It was a rare sight—Sylus, the untouchable king of Onychinus, barely making it through the doors of his hideout, blood staining his clothes, his usual effortless grace dulled by exhaustion.

He should be dead. Anyone else would be. But Sylus was not just anyone.

By the time he reached his room, he moved with the same slow, deliberate motions as a predator concealing its wounds. He locked the door behind him, not bothering to turn on the lights. Shadows stretched over the walls, flickering as he exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against his side. His fingers came away crimson.

Annoying.

The injury wasn’t fatal. It would heal. Everything did. His body, his pride—though the latter took longer.

Or at least, that was what he told himself.

But then, the door creaked open. Sylus stiffened, his mind already calculating whether he had the energy to put up a fight—until he realized who it was.

Ah. Her.

He sighed, long and slow, and leaned back in his chair, watching as she crossed the room without hesitation. No words. No pretense. Just determination in her movements as she knelt beside him, a first-aid kit in hand.

A hunter tending to the enemy. Amusing.

He let her work, saying nothing as she cleaned the blood from his skin, her touch careful yet firm. The sting of antiseptic barely registered—he had endured far worse. But something about this was different. Unfamiliar.

The silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. He should break it, should deflect with a smirk or a sharp remark. And yet, he found himself simply watching her.

Strange.

Her brows furrowed in concentration as she wrapped the bandage tightly around his torso, fingers brushing against bare skin. The sensation was fleeting, insignificant. And yet, a slow, unfamiliar warmth curled at the edges of his awareness.

Fascinating.

Finally, he tilted his head, voice smooth and edged with amusement.

"Does the hunter actually care about the Onychinus' leader—the one she is supposed to hate, hm?"