The air in Falco Valuare's house reeked of ancient wax and buried secrets. Portraits with smudged-out eyes tracked Aisha's movements like jealous ghosts. Falco's disciple—a man with calloused hands and ice-chip eyes—threw keys at her feet:
"Do as you please," he said, tapping the pocket watch at his neck, its tick-tock synced to Aisha's pulse. "But open the cellar door… and what you find there becomes your coffin."
The chest beneath the bed held more than coins: among the gold gleamed wolf teeth set in silver, each etched with runes matching Rasen's scars.
Over days, Falco's journal pages released scents of saffron and rust. Aisha discovered that wetting them with tears revealed hidden text:
"Your blood isn't yours, sister. He watches from the shattered mirror."
On the last page, a lock of snow-white hair (Sanathiel's?) marked Falco's account of Transylvania:
"Itzel swore to avenge the White Wolf… but her daughter paid the price."
One day, she found an old phone in Steven's drawer, its faded sticker bearing the S.S.V. insignia (Sanguis Sanathiel Vincit). When powered on, its ringtone played a distorted howl.
"Aisha!" Steven's voice thundered from the dining room.
She sat at the table like part of a happy family.
"What do you want from me?" she demanded.
Steven laughed—a sharp, mocking sound—as he sipped coffee.
"Leave now if you wish. But don't expect Rasen to return for you."
Air caught in her throat. His gaze was cold, calculating. A reminder: she was trapped.
That night, desperate for air, she hid on the rooftop. Wind lashed her face as she traced constellations in the air—
—Until Steven appeared. His breath smelled of mint and poison.
"Falco believed your blood could awaken what Arceo tried to bury," he whispered, revealing a serpent-shaped scar that writhed under moonlight. "Did you know your 'brother' traded his soul for yours the night of the fire?"
Before she could answer, his lips brushed her forehead. Where they touched, Aisha's skin turned translucent, revealing bones etched in gold runes.
"You helped Arceo erase his trail!" she screamed, striking him with a candelabra whose candles ignited mid-swing. "You're one of them!"
Steven caught her wrist, bleeding black ichor.
"Falco wasn't your brother. He was your jailer—and my mentor. Now I hold your cage key." His voice dropped, venomous. "For betraying his hunter's legacy… and protecting that White Wolf."
His words echoed—then unbearable pain seized her. A voice hissed in her mind: "Wake, Aisha."
Before she could move, a buzzing filled her ears. She tumbled down the stairs—not just breaking bones, but seeing stolen memories:
A boy (Steven?) weeping over a wounded white wolf.
Falco signing a pact with cypress-root ink.
Arceo's shadow emerging from Itzel's shattered mirror.
She awoke to find a miniature parchment in her palm: a desert map marking a lost girl's location.
Steven's whisper slithered from the shadows:
"Damn that dog… He accelerated the process."
Aisha lay paralyzed—all pain and confusion—as Rasen's journey began. The desert wasn't just sand: dunes gleamed like serpent scales under the moon, guiding him toward Lionel. Björn's "gift"—a blue vial holding Sanathiel's tear—frosted over near dark magic.
At a desert diner, a pale, golden-haired man (Lionel) descended from a camel, flanked by guards with claw-marked eyelids.
"Pleased you survived my hawks," he said, adjusting his sunglasses.
Rasen handed him a USB. When plugged in, it showed a girl singing in Latin—with Arceo watching from a mirror behind her.
"You'll come with me, Rasen," Lionel commanded. "Hide that sword. My steward will provide attire."
Meanwhile, Aisha awoke to chaos: drawers ransacked, Steven asleep in a chair.
Her hand brushed Falco's portrait—it vanished, revealing a compartment with an obsidian dagger and a photo of her and the girl. On its back, shaky script:
"When Arceo wakes, sever the silver threads. He will show you how."
Glass shattered downstairs—Steven had found her blood-drawn map.
As he stormed toward the kitchen, Aisha uncovered the phone. Her thumb hovered.
If she sent this, everything changed. No turning back.
If she didn't… what remained to save?
#Lionel → Send message.
Silence. Each second stretched into agony. This wasn't contact—it was a desperate scream for help.
Footsteps approached.
"Aisha. Tea's ready."
She hid the phone, straightened her spine.
She wasn't the girl who'd entered this room.
She walked out to face Steven… and the fate awaiting her.
POST-SCENE
The abandoned greenhouse breathed with stolen life. Moonlight bled through cracked glass, warping into shattered shadows on blood-sigil walls. Air hung thick with damp soil, ash, and cloying, otherworldly perfume.
In a corner, a girl in a soiled white nightgown hummed. But she didn't sing alone.
Her lips moved before sound emerged—as if whispered through the veil.
In her hands:
Itzel's diary, open to a page where ink gleamed wet:
"Only an innocent's blood breaks their chains."
Aisha's gold coin—embedded with a wolf's tooth—pulsing like a tiny heart.
Song Lyrics (Latin):
"Sanguis matris, osculum patris,
Filia lunae ligat veritatem.
Per hanc lacerem omnes catenas…"
(Blood of mother, kiss of father,
Moon's daughter binds the truth.
With this tear, I rend all chains…)
Wind hissed through cracks.
The coin shivered.
The girl pressed it to her wrist.
Metal didn't melt—it became liquid silver, snaking up her skin to carve a glowing pattern.
A new whisper floated—not hers. A dead woman's voice:
"Per hanc lacerem omnes catenas…"
Diary pages levitated, aligning like constellations. A star-map formed, marking three locations:
Falco's house. Rasen's desert. A nameless Transylvanian grave.
The girl smiled.
But her reflection in the broken glass wasn't her own. Shadows shifted. Crimson eyes burned.
Two figures split:
A wolf, fur blacker than void, fangs dripping tarry venom.
A man, sharp-featured, eyes incandescent.
The wolf merged into the man.
The man became the wolf.
Separated again—two souls in endless struggle.
The girl extended her hand. The man-wolf stepped forward.
"It's time," she whispered.
Wind snuffed every candle.
A distorted echo rasped:
"Find the woman, child.
He is hungry."
The girl didn't flinch. Her gaze fixed on the glass—where her reflection was now Lionel, watching impassively.
She tilted her head, lips unmoving:
"He is not the only one."
On her wrist, the silver thread finished knotting into a wolf-shape—identical to Rasen's scars.