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It is long past midnight by the time they stop the bleeding.
They dress and clean Dimitri’s wounds, and he falls into a deep sleep before daybreak.
Another half day goes by before Sylvain decides to find and kill the man responsible.
“You’re going alone?”
“Who do you suggest I take with me, Felix?” Sylvain is crouched in the dirt, watching the dying embers of a doused fire. He can hear the panic in Felix’s voice. He’s upset again.
Sylvain can hardly blame him.
It’s rare any of them stray far from the rest of the pack. It’s safer for lycans like them that way. So, obviously a disaster like this happens when half their pack is home in the North and the rest of them are in the middle of nowhere.
They were here to negotiate a peace treaty with Almyra’s clan of hunters. The bastard in charge didn't even wait for the ink on the documents to dry before betraying them.
“The others will be here soon,” Felix says, sounding more composed than he is, “then I’ll go with–”
“Stay here, okay?” Sylvain stands and tosses Felix a wave over his shoulder while striding off. “Don’t let Dimitri die before Mercedes gets here!”
“That hunter ,” Felix bellows after him, “is going to kill you!”
“Or die trying!”
Sylvain shifts and nearly misses Felix’s next words, barely a whisper above the wind whipping past his ears.
Stay alive, idiot.
—
“Do you th– ink–”
“Not ever,” Sylvain says, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
Dimitri blows out a shuddering breath, and his eye flutters shut. The shallow rise and fall of his chest and the way his hair fans out over the dark furs beneath him is something Sylvain could write poetry about.
Not that he ever would.
Dimitri is gorgeous this way, large and powerful yet coming apart at the seams. Sylvain wonders why he doesn’t bed the Wolf King more often.
“Do you think we can talk,” Dimitri finally says, “after this?”
Ah. Maybe that was why.
Sylvain pretends not to hear, only hikes Dimitri’s knee higher to slide deeper inside him.
“ Sylvain .”
“Dimitri,” he says, just south of being annoyed. “Could you have waited to ask when I’m not buried in you to the hilt?”
The nerve of the man to smile at him, his canines just poking out from behind his kiss bitten, red lips.
“If I had waited,” Dimitri says, reaching out to grasp Sylvain’s free hand, “you would have just riled me up again and I would lose my chance.”
He sighs soft and dreamy and Sylvain wonders if this is as good as it’ll ever get.
“You’re not going to bite me, are you?” Sylvain asks. “Make this official?”
Dimitri shakes his head ‘no’ and Sylvain is unsure what the twist in his chest means.
—
Tracking the hunter to a newly built military fort on the edge of Leicester is easy. The distinct stench of a wyvern is hard to cover. If the man was trying to flee from the pack, he should have kept flying.
He observes for hours, circling the fort like he would any unsuspecting prey. Sylvain isn't rash like Felix or as strong as Dimitri or Dedue. He needs a plan.
In the evening, dozens of carriages arrive carrying nobles dressed in finery, and that gives him a golden opportunity.
It's a simple matter, luring a finely dressed man to the treeline with a whistled tune. Sylvain makes it quick, knocking him out and stashing him under some brush. He'll be no worse for wear come morning, other than a killer headache.
Sylvain dresses quickly. The clothes fit fine, if a bit snug. He takes everything but the gaudy red rose attached to the jacket, yanking it off and tossing it aside.
He moves through the darkness, up to a window to peer through the glass. There's no sign of the hunter, but he could be anywhere hidden amongst the crowd.
Into the devil's den he goes.
—
"Name's Claude. Pleasure to meet you." The High Prince of Almyra is a sight. Riding in on wyverns, and armed to the teeth with weapons designed to kill lycans. It's a show, and Sylvain isn't enjoying it.
"Sylvain," he replies, an insincere smile on his lips. He's sure to bare his teeth. Claude isn't the only dangerous one here. "I'd say the same, but—"
"You'd be lying?" Claude tilts his head. Sylvain wishes he could claw the hint of mischief right out of his eyes.
If he had been given a hundred years, he never would have guessed their intrepid leader would lose his mind. Peace with humans? With a kingdom famed for their monster hunters?
The day Dimitri brought it up, he should have tried a little harder to convince him this is a bad idea. Now they're hundreds of miles from their home in the North, all because Sylvain couldn't say no after bedding the Wolf King.
It's only by the grace of the goddess that Dimitri's hand on the small of his back keeps him from lunging.
Since when is Dimitri the levelheaded one of their pack?
"Perhaps we can save the vitriol for after the negotiations?" Dimitri asks as if it's a request, but the command in his voice is obvious. His large hand slides up Sylvain's back, warmth seeping into his skin even through his shirt.
The gesture is comforting and infuriating all at once, but it helps him relax. Claude seems to notice the tension ease in his shoulders as well because he takes his hand off the hilt of his dagger.
"Now you read my mind, Your Majesty," Claude says with a more genuine smile. "Come," he continues, gesturing to the large mahogany table set up in the middle of the room, "we went to all the trouble of meeting in neutral territory so let's talk. I've even brought a gift, as a show of good will. You know."
Sat upon the table is a set of oils that lycans probably have no need for. The smell is too strong.
"Lavender?" Sylvain asks, plucking a bottle from the table and taking a whiff.
"Just because we all trounce around in the scary woods doesn't mean we can't smell decently," Claude replies.
Dimitri chuckles softly and Sylvain narrows his eyes. It's going to be a long talk.
—
Sylvain prowls through the crowd, carefully inspecting the people there for any sign of Claude. He stops to subtly take a sniff of a man with a similar build, but it's not him. He moves on, securing the mask that he stole from the noble earlier. Ironically, it's a wolf.
The world’s first wolf in wolf's clothing.
At the end of a grand hall is a set of open doors leading into a courtyard. Sylvain takes in a deep breath of the night air. It's cool and crisp, a sign that autumn is ending and winter is on its way. There's another scent on the wind. A familiar lavender oil.
Peering into the darkness, Sylvain spots a figure underneath a blooming tree. He treads lightly, stocking closer and closer to his prey. When he's close enough, only an arm's length away, he lets his steps be heard to announce his presence.
Claude hardly reacts, but Sylvain can hear the quick beating of his heart.
"You got here faster than I expected," says Claude.
"You could say I was highly motivated," Sylvain replies. Claude offers a hollow laugh in return.
"Would you believe me if I said I didn't touch your King?" Claude stands and Sylvain can plainly see his hand clutching the hilt of his dagger.
"I'm not in the mood for your games."
"Alright then."
Claude unsheathes his dagger in a flash! of movement. Sylvain would have been impressed had the tip not been aimed for his throat.
Sylvain snatches Claude's wrist and twists, forcing him to drop the blade. "Is that all you can do, oh great hunter?"
The tip of Claude's tongue darts out, wetting his lips. "Nah."
Before he can even think of his next move, there's a sharp pain in his side.
"Shit!" Sylvain snarls, and uses all his weight to push Claude to the ground. His heart hammers in his chest, as he moves to pin Claude with a knee to his chest.
Sylvain can't die here.
Not yet.
—
Red.
So much red.
Dimitri's pristine white coat is stained crimson.
The once mighty, unstoppable wolf king is in the dirt bleeding out.
In the distance, Sylvain hears the faint but frantic cries of Felix calling out for the rest of their pack.
Sylvain presses, presses, and presses against the wound but the bleeding doesn't stop.
Find him.
I will.
—
The searing pain of silver piercing his skin never comes. Claude thrust a hidden blade into his ribcage, he is well aware of this.
But the pain of silver never comes.
Sylvain is confused to say the least.
He lets up a little, allowing Claude to take deeper breaths. He gulps in lungfuls of air, his hands grasping onto Sylvain.
“Do you think ,” Claude bites out, “we can talk now?”
It would be wise to kill him and be done with it.
Part of him wants to know.
Sylvain stands, but keeps his foot squarely on Claude’s abdomen.
“Really?” wheezes Claude.
“Say what it is you think I need to hear,” Sylvain states, adding just a little more weight, “don’t say anything else. Okay?”
Even in the darkness, Sylvain can make out Claude’s aggravating smirk.
“As I said, I didn’t touch your King.” Claude shows Sylvain his palms. “I never carry silver, feel free to check out the rest of my body if you want.”
Sylvain’s lips twitch.
“Not unless it’s with my teeth, Your Highness.”
“That’s more tempting than you might think!”
Goddess help him, but Sylvain finds himself being swayed by Claude.
“Why did you run, if you weren’t guilty?”
“Hmm, would you believe it’s because I prefer not to be ripped apart by angry wolves?” Claude grins, but the mirth melts away to something more serious. “Listen Sylvain, I like you, but if I had stayed there’s no way you would have let me explain myself.”
“He nearly died,” Sylvain says, letting his vulnerability seep out from under his mask. Only for a moment.
“I know,” Claude breathes. “And I promise if you let me go, I’ll figure out who did this.”
This is it. The same charm that swayed Dimitri. The same sickeningly sweet and oddly soothing tone that got them into this mess.
—
They part ways in the morning. Sylvain holding onto Claude’s vow like a lifeline.