Simon's gaze flickered downward, then back up to Michel.
Michel hesitated before speaking. "...I saw you throw that dagger," he said slowly.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
"You hit the mark too well," he continued. "You've done that before."
Sylene said nothing.
Michel's voice dropped, uncertain. "I thought you were just a pet... but are you that kind of pet?"
Sylene's grip tightened slightly on the dagger.
"I mean," Michel went on, choosing his words carefully, "Did you... used to do dirty work for your master, like...killing?"
A cold silence settled between them.
Sylene sighed, tilting his head back against the carriage wall. A master… if Rosencraft counted as one, then yes.
"We were scrapped if we didn't complete the task," he said simply.
If we failed the experiment, we were discarded.
Something flickered across Michel's face. Pity. And then—something else. Fear.
The air between them shifted, walls rising.
Michel swallowed. "Then… you—you're not a normal hybrid, are you? A… vampire...avian hybrid bred for battle?"
Sylene smirked, his gaze drifting toward the window. Beyond the glass, snow fell in slow, lazy spirals, coating the world in white. The ghouls were thinning, retreating into the mist.
"Maybe," he murmured. "Or maybe my owner was just crazy."
Michel looked away.
Sylene's smile faded, his voice quieter.
"...And cruel."
---
Around midnight, they halted near a lake. Hours had passed since the ghouls had dwindled, and they had finally entered a campsite area. They weren't alone—two other traveling groups had set up camp as well—but at this hour, no one dared to step outside. Bryent made the call to rest until lunchtime tomorrow, ensuring everyone had a chance to recover. Other than Simon, no one had suffered serious injuries—just minor scratches at worst. He sniffed proudly.
"Good job, everyone! I'll open some booze tonight. First group, get some rest. Second group, take night watch."
Sylene wasn't particularly tired, so he volunteered for the first night watch along with Bryent, Michel, and a few others.
As he chewed on a piece of crispy bacon, the rich, sweet-savory flavor spread across his tongue, bringing a rare moment of comfort. No nausea this time—his stomach accepted the food without protest. Good. Delicious food belongs inside the belly. So stay there, alright? Nice, juicy bacon? He rubbed his stomach in satisfaction, lips curling into a small smile.
"Ey, boy! Come over here. Sit with us," Bryent called.
Michel and Bire were still lingering nearby, but Bire cast him another unreadable glance before retreating toward the carriage to sleep. That lingering stare made Sylene bristle slightly. It was just a ghoul—why so wary over it?
The campfire flickered, casting warm light over the rough faces of the mercenaries. A portable stove provided steady heat, and Michel, along with the others on night duty, quietly shared their rations of bread and meat. Bryent cracked open a bottle of booze, taking a deep, satisfied sip before sighing loudly.
"Ahh, this is life! Nothing beats a drink after smashing smelly corpses!"
"We ran from them," someone pointed out flatly.
The party-pooper remark didn't dampen Bryent's mood. He merely laughed, shaking his head. "Well, we had to save ammo. You know how expensive that shit can be."
Pouring the booze into plastic cups, he held them up, waving them under his companions' noses. "Doesn't this smell better than those rotting piles? Hell, I bet it's better than some women right now! Hah!"
His gaze flickered to Sylene, who was still happily munching away. With a teasing smirk, he strolled over.
"Yo, kid. This stuff's off-limits for you. Sorry."
Sylene barely spared the drink a glance, but the strong, pungent aroma curled into his nose, making his stomach turn. His fingers unconsciously tightened around his food. Alcohol. The scent was too familiar. Not just from taverns or passing mercenaries, but from something much colder, much worse.
Antiseptic.