His eyes moved once more—slowly—from Mira to Veron, lingering on the bandages, the stillness, the way the wounded man sat upright without fear or feeling.
Jealousy came first.
It was subtle. A tightening around the eyes. A faint pause in his breathing. He had expected blood. Or obedience. Not this quiet intimacy of proximity. Not Mira standing between him and the man who was supposed to be a corpse.
Mira did not answer immediately.
That hesitation—brief, almost invisible—was enough.
Kyle understood then.
Not betrayal.
But not obedience either.
He chuckled softly, as if amused by a private joke, and stepped aside from the doorway.
"Well," he said pleasantly, turning his head toward the two villagers who had guided him here, "thanks for your help. You can leave now."
The two just nodded obediently, knowing that something bad would happen.
They moved to leave when the sound stopped them, his voice calm. "Tell my men to come. All of them."
No threat. No urgency.
An order delivered like courtesy.
The two villagers didn't argue. They left, fear tangled in their movements.
Kyle stepped inside.
The door closed behind him with a muted thud.
The cabin shrank.
The fire crackled once, then settled, as if aware it no longer mattered.
Kyle removed his gloves carefully. He looked around—at the bed, the supplies, the way Mira stood with worry in her eyes.
Then he moved.
The first blow came without warning.
A kick drove into Veron's ribs—precise, practiced. Bone shifted. Air tore from Veron's lungs in a broken sound he swallowed down.
Kyle stepped back half a pace. Watched.
Then struck again. Same place. Deeper.
Veron folded, clutching the site of the blow in pain. Blood seeped through the edge of the bandages at his mouth.
Kyle crouched slightly, adjusting his angle, and drove his elbow upward.
Mira moved. Just once.
"Kyle—"
He didn't look at her.
Another blow. Jaw. Controlled. Enough to hurt. Not enough to kill.
Veron went down fully this time, his shoulder scraping against the floor. He pushed himself up again, breath ragged, eyes steady.
Kyle exhaled through his nose, faintly amused.
"Where is it?" he asked quietly. "That pressure."
A punch. Ribs.
"Where is Ritsu's blade?"
Another. Jaw.
Veron collapsed. Rose. Collapsed again.
The rhythm was deliberate.
Punishment, not fury.
Mira reached again, grabbing Kyle's arm this time.
"That's enough."
Kyle turned his head at last. Looked at her hand on his sleeve.
He removed it gently.
"No," he said softly. "It isn't."
He struck Veron once more. Harder.
Veron's breath hitched. His vision swam. The floor felt very far away and far too close at the same time.
He forced himself upright, on one knee despite the agony tearing through his ribs.
When he spoke, his voice was hoarse—but calm.
"You know who I am."
Kyle stilled.
The cabin seemed to hold its breath.
"If I wasn't broken…" Veron continued evenly, blood slipping from beneath the bandages, "…you wouldn't be standing."
Silence.
Kyle stared at him for a long second.
The door opened.
Skyrend soldiers filled the cabin, boots crunching snow inside. They took in the scene at once: the blood, the man on the floor, the eyes that did not beg.
One hesitated.
Another leaned closer, whispering, "That's him…"
A third frowned. "Kyle… what's going on?"
Kyle straightened, authority settling back over him like a mantle.
"The hunter," he said calmly. "Veron."
The name rippled through the room.
"Chain him."
They obeyed.
Cold iron wrapped around Veron's wrists. He didn't resist. Didn't look at them. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, memorizing the weight of each presence, each face.
The men noticed Mira as well.
"And the girl?" one of them asked Kyle.
Mira stepped forward then.
"Kyle," she said evenly. "Dirak ordered him dead. I know. But listen."
Kyle tilted his head. Allowed it.
"He exposed me," Mira continued. "They know. And Dren has Asha."
That did it.
Kyle's expression sharpened, attention narrowing like a drawn blade.
"If Veron dies now," Mira said, meeting his eyes, "Asha dies with him."
The lie settled between them—heavy, convincing.
Kyle studied her for a long moment. Then nodded once.
"Alive," he said. "For now."
He pulled Mira into him briefly—one arm around her shoulders, possessive, unquestioning. No warmth. No comfort.
Mira stiffened, her eyes turning to Veron.
Veron did not look at them.
The soldiers searched the cabin.
One of them paused near the packs. Slowly, reverently, he drew out a sheathed sword.
The air changed.
Kyle stepped forward. His hand closed around it.
"Do not open it," he ordered.
The soldier froze and handed it over.
Kyle weighed the sword in his palm, eyes dark with satisfaction.
"Dirak will be pleased."
The words landed like a sentence.
Kyle turned back to Mira. "Where did they go?"
"Supplies," she answered smoothly. "They are looking for the nearest village."
Kyle gestured to his men. "Ten of you. Find them."
The rest fell into formation.
Veron was hauled by his chains, iron clinking with each step. He walked when ordered. Stumbled once. Was yanked upright again.
Outside, the snow began to fall harder.
Mira mounted behind Kyle. Her gaze lingered on Veron as they moved.
He did not return it.
The road stretched white and unforgiving ahead.
Veron walked in silence, chains biting into his wrists, breath measured, eyes cold. He counted faces. Steps. Directions.
Far from them, Dren and Asha entered a village, unaware of the shadow lengthening at their backs.
Winter followed all of them.
And this time, Veron walked into it bound—body defeated, mind unbroken.