Sylene shot him a sharp glare, clearly unimpressed.
"But it's not impossible," Michel added with a careless shrug. "With your looks, it'd be easier than you think."
Before Sylene could react, Bryent ruffled Michel's hair roughly. "Not a bad idea! Then we can sell Michel to some rich noble madame and use the money for more supplies!"
Michel let out an outraged roar, swatting Bryent's hand away, grumbling and sulking for the rest of the night.
Later, when the fire had burned low, Michel handed a steaming bowl of soup to Bryent. "Pass this to Bire. He asked for some earlier."
Bryent raised an eyebrow. "Why not pass it yourself? He'd be happy to get it from you."
Michel scoffed, arms crossing. "I don't want him getting cocky."
Shrugging, Bryent took the bowl and ambled off.
Sylene, who had been observing, tilted his head slightly. Something about Michel's behavior didn't quite add up. The young mercenary kept his distance from Bire, deliberately moving to the farthest spot possible. And yet, despite that, Bire always gravitated toward him, teasing and irritating him at every chance.
Noticing Sylene's puzzled expression, Michel sighed and rubbed his forehead. "No, we're not fighting," he muttered. "I know they worked hard to get my VX, but I don't like how Bire keeps bringing it up. It's like he wants me to feel indebted to him, while the others didn't bring the topic out. If he wants me to pay him back that badly, I'll just do it."
He rifled through his belongings, his movements quick and tense.
Michel's fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeping bag, knuckles turning pale against the fabric. His voice, though steady, carried an undertone of something heavier—something unspoken.
"Not to mention, he never shuts up about me," he muttered, a hint of bitterness creeping in. "Always calling me an idiot, smacking my head like I'm still a kid."
He hesitated, then let out a soft chuckle, but there was no real amusement in it. The corners of his lips twitched upward, but his eyes remained shadowed, distant.
"They say I'm too sensitive," he continued, exhaling slowly. "I know I owe them—I grew up with them. They took me in when I had nothing. But sometimes..." His gaze dropped, fingers tracing absent patterns against the rough fabric. "Sometimes, it feels like I have to just put up with it. Like I don't get a say."
His voice dipped lower, quieter now, as if the weight of memory pressed down on his chest.
"Did you know Bire was my neighbor when the vampires came to my village?" His words barely stirred the air, but the sadness in his eyes said more than his voice ever could.
The fire's faint glow cast flickering shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
"We survived for days in the woods, just the two of us," he murmured. "No shelter, barely any food. I was too scared to sleep. He kept me alive, kept me moving." A slow, measured breath followed, as if steadying himself. "Then Bryent found us. Took us in. Bire was already an adult by then. He became Bryent's right-hand man. Before that, he used to be our village's go-to guy—everyone depended on him. But when the vampire came to our village, he left with me, ignoring people screaming for his help as we ran into the forest."
His grip on the fabric loosened slightly, shoulders slumping. "I still feel miserable when I remember that."
"I don't know what he's thinking. Maybe that's why he acts like this," Michel said, his voice almost too soft to hear. "Like he still has to look after me."
Michel let out a breath, shoulders slumping. "I'm an adult now. I have my own thoughts, but he still treats me like a kid."
He huffed, shaking his head as he unrolled his sleeping bag. "Forget it. I'm just talking nonsense. Maybe they're right. Maybe I am an idiot. Or an ungrateful bastard."
Sylene remained quiet, taking in the frustration simmering in Michel's words. He understood—more than he wanted to admit.
"You're not bad," Sylene said finally.
"You're nice. Even if your mouth is sharp. Kind of like Bire."
Michel shot him a look, eyebrows raised.
"And if they kept calling me an idiot or slapping my head, I'd be mad too," Sylene added, voice steady. "Maybe… try talking to him?"
For a moment, Michel was silent. Then, a small sigh broke the tension.
"I didn't know you were capable of saying something comforting." Michel smirked, rolling into his sleeping bag. The soft hum of the heater filled the space. "Thanks. I feel... a bit better now. I'll try talking to him tomorrow. Or at least, the next time he smacks my head."
Not long after, quiet snores filled the carriage.
Sylene remained awake, listening. The murmurs of the mercenary group drifted through the night—casual conversation, hushed laughter, Simon's low voice as he spoke about his wounds. Beyond them, the forest breathed. Branches rustled, insects droned softly, and distant animal cries punctuated the silence. Everything felt… normal.
Sylene burrowed into the thick blanket, the heater's warmth seeping through the fabric, loosening the tension in his muscles. He hesitated, fingers gripping the edges. It was too warm. If he let himself get too comfortable, it would melt.
The rose.
His thumbs had improved—no longer raw and aching, only faint, pale cracks remained, like the last traces of frost before thaw. The color had almost returned to normal, blending into the rest of his skin.
He flexed his fingers experimentally, then reached for the ice rose.
It had been safe, buried in the snow back at the inn, in his food pouch, or preserved in the cold. But here, he hesitated. He didn't want to leave it outside, exposed. His grip tightened around it as if reluctant to let go.
It was already four in the morning, the sky still consumed by darkness. Silent as a shadow, he slipped out of the carriage, white breath curling into thick clouds in the freezing air. The cold bit at exposed skin, sharper now, a deeper chill settling into his bones.
Kneeling beside the carriage, he pressed the ice rose into the snow, covering it carefully. A twig and a small stone marked the spot—an odd, uneven shape, but enough to recognize later. Even so, the sight of it settled something in him.
His fingers lingered for a moment before he pulled back. The air stung against his skin as he hurried back inside, slipping beneath the blanket.
The sleeping bag was suffocating, too much warmth against the firebird blood thrumming beneath his skin. But the blanket—it was just right.
The weight of exhaustion pressed down on him, and within seconds, he sank into deep rest.