Sanathiel had returned to his duties within the Community of Thirteen—a group of scientists whose hunger for power drove them to use his blood as an invaluable resource. Their research, allegedly for medical and innovative purposes, concealed darker political and economic intentions.
Lionel had been their creation, a living warning of how far their ambition had gone.
Since the annulment of his punishment, the restrictions placed upon Sanathiel served as a constant reminder of his subjugation. Forced to participate in the lab's procedures, he accepted the terms with a blend of resignation and strategy. His presence was not just required—it was essential to the community's new advances. They were shaping organisms capable of neutralizing the power of his blood, and therefore, of him.
That night, Sanathiel was summoned to the council—a euphemism for the cold, sterile lab where the Community carried out their darkest experiments. The appointment was routine by now, but no less unpleasant.
"Good evening, Sanathiel. They're expecting you in the council room. Please, go ahead," said an assistant without looking up.
Sanathiel paused, eyeing the man with calculated calm. Then, in a low, smooth voice, he slipped something into the assistant's hand.
"If no one finds out, just keep it," he whispered. "I'll make it worth your while."
The assistant swallowed hard, hesitating, but greed won out. His trembling fingers closed over the object, eyes avoiding Sanathiel's.
"This is too much for someone like me…" he stammered.
Sanathiel offered a barely perceptible smile before stepping inside.
The air was thick with that familiar weight of oppression. He yanked at the lab coat as if it burned his skin. The seams strained beneath his fingers, threatening to tear. Around him, machines etched graphs onto bluish screens, and a hypodermic needle gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights. His gaze locked on it—a single crimson drop trembled at its tip, ready to be extracted. He inhaled deeply, the buzz of the ventilators merging with the pounding in his temples.
The procedure took longer than usual, and Sanathiel couldn't help but notice the staff's increasing carelessness. One man, nervous, exposed a tattoo on his forearm: a number etched with surgical precision. An insignificant detail to anyone else—but not to him. That number might be the key he needed to unravel the Community's secrets.
Back in the hallway, the air felt heavier. Even the wind, once cool against his skin, now seemed dangerous. Running a hand through his hair, he noticed a few strands falling between his fingers.
"Silence filled my mind… but something broke it."
A strange whisper made him turn. Instinctively, he raised his hand to seize the intruder's throat—only to stop when he recognized the man from earlier, the one with the tattoo.
"Sir, forgive me for interrupting," the man stammered, his sweaty hands offering a white cloth wrapped around something shiny.
Sanathiel frowned and took the object cautiously.The medallion was cold.Too cold for metal.
As he turned it over, the initials "L.K." gleamed with a sickly green hue, as if carved with poison.
The air thickened instantly.A shiver ran down his spine as scattered images flooded his mind—The crimson glow of the blood moon,The metallic scent of blood on the ground,The echo of a deep laugh resonating through the dark.Kerens.
His fingers tightened around the medallion. It was his signature. His shadow.A reminder that he was still there, playing with him from the dark.
The sulfur stench made his throat convulse.His nails dug into the medallion, leaving crescent marks in his palm.A night.A pact.The beginning of his curse.
His breath caught for a second—just long enough for the man to step back, afraid.
Sanathiel closed his eyes and forced himself to regain control.Without a word, he reached into his pocket and handed the man a few gold coins.
"Relax. I'm not going to eat you."
The man ran off, grateful, mumbling:
"This is more than I could earn in a lifetime… thank you, Lord Sanathiel."
On the way back to his mansion, Sanathiel studied the medallion closely.His initials, "S.S.V.," glowed among the stones—But what unsettled him were the letters engraved on the back:L.K.
It couldn't be coincidence.
Kerens's voice slithered into his mind, like venom pulsing through his blood:
"Perhaps you remember me… and as long as your heart is locked in resentment, you will wait—until we meet again, Sanathiel."
Kerens was guiding him.To somewhere.To something.
When he reached the mansion, Lionel—his half-brother—was waiting, holding a sealed envelope.
"You're already here, so go on," Sanathiel muttered, gesturing impatiently.
Lionel smiled with his usual sarcasm.
"Easy for you to say, Sanathiel. You still haven't accepted what you are. A doctor. A white wolf. The Community's perfect specimen."
Sanathiel leaned forward, his shadow swallowing Lionel's grin.
"Afraid your little syringe will run dry one day?"His voice shattered the air like broken glass.
Lionel fiddled with a pocket watch in his left hand, a nervous habit that betrayed his false calm. Tick. Tock. Sanathiel caught the slight tremor in his thumb as he flipped the lid. Barely noticeable. But it was there.
Still, Lionel dropped the envelope onto the table. The wax seal—a coiled serpent—struck the wood with a sharp thud, making an ebony quill tremble.
"Don't get it twisted, brother," he murmured, dragging a finger across the edge of an open letter. "Blood always finds a way out… even through another wound."
Sanathiel took the envelope with disdain. Something about it felt… wrong.When he tore it open, the faint scent of rust brought back the memory of the chains that once bound him to an operating table.His jaw clenched for a moment—But his expression remained stoic.
The Arceo family didn't invite.They recruited.
Lionel's mocking smile lingered.
"Oh, and I got you something interesting—an invitation from the Arceo family. Maybe you'll see a familiar face. Enjoy yourself, brother."
Sanathiel narrowed his eyes. Lionel never did anything without a hidden motive.
Before leaving, Lionel turned on his heel and added, casually:
"Don't forget, Sanathiel… when you think you've taken the lead, you're already one step behind."
With a slight nod, he vanished into the shadows.
The letter crumpled under his fist, and a thread of dried blood peeled from the seal.
The medallion clinked as it hit the table.
Sanathiel stared at it for a few seconds, as if his gaze alone could disarm it.
But something inside him burned.An impulse.A need.
He reached for it.
Cold.Too cold.As if he weren't holding metal—But a fragment of night.
As he grasped it, his golden eyes sparked like embers.He drew in a deep breath, his lungs filling with air so thick it made the world slow down.
He looked up at the moon.
And a tear fell.
Then another.
They slid down his cheeks—warm and treacherous.
Confused, he touched his face.
The tears were real.
He didn't know why he was crying.He didn't understand the emotion.But it hurt.It hurt.
In the silence, he almost heard Kerens's voice:
"You think you escaped? I only let you run long enough… to wear you out."