Lannord's words seemed to fall on deaf ears. A pale, lavender flush began to creep up Stellan's neck, suffusing his face with an unnatural glow as the blood throbbed visibly in his veins. "No, please," Lannord whispered, genuine fear gripping him for the first time in recent memory—not since his first mission had such weakness coursed through his limbs. It was the terror of witnessing Stellan slip beyond control. "I don't want us tearing each other to pieces..." In truth, he feared more for himself than his companion. A werewolf, no matter how skilled, rarely held advantage in combat against one of the Blood Race.

  "What are you two... talking about?" Lothar's voice drifted up weakly from the ground. Stellan and Lannord exchanged sharp, alarmed glances. "Heard you talking... vampires, some such madness..." His eyes were glazed and distant. "Am I... dead already...? Ah, gods, the pain... Guess not dead yet. Just... nearly there..."

  The violet flush gradually receded from Stellan's face. Fear crept into his expression as well—the distinct fear of having long-guarded secrets suddenly exposed. "What do we do?" he mouthed silently to Lannord.

  "...Let it be. Spare him. His life's thread is already unraveling."

  "But... Lothar heard us. He knows about... us. Not just me—my House, my blood..." Stellan was cursing himself for not making sure Lothar was truly dead. "I must..." His pupils darkened to crimson once more.

  "Stop it! Don't cross that line."

  Lothar's moaning ceased, his chest no longer rising. "He's gone, Stellan. Truly gone now. Release this madness—I'm pleading with you."

  Stellan staggered backward, collapsing against the trunk of a nearby tree. The Advance Vampire sat motionless, his features a perfect mask. "We need to consider our next move," he said finally. "Lothar is dead. The Shadowgreen Knights are decimated. We cannot remain here; even if some survived, we're nothing but scattered fragments now. Soon the Godmans will breach the city walls, and we must carefully consider our escape."

  "We fight them again." "What?" Lannord hadn't caught the words.

  "We will fight them again," Stellan declared, rising to his feet. "Inside the city. Once, twice, as many times as necessary. And every time, we will make those Godmans bleed. We'll spill their blood by the hundreds, by the thousands, until it chokes the very streets."

  "Impossible. The Duke would never sanction us joining the Cynthian regulars, much less fighting Godmans inside the city."

  "Then we'll fight under our House banners. Like other Cynthian nobles, we'll raise our standards and fight beneath the Queen's command..."

  "That remains impossible, Stellan," Lannord countered firmly. "You have to understand, Stellan. Our war is over. The war we fought for humans. It was your passionate plea, your relentless insistence, that convinced the Duke to allow us to join the Shadowgreen Knights and conduct operations outside Cynthia's walls. He consented only because he understood it involved guerrilla tactics, small-scale engagements. But a frontal assault by Godma forces, house-to-house fighting within the city—that constitutes real warfare, a maelstrom of slaughter and chaos. Our families—both Blood Race and Wolfkin—will never sanction our participation in such conflicts."

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  "The streets will run ankle-deep with blood," he continued gravely. "For you, this would unleash cravings you've spent a lifetime suppressing—just moments ago, it was merely one man's blood that nearly broke you. For werewolves like myself, excessive blood triggers feral instincts—mindless, purposeless killing. And in the end? We'd be unmasked. The two great Houses, rooted here in Cynthia's heart, revealed as other-than-human—and hunted down, every last one. Even if you mastered the thirst, acted for all the world like any other man—take six arrows, a spear through the guts, your throat slit ear to ear, and still come up fighting? Even a village idiot would know something was wrong."

  "We cannot risk exposure. This extends beyond just our safety—it encompasses our entire species. Six centuries ago, we simultaneously arrived at Cynthia's gates, viewing its towering walls as sanctuary. We've endured Cynthia's internal divisions, Brigar's incursions into Duviliel, the siege mounted by the Fullorens, and now Godma's ambition. Throughout these six hundred years, we've maintained our secret existence among humans without revealing our true nature. We cannot falter now, at this critical juncture. We cannot participate in this war."

  "So we simply watch as Godmans butcher our neighbors, raze our city, while we stand idle?" Stellan demanded.

  Lannord shook his head solemnly. "Your true kin are not these," he gestured toward Lothar's body, "not Cynthia's soldiers, not its ordinary citizens—not even me. Your true family is your bloodline. You've dwelled here too long, Stellan—you've forgotten your fundamental nature, your true identity."

  "...Abandon them so callously? The humans alongside whom we've lived for generations? This nation that provided us shelter throughout our formative years?"

  "Precisely that... We have no alternative. Even were we permitted to fight, what meaningful contribution could we make? Could we summon three hundred thousand Blood Race or Wolfkin warriors to battle? You Blood-drinkers," a hard envy edged his voice, "you're all but deathless. We Wolfkin? We bleed, we break. Six arrows in us, a spear in the vitals, a blade across the throat—we're done. Even the wolf-form won't save us for long. Human armies vastly outnumber us... On conventional battlefields, we represent negligible force."

  "Combat takes many forms."

  "For humans, perhaps. For our kind? None. Our sole recourse is departure—vanishing without leaving evidence of our existence."

  "What precisely are you suggesting?" Stellan fixed him with an incredulous stare. "Leave? Abandon everything? For where?"

  "Cynthia, naturally," Lannord explained reluctantly. "Should conditions deteriorate further, remaining becomes untenable."

  "Where might we possibly go?" he challenged. "Perhaps Duviliel, or the Seven Seas Kingdoms, even Brin Isle or Tolin Isle could suffice. Failing those options, you return to Cazarburgh, while I retreat to Blessedwood. But one outcome remains inevitable: we must depart from here."

  "...Coward."

  "Indeed. Few aspire to heroism. I certainly harbor no such ambition."

  Lothar groaned, the sound startling them both. "What... what are you... saying...?" "My leg... sensation fading..."

  Stellan crouched beside him, bringing his face near the wound. "Rest easy, Lothar. I'll tend to your injury now." Lothar slipped into unconsciousness, seemingly reassured. "What are you doing?" Lannord whispered, his voice edged with warning.

  "Committing the taste of his blood to memory." Stellan's eyes remained normal—no crimson hue, no signs of frenzy overtaking him. "I will neither surrender easily nor depart without resistance." His voice turned cold as winter frost. "I shall defend my homeland through methods of my own devising."

  With that declaration, he lowered his head to sample the bittersweet flavor of vengeance.