentrate."

With the skill and patience of an experienced safe cracker, V breaks the second blood ward. The third and largest takes far more time and effort, extracting sounds of exertion and far more blood from her than the first two combined, but it too meets its end in due time. When finished, V nearly stumbles to her feet. Theo rushes in to offer her medical and alchemical aid, but she shakes her head.

"Save it for the Conclave. They'll need it far more than I do."

The door slides down, revealing a large ritual chamber consisting of three semicircular rings and a central altar at their center. Equally spaced around the raised outer ring are about a dozen red robes overlooking the ritual chanting hymns that neither Sylas nor Theo can understand. It is in the middle ring that the two stags find their prize: nineteen writhing members of the Conclave of Reeds, each stripped of most of their clothes and strapped to stone tablets. In addition to an assortment of bruises, each has bleeding gashes along their palms and feet; from them, their blood flows down into a central ring of swirling blood surrounding the central altar. Upon the altar is a restrained Quinn, dressed in the ornamental headgear and robes of a sidereal; an impossibly tall, imposing man who dons the red robe and a strange mask with unnaturally jagged antlers stands over them.

"So the stray stags have come after all," laughs the masked man—'Zaryus,' hisses Sylas—in a deep tone that echoes throughout the chamber. "I am most pleased."

All eyes are on Sylas, who draws their bow; Theo, who forms a makeshift shield out of magical ice; and V, who prepares her blood-stained blade.

Zaryus brandishes a ritual dagger with two hands and raises it high above Quinn's abdomen. "Using the blood of a sidereal and its pathetic stags, I shall ensure your false god meets a most gruesome end."

Despite their situation, the tearful Quinn chuckles as softly as ever. "I knew you'd come for us."

"Witness your unbecoming."

Sylas looses an arrow at Zaryus, which hits him square in the shoulder. He stumbles back in surprise, but not before the blade reaches its target. Quinn gasps violently, their body convulsing in place as their blood rises into the air, swirling high above the altar into the shadowy visage of a large, deer-like figure.

Theo yells out in horror. "Quinn!"

"Theo, you save Quinn and the others, now. V, keep him and the rest alive," orders Sylas.

The blood leaking from the screaming stags' limbs gushes into thick streams that leap out into the air in unison, each grabbing hold of the astral figure above and binding it in ropes of scarlet. The Sidereal Stag cries out in pain, attempting to fight back as best it can, but the cultists' rising chants keeps it at bay with startling ease.

"What about you?" V asks.

Zaryus pulls the arrow out of his shoulder, blood bursting from the wound as its jagged edge tears his flesh to shreds. Theo tosses a vial of green liquid to Sylas, who uncorks it with their teeth as they ready their next arrow.

"Zaryus is mine."

On cue, Theo and V dash to the side, and Sylas dips their arrow in the vial and launches it directly at Zaryus' center of mass. The blood from Zaryus' wound flows out towards his right hand, coalescing into a large, semi-solid lance nearly fifteen feet in length. He charges at Sylas with startling speed, intent on goring them with his lance right then and there. With their body acting far before their mind can catch up, Sylas dodges out of the way, avoiding the lance by merely a few inches.

Meanwhile, Theo and V rush past Zaryus and make a beeline for Quinn. Theo readies himself to apply his bottle of healing elixir, but is stopped in his tracks by three red robes that leap in from the outer ring. He blocks the first two's daggers with his shield, countering the first with a gout of slippery frost and the second with a small vial of acid. The third slips past and bashes his hip with a club. Right as he cries out in pain, V swoops in with a sword sweep that cleaves the attacker in two. When two more enter the fray, she draws a second sword, narrowly evading their weapons as she continues her onslaught.

Another charge from Zaryus forces Sylas to dodge before they can land another bow shot. Switching tactics, they draw their hunting knife, dip it in the vial of green liquid, and graze his leg as they once more narrowly evade his lance. If they're to win this duel, they know it's by landing a thousand poisoned cuts on him until he finally gives in—but with how Zaryus shrugged off that first arrow with ease, two thousand cuts might be more accurate. Meanwhile, with his brute strength, all Zaryus needs is one lucky hit to end the fight…

All the while, more and more cultists divert their attention from the ritual to Theo and V. One launches a blood pellet at Theo, which shatters his shield in an instant; a second pellet is met by V's blade, which expertly redirects it back at them and hits them square in the forehead. Unlike Zaryus and his red robes, V's swordplay is more akin to a dance than an actual fight to the death—she weaves in and out of the fray, the scarlet that spews forth from her enemies' wounds and her own flowing alongside her twin swords in a perfect harmony of blood and blade.

With V's distraction, Theo is able to rush to Quinn's side. Lacking Sylas' expertise in lockpicking, freezing the ropes that bind them and shattering them by hand proves to be his effective course of action. With Quinn loose, their blood stops flowing towards the Sidereal Stag—but its starry manifestation still hangs high above the battlefield.

Their attention diverted from the gaping hole in their abdomen, Quinn whispers: "The Stag… Theo, it's so beautiful…"

Emboldened by the celestial grace of the Sidereal Stag, Theo replies: "Hang in there, love. I'll get you out of this." Just as an expert surgeon wields their needles and scalpels with ease, Theo unleashes a slurry of healing elixirs and alchemical solutions alongside mundane first aid, intent on staving off the bleeding and closing the wound just enough to keep Quinn alive and stable.

Sylas' onslaught continues. Little by little, they wear down Zaryus with their knife, their arrows, and the paralytic agent—but the more blood they spill, the more blood he can use to fuel his magic. Another barrage of arrows forces Zaryus to form his blood into a thick, dripping shield of his own, which he then hurls at his attacker with a flick of his wrist. Sylas leaps into the air to dodge it, sticking onto the wall above them using bright orange magic that pulses in luminosity with their racing heart.

"Running already, Warden?"

"Fuck you," they hiss.

He chuckles. "How amusing."

Zaryus unleashes another flurry of blood crystals. Expecting the attack, Sylas pushes off the wall with their feet and soars through the air, embedding a poisoned arrow directly into Zaryus' foot as they pass over them. As he roars in anger, Sylas retrieves a handful of powder from their bag; with a swift incantation as they land, they blow the powder into a thick cloud of dust that obscures them both.

With Quinn stabilized for now, Theo rushes to the aid of his Conclave. He liberates the healthiest of them first, counting on them to free and treat the stags who are in dire straits from blood loss. Even with his ice magic, the process of freeing his allies is unbearably slow. Each stag freed releases the Sidereal Stag from one of its red bindings, but with their ever-tightening grip on its legs and neck, there's no telling how much longer it or the Conclave has left. It is then that a long, slender tendril of roots and thorns whips out from behind Theo, freeing two stags in one fell swoop before receding back to its source: the deathly pale Quinn, who has propped themselves up from the altar and joined the fray in spite of the abdominal wound that is simply itching to tear itself open again at the slightest jostle.

"Quinn, you shouldn't be moving right n—"

"Theo," Quinn says hoarsely, "I love you dearly, but please, let me do this for you."

Theo's eyes water; he nods once in agreement.

Using the cloud of dust to mask their footsteps, Sylas carves into Zaryus from all sides with their knife. They target the legs first, with the hope that the poison will interfere with Zaryus' mobility and make him an even easier target. Next is his arms, for Sylas suspects that he can't channel his magic nearly as effectively without the use of his hands. Finally, a few expertly placed cuts along Zaryus' abdomen prove effective at dosing his center of mass. They've trained for many years to rely on their hearing in survival situations—and even with the chaos of battle all around them, they've already etched Zaryus' cries of pain into their heart and cleared their mind of anything else that could cloud their judgement.

Of course, the safer option would be to launch arrows into the cloud from the outside—but beyond needing to prevent him from escaping the cloud, Sylas needs to hear the tearing of his robe and skin, to feel his flesh give way as their jagged knife proves itself to be his superior. Unfortunately, it takes only one omnidirectional burst of blood to disperse the cloud of dust, and only one hand to grab Sylas by the throat and pin them to the ground.

"This is the best you can do? Your desperation outpaces your rage, and both are dwarfed by my hatred towards your false god. Your ways of 'tolerance' and 'love' have no power here—at my hand, you will die all the same. Such is the Law of Blood."

Sylas spits in Zaryus' face, but only receives laughter in response.

With a free hand, they retrieves a small red pepper from their bag. They bite down on it and utter another incantation; at that, they inhale deeply through their nose, and their eyes water intensely. Zaryus releases Sylas and attempts to jump backwards, but the poison makes him sluggish—when a gout of vengeful fire bursts forth from their mouth, it burns away the rest of his hood and sets his mask ablaze. He screams in pain, and when he discards his mask, Sylas can't help but admire the deep red hue of the knife scars that have already left his face disfigured and marred.

Through the Conclave's combined efforts, fourteen of the twenty kidnapped members have been freed thus far. The bindings on the Sidereal Stag's legs dissipate into nothingness, allowing it to stand up unsteadily in spite of the red bindings that continue tightening around its neck. As Theo goes to free the fifteenth stag, a red robe bashes him on the side of his left knee, sending him tumbling to the ground. He stands up to counterattack, but he isn't fast enough to stop the cultist and one of their allies—the last of their allies, in fact—from rushing at Quinn. Fortunately, V's blades once more prove effective at thwarting their efforts.

"Do my eyes deceive me," Quinn exclaims, their eyes lighting up from sheer elation and surprise, "or is that you, V?"

"In the flesh," V says. She struggles to maintain her footing in the face of the attackers' superior strength, but blood from a wound on her thigh shoots out as bolas that bind the attacker's legs, allowing her to knock them back.

"You have tits now!" says the delighted Quinn, who follows up by coughing up a rather concerning quantity of blood.

"And you look like utter shit," she grins.

A gout of frost from Theo freezes the attackers' legs in place, giving V the opportunity to needs to cut them down.

Sylas and Zaryus' back and forth continues. Using the embers of flame that linger in their mouth, Sylas unleashes arrows of fire on the all-too-flammable robes of the slain cultists, effectively boxing Zaryus between them. Four more arrows embed themselves in his rended, charred flesh, but while Sylas' maneuvers slow more and more from sheer exhaustion, Zaryus' wounds only serve to provide him with more blood for his foul magic. On all counts, the amount of poison Zaryus has received should have fully paralyzed him by now—but between his thaumaturgical enhancements and the continued expulsion of this blood, Sylas' dwindling rate of doses simply can't keep up.

"Tired already, Warden?"

"I'm just getting started."

"You're all bark and no bite. Why do you waste your time?"

"I've been buying time, you filthy, disgusting creature. Look around you, Zaryus. Your lackeys are all dead, and my stags are nearly freed. It's over for you—we've won."

Before Zaryus can let loose a retort, he is forced to block a flurry of blows from a shifting crimson tendril, which snakes out from the carcass of the nearest red robe and relentlessly harasses him at V's behest. Theo then unleashes a cone of cold at Zaryus' feet, but when this magical frost snuffs out the burning corpses, he seizes his opportunity for a counterattack. Using sheer force of will, Zaryus exerts his command over not only V's tendril of blood, but also the blood still present within the corpses of his fallen allies. With his supreme hemomancy, he uses the tendril to slam V into the wall, followed by a barrage of burnt corpses to pin Theo against the opposite wall. He then brandishes his lance and sets his sights on Quinn.

"Your efforts are futile. I will end this here and now."

Zaryus charges at Quinn, hoping to complete the ritual by lancing them through the heart. With the last of their strength, Sylas intercepts the charge and takes the blow instead. It bores a large hole in their shoulder; Sylas' vision doubles from the pain, but the tingling sense of elation that follows courses out from their spine all the way to the tips of their fingers, keeping every inch of their squirming body fully awake and fully alert.

With their face mere inches away from Zaryus', Sylas sees the Sidereal Stag in the reflection of his dark red irises. With the last of its bindings released, the astral eminence stands tall and proud. Its starry form offers an impossibly beautiful, yet hopelessly brief glimpse into the infinite expanses of space and time. Its twinkling stars shine down on the teeming life of the countless planets that orbit them, with large nebulae and vastly larger galactic walls gracing the void with glory beyond belief, beyond reason, beyond life itself. The Sidereal Stag stares back at them through this reflection, nodding once at them before unleashing a brilliant flash of celestial light that blinds the unsuspecting Zaryus.

The moment Zaryus covers his eyes, Sylas swigs the rest of the poison and bites down on Zaryus' arm. They dig into his flesh with the full force of their jaw—extracting a tortured scream from him that exhilarates them beyond belief—and expel the venomous contents of their mouth into the deepest recesses of his muscle tissue. Zaryus' animated blood lashes out on instinct and wraps itself around Sylas' throat, but it is shunted back into his arm and forcibly circulated through his body by a final surge of V's blood magic. Five seconds later, the poison fully sets in, and both Zaryus and V collapse to their knees.

Sitting up slowly, the disoriented Sylas takes stock of the situation. All twelve of the red robes are dead, and with any luck, Zaryus will soon follow. Sylas, V, and Theo are fully depleted of adrenaline and spirit alike. Quinn and the other stags, in spite of their severe injuries, are hard at work taking care of their own. From what they can see, at least one stag has succumbed to the blood loss, with two more being unconscious and on the verge of passing along with them. This sight fills Sylas' vision with red, returning them to the terrible smell of blood and smoke at the Conclave all over again.

To Sylas' horror, Zaryus has other plans. Despite being fully paralyzed, tendrils of blood burst forth from his wounds, raising him into the air and dragging him towards them.

"This… changes nothing…"

With their legs depleted of energy, Sylas attempts to push themselves to their feet—but the excruciatingly large hole in their shoulder brings those plans to a short, fruitless end. The others try to drag themselves forward to intervene, but with their injuries, Sylas knows all too well that they can't make it in time.

"Do you feel it, Warden? The Howling… it tugs at us… compels us…. consumes us…—"

As Zaryus looms over them, Sylas grips their knife for dear life. They curse at themselves under their breath, for in spite of all of their determination, whether they survive comes down to the dice roll of who acts faster.

"In the end, He will break you… He will ruin you… HE WILL—"

A deafening crack rings out from behind Sylas, ricocheting off the walls and reverberating throughout the ritual chamber. As the bullet whizzes past, it takes them a full three seconds to realize that its true destination is the original arrow hole in Zaryus' shoulder, and that they have in fact not reached their gruesome end quite just yet. The bullet rips through the already-brutalized flesh and bone with ease, and when they push past the initial horror of a gun being fired in their vicinity, Sylas nearly finds themselves too mesmerized by the carnage left in its wake to turn around and discover who fired it.

Cassandra spins the barrel of her revolver, casually pulls the safety without a care in the world, and fires again.

This time, the bullet lands at the bottom of Zaryus' right eye socket, precisely where the maxilla meets the zygomatic bone. Fragments of these bones ripple out into his orbital cavity, shredding his eye in its entirety and spraying large, crimson-stained blobs of clear vitreous gel back onto Sylas. The rescued members of the Conclave yelp in horror, flinching backwards and clutching onto their loved ones out of weary, adrenaline-depleted instinct. Only being partially desensitized to skull-bullet collisions, Theo averts his gaze, but not before covering Quinn's eyes. V smiles in relief and joy. As Zaryus rolls onto the floor and cries out, Sylas drinks in every millisecond of the brutal, agonizing pain he experiences with their hungry green eyes, although a dim concern that these bullets might prove fatal creeps into the back of their still-pounding skull.

"Relax, Sylas," reassures Cassandra. "It takes a lot more than that to kill someone of his caliber."

At that, the mostly-paralyzed Zaryus chuckles to himself. It devolves into a restrained giggle, and then into unhinged, maniacal laughter. "So these are your lackies, Cassandra? Once more, you prove too cowardly to face me one on one."

"Wait," Sylas says. "You know her?"

Zaryus continues laughing. "I understand now. She's kept you in the dark, hasn't she? Such ignorant, usable fools."

Cassandra maintains a neutral expression that gives nothing away. From up close, however, Sylas detects a slight, disdainful crease in her brow.

"What are you talking about?" Theo asks urgently.

"Cassandra was one of us," sneers Zaryus. "She was a proud bearer of the Red Cloak, led our profane congregations in sin and iniquity, slaughtered hundreds in the name of our Lord—Just. Like. Me."

All eyes are on Cassandra, who remains unmoving and unflinching.

"Then she ran off to worship some bastardized version of the Red God like the filthy heretic she is," says Zaryus as he spits at her feet. "The scars on my face are from my attempts to put an end to her madness."

At that, Cassandra finally breaks into laughter. "She Who Weeps Crimson is already far greater than The Scarlet King has ever been. The war's over, Zaryus—the Crimson Weavers have won. History simply… hasn't caught up yet. Isn't that right, V?"

Theo looks to V, who immediately spouts off rhetoric as though she had rehearsed it. "You're correct. The Scarlet Fool destroys, but the Great Weaver reshapes. The Slumbering Idiot defiles his subjects and enemies alike, while the Mistress of Chains wishes to see us all ascend to greater heights. The Red Pretender is cold, cruel apathy, but the Red Dancer loves all who earn Her warm, radiant favor. The masses will learn of Her supremacy soon enough."

Theo clutches his head. "I knew it—you're in a fucking cult. Kool-Aid and everything, huh? Gods, V, I should have never let you leave, I… what happened to you? Are you okay?!"

V finally breaks from Theo's gaze and looks to the ground with downcast eyes. She opens her mouth to reply, but when Cassandra answers for her, she swallows it all and returns to the cold comfort of her indoctrination. "She's never been better, darling. So much blood spilled in Her name… I truly couldn't ask for a better apprentice."

"What have you done to her?!"

The ceaseless arguing that disgraces Sylas' still-ringing ears fades into the background of their mind. Their senses are bombarded by the smell of blood that permeates the room, their clothes, their skin, their soul. In the face of the overwhelming metallic odor of death and destruction, how could anything else matter?

An enraged Quinn limps forward and summons a wood-carved staff into their hand. "If you think for one second that you can come in here and backstab my Conclave—"

"'Backstab'? Me?" says Cassandra, who does little to hide her insincerity. "Of course not. I'm here to help, Quinn. It's what I do."

Blood from the holes in Sylas' shoulder, in Quinn's stomach, in Zaryus' eye and shoulder, in the stags' hands and feet. The sweet crimson that leaks from the minced carcasses of the red robes, and the expelled lifeblood of at least one stag who succumbed to their injuries. Their murderous, red-stained hands, their harmonious hunting knife turned insatiable executioner's blade, their carnivorous mouth still filled with the taste of iron and large chunks of scarlet flesh. The rage, the fear, the hatred. The smell of blood swirls through the room, filling Sylas' vision with burning red hatred, howling into their mind the terrible bloodshed they know in their heart to be the only path forward.

"You're full of shit, Cassandra," yells Theo.

"Think what you'd like, but this has never been about me, has it? No, the only person in this room that truly matters is right here in front of me."

The blood-drunk Sylas looks up at Cassandra, who stares back down at them with a warm, gleeful smile.

"It's time, dear Sylas."

Sylas drops their knife and eagerly pounces on Zaryus as though they were a child tearing apart a Christmas present. They use their nails to cut his flesh to ribbons, starting with the forearm he futilely blocks with and working all the way up to his terror-stricken face. There, Sylas takes their sweet time adding their own artistic vision atop the canvas of scars that Cassandra has prepared for them—first ripping his lower lip down to the tip of his jaw, then tearing large holes in the beautiful web of muscles that constitute the left side of his cheek, and after that enjoying the terrible shredding of the cartilage that makes up his nose.

The onlookers freeze in place, their mouths agape at the gruesome picture before them. Theo's hand hovers over his quivering mouth, but before long, he is the first to break from his fearful inaction and rush forward to intervene. A perplexed, beyond-terrified Quinn soon follows. Even V joins in, her delighted smile quickly fading into a grimace of disgust and concern.

"Sylas, stop—"

In an instant, Theo's left arm contorts at strange, unnatural angles against his will. His legs follow soon after, bringing him to his knees, and then to the cold, blood-soaked floor. Theo watches in horror as Cassandra commands the internal blood of every other onlooker in the room—Quinn, the stags, even V herself are sent tumbling to the ground in response to her hand gestures. Only Sylas remains free—free to maul, to rip, to tear, to kill the source of all their troubles and woes.

Sylas jams his thumb into Zaryus' left eye, plunging him into darkness forevermore. They enjoy the terrible squish yielded from their bodily dismantling, their fine-tuned control over an enemy they once held such fearful reverence towards, the bloodcurling scream of fear and grief it extracts from his helpless body. Never again would Zaryus gaze upon the vile destruction he brings forth in the name of his supposed 'god'. Never again would Zaryus take and defile that which Sylas holds so near and dear to their heart. Never again would Zaryus know peace, know safety, know joy, know power. The only certainty afforded to him is that Sylas, and Sylas alone, would be his undoing.

"Sylas," strains Theo, "don't let her do this. Don't let her make you—"

Sylas reaches both hands into the hole in Zaryus' shoulder and pulls it apart with all their might. With every tendon and muscle and ligament they snap, a memory flashes through their horrid mind. Their initiation as a young, timid fawn, barely cognizant of the occult and their identity, who had finally worked up the courage to run away from home and join a community who actually cares about them. The first time they shot a bow—three bullseyes in a row!—and the bright red blush it yielded from the onlooking Quinn. Their first kiss with Theo underneath the dangling mistletoe that spun their world off its axes. The momentous occasion of their top surgery, and the excitement of their induction to the Horned Wardens barely two months afterwards. How could Sylas spit in the face of these memories with their cruelty?

Quinn fights the urge to cry. "Sylas, no… this isn't you, this—"

"This is who you have always been—your rage, your hatred, your victory. Don't let them take this from you."

Sylas' bloodlust returns with a vengeance. With much exertion, Zaryus' arm finally comes off with a loud crunch of bone. Zaryus screams, but Sylas screams louder, bringing the severed arm down upon his face over and over and over and over and over and over and over again as tears stream down their face in full force, every collision conjuring a different emotion into the forefront of their mind. The fear of their violent compulsions, of manifesting them into reality at the mere thought of opening up to the others about them, of being exiled from the Order for their incurable severity. Their bitter self-loathing, of how far they've strayed from the life they once had, of their inability to do anything to save the ones they love from vile monsters like Zaryus, of being alone with nothing but the smell of blood and smoke and blood and smoke and—

"You'll never be safe while his heart still beats. He is a kidnapper, a murderer, an irredeemable cultist of a mad god the world would be better off forgetting. Slaughtering him is the only way forward."

Sylas drops Zaryus' arm and looks to their Conclave, their friends, their family. Without Sylas, it all falls apart—their peaceful ways simply can't save them. They need Sylas' protection, Sylas' destructiveness, Sylas' mur—

"Wait," Sylas says, looking frantically to Cassandra, then to their people, then back to Cassandra, "what are you doing to them?!"

"This choice is yours and yours alone, Sylas. I won't let them take it away from you."

"I…"

What kind of family would try to stop Sylas here, at the crescendo of their work, their duty? Prevent them from seizing the one opportunity they have to enact the justice they lack the means, will, and stomach to carry out themselves? To deny Sylas this terrible, glorious, stomach-churning, beautiful part of themselves in the name of 'peace' and 'tranquility'?

Sylas releases Zaryus and crawls over to grab their blood-soaked knife. With another flick of her wrist, Cassandra forces Zaryus onto his knees, his head held low, his arm pinned behind his back, his mauled face dripping copious amounts of blood onto the cold stone floor. The perfect position for judgement, for punishment, for execution.

"So tell me, little fawn: will you do what needs to be done?"

Sylas raises their knife to Zaryus' throat, but when they gaze upon the face of their blood-soaked knife, they flinch backwards—for the briefest moment, they do not recognize their own reflection within it. Hyperventilation soon follows, with the nerves in their hand crying out in fear one last time before the pins and needles drown them in total numbness.

Sylas then looks to their people, their horrified, sickened people, who have been made to watch the spectacle in its entirety by Cassandra's blood magic. Their disgust threatens to drown Sylas in resentful rage all over again, but in Quinn and Theo's anguished faces, they find something curious: guilt. Guilt over not anticipating this breakdown ahead of time, over not being there for them when they needed it most, for not cradling this desperate, wounded side of them and telling them that yes, everything will be okay, love.

When Sylas blinks, they are returned to the majestic visage of the Sidereal Stag. When It nodded at them, It harbored no disapproval or disgust for them—only acceptance in its purest, most divine form. And all at once, they finally understand.

"…I won't do it."

"Oh?"

Drained of all energy and spirit, Sylas turns back to Cassandra and allows their knife to clatter to the floor.

"I'm sorry, but this is as far as I go."

The others exhale in relief, but their hearts drop into their stomachs merely two seconds later when Cassandra raises her revolver.

"Consider your options carefully, child."

"Kill me if you must, but I won't bloody my hands anymore. It ends here, Cassandra."

Through their tears, Sylas stares Cassandra down. Her narrowed crimson eyes are filled with barely-restrained anger and genuine disappointment, and her bony finger hovers over the trigger, ready to blow a hole in their head at the slightest twitch. Her gaze remains utterly affixed to Sylas. No one else in the room even registers in her mind—the others strain against Cassandra's magic to no avail, and Zaryus is balanced on the thin edge of consciousness, with only the gurgling of blood escaping the confines of his ruined mouth.

Cassandra inhales slowly. Behind her other emotions, Sylas senses something else filling her mind. They narrow their eyes, gazing deeper into her soul in search of answers, and at long last they find… admiration.

Click.

No bullet exits the chamber. Cassandra chuckles knowingly, holstering her unloaded revolver with a quick, effortless twirl.

"Well done, Sylas. You win."

With a flick of her wrist, the onlookers are freed from their magical binding. Theo and Quinn stand up unsteadily, rushing over to grab onto the tearful Sylas and dote over them as best they can. The other stags interpose themselves between her and the reunited throuple, ready to fight in defense of their Warden in spite of their injuries.

Sylas looks down at their shaking, bloodied hands. "I'm sorry, I… I shouldn't have—"

Quinn shushes them with a smile. "It's okay, love, we're here. We've got you."

Sylas nuzzles into Quinn, basking deeply in the comforting presence of their lost love. They then look to Theo, who stares back at them with a smile of pride and joy that makes their very soul ache to the core.

At this display of affection, Cassandra sighs deeply. "You really are a wonderful stag, Sylas. You'll make an excellent ally in the battles to come."

"Like hell I will."

"I doubt you'll have much say in the matter," she muses. "These are desperate times, after all. I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."

Sylas furrows their brow; Cassandra simply smiles. With another quick hand motion, the battered Zaryus rises into the air, levitating past the stags and towards her.

"Come along now, V. I have what we came here for—now the real work begins."

V stands up unsteadily and attempts to regain her balance following Cassandra's blood binding. She slowly walks over to her master, but is stopped by Theo, who grabs her wrist with a firm hand.

"V, you… don't go with her," he pleas. "Stay with us. Please."

V looks back tearfully; her face is stricken with grief and fear in equal measure.

"I'm sorry, Theo," she says solemnly before hardening her heart, "but this is the only path forward. I… don't look for me. It won't end well."

Theo's grip loosens, and V continues walking. She joins Cassandra, who strolls towards the exit with the incapacitated Zaryus in tow.

"…What next, boss?"

As she reaches the exit, Cassandra retrieves the relic from her cloak and brandishes it proudly. It appears to be a collection of papers, each handwritten in blood red ink, that had seemingly been torn out of a book.

"We're off to make history."

Cassandra and V slink into the shadows, leaving only the reunited Conclave of Reeds in the bloodied barrens of the ritual chamber.

Back at the Conclave of Reeds, a lengthy funeral of poetic words, songs, and keening is held for the fallen stags. Each of the seven deceased—five slain during the initial attack, plus two more who succumbed to blood loss from the ritual—are fully cleaned up, dressed in their favorite clothes, adorned with white gladiolus flowers, and gently lowered into the creek. Quinn takes it upon themselves to tend to Hershel's body, planting a mournful kiss upon his forehead before letting their beloved sidereal flow towards the starry horizon alongside the rest of his kin. The Conclave watches solemnly as the stars themselves claim the gentle dead, transforming them into scatterings of celestial motes that each disperse in brilliant flashes of white starlight.

The rebuilding process in the days that follow is certainly not without its challenges, but before long, the Conclave of Reeds is repaired to a reasonably functional state. Even in the absence of their dearly departed friends, life goes on—the best the stags can do, they reason, is live a good life in their stead.

…

After a quick knock, Theo enters Quinn's quarters, smiling warmly at the sight of Sylas lying on the bed and resting their head on Quinn's lap.

"How's the sidereal life treating you today, love?" he asks gently.

"Pretty good, I think," says Quinn. "Haven't gotten too much sleep, but beyond that, I scarcely have any complaints. It's everything I had hoped for and more."

"I'm glad," Theo grins. When he sits down next to the two of them, Quinn wastes no time diving in for a kiss on the cheek. He then teases: "Enjoying the view, I see."

"Indeed I am. This one just woke up a few minutes ago."

"I'm very awake," mumbles the sleepy Sylas, who struggles to keep their eyes open.

"I'm sure you are," giggles Theo. "Still adjusting to being on break?"

"Yup. I can hardly believe I volunteered for this. A whole year of not being a Horned Warden…"

Sylas clenches their fist involuntarily; Quinn helps them relax by offering their hand to hold onto, and then reassures: "The others are hard at work making sure we're well protected even without you on duty, so don't you worry a thing. Just focus on yourself, alright?"

"I suppose so," they say begrudgingly. The thought of the Conclave being defenseless without them, the fear that any day now something terrible could happen to their people again, brings back the horrid smell of blood all over again. But when Theo's hand reaches their hair, they can't help but nuzzle into the comforting safety it provides.

"You'll be back in shape in no time," says Theo, "especially once you get some counseling. After all that, you'll be ready for your Mirror Hunt."

"I hope so," sighs Sylas. "I hate to imagine what sort of inner demons it'll make me fight as external ones."

"You have a whole year at minimum to prepare," reassures Quinn. "Nobody's doing the ritual until we know you can handle it. And once you do… well, you'll be free of everything that's been holding you back!"

"I can't pretend I haven't been looking forward to that," Sylas sighs, "but I'll need to find some hobbies to hold me over. The boredom is killing me."

"I have a few ideas," teases Theo. "But first thing's first—Quinn, did you read my latest text?"

"I did—everything's been passed along to the other sidereals. If their scouts find anything hinting to her location, we'll be the first to know."

The ever-curious Sylas looks to the other two in confusion. "What's all this about?"

"It's simple," Quinn declares, confident as ever. "We're going to bring V home."

‡ Licensing / Citation

_adult _licensebox action art-exchange bittersweet fantasy lgbtq romance scarlet-king tale

page revision: 15, last edited: 13 Jun 2026 00:33

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