The moon hung above the forest like a pale eye, casting its cold light over the stone altar where Luciano Kerens knelt, the markings on his skin burning with a familiar fire. The pact was still alive, etched into every nerve. The storm had passed, but the darkness in his chest lingered, denser than the winter mist coiling through the trees.
The cold bit at his skin, but that was the least of his concerns. What truly consumed him was the weight of the oath carved into his bones—a curse that had sealed the fate of three generations. His eyes, dulled by decades of shadows, traced the cracks in the altar. The stones, worn by time, still exhaled the stench of sulfur from that fateful night.
A snap of branches shattered the silence.
Before he could turn, a voice soaked in resentment froze his blood.
—Luciano…
He turned with the slowness of a man who already knew what awaited him. From between the trees, a tall figure approached. The moonlight caught the claws first—curved, lethal, glinting like obsidian. Then came the eyes. Golden. Burning. The same ones that haunted Luciano's nightmares.
—Sanathiel, —he murmured. Not a name. A sentence. As if uttering it could unleash the hell they both carried inside.
The boy stepped fully into view. His breathing was the only sound in the forest—ragged and deep, like the air itself scorched his lungs. In his hands, claws tightened with a crackle of tendons.
—Did you come to pray to your stone god? —Sanathiel's voice was a barely contained growl. —Or to beg for forgiveness?
Luciano said nothing. His gaze fell to the silver medallion hanging from the young man's neck: a wolf howling at a full moon. The same one he had given him the night he found him among the smoking ruins of Pueblo Esperanza.
—You haven't changed, —Luciano lied, knowing each word dragged them closer to the abyss. —You're still the boy I pulled from the flames.
A low growl trembled through the air. Sanathiel stepped forward, and for the first time, Luciano saw the scars—claw marks across his torso, fresh and bleeding, far newer than the ones he bore himself.
—The flames you started, —Sanathiel spat.
Sanathiel felt the heat rising in his throat, as if every word he swallowed was made of lava.
Zaira.
If she were here, she would cradle his face in those trembling hands that once soothed his wounded back and whisper the same thing she used to say, back in that root-hidden cabin:
"You're not like the one who did this to you, Sanathiel. Don't destroy what you can still save."
But Zaira was gone. Only her voice remained, trapped in a worn corner of his memory. A sweet voice… burned by fire.
He didn't save. He punished.
His resentment burned hotter than any prayer, and her words—no matter how real—weren't enough to quench his hatred.
Not this time.
His white fur erupted—not as a transformation, but as a violent bloom. Each strand burst from his skin like a thorn, until nothing remained but those golden eyes, blazing with too-human fury.
The words echoed in Luciano's skull like funeral bells. Sanathiel raised his hands, and in the reflection of his claws, Luciano saw the blaze of Pueblo Esperanza: thatched roofs devoured by fire, silhouettes fleeing with children in their arms, his own younger face watching the chaos from a hilltop.
—I'm not your creation, —Sanathiel roared. His fur cracked like blades of ice, each strand pulsing with arcane energy. —I'm your punishment.
Luciano stumbled back, colliding with the altar. The runes on the stone burned through his robe, searing his back with a cruel reminder of the pact he had made. He wanted to shout the truth—that the deal had been for the child sobbing among the corpses of his parents. But the fog now streaming from Sanathiel's mouth reeked of gunpowder and charred flesh—just like that night.
—Stop! —Luciano's voice cracked as a claw raked across his chest, leaving three deep grooves oozing thick, black liquid. —You don't know what you're unleashing…
Sanathiel pinned him to the altar. His golden eyes turned into wells of white light, and within them, Luciano saw ancient wheels turning.
The Ritual of the Three Suns.
The real reason behind the pact.
—Look, —Sanathiel hissed, forcing him to watch the vision. —You taught me how to lie. The demon taught me how to unearth the truth.
The fog twisted into figures: Luciano kneeling before the altar decades ago, drinking from a chalice filled with shadow, while the lifeless body of young Sanathiel lay at his feet.
—It was the only way to save you! —Luciano screamed, but his plea choked into a gasp as Sanathiel's claws closed around his throat.
A sharp whistle sliced through the night.
Noah appeared out of nowhere, plunging an obsidian dagger into Sanathiel's side. The blade sparked as it touched the lunar fur.
—How fast is the finale, little brother? —the vampire grinned, his fangs black with pitch. —The Master wants his drama in three acts.
Sanathiel hurled Luciano into a pine tree. Branches cracked. The medallion hit a rock with a metallic snap and shattered. For a moment, both men stared at the silver wolf spinning in the dirty snow.
It was enough for Noah. His fingers dug into Sanathiel's wound, extracting glowing veins that writhed like puppet strings.
—Run, old man, —the vampire snarled at Luciano, his bloodshot eyes never leaving the white wolf. —Your son and I need to rehearse the next act. And this time… there won't be a happy ending.
As Luciano crawled out of the clearing, the last thing he saw was Sanathiel howling—not at the moon, but at the broken medallion. The cracks in the silver mapped forbidden constellations—ones only the Kerens could read.
In the forest's depths, something answered the howl. Something older than the pacts. Hungrier than demons.
It broke forth in a guttural roar—beast becoming man.
"Until the darkness fades," whispered an ancient voice through the trees.
Silence fell like a blade.
From the shadows, a figure watched the scene, its smile barely visible in the gloom.
—It's time to begin the first act.