The silence was terrifying.
Not the absence of sound, but of presence. As if the universe itself held its breath.
Rasen sat up, fingers digging into the mattress. His skin still remembered Sariel's phantom burn, like embers clinging to bone. But now… nothing.
Freedom or trap?
The mirror across his bed reflected his gaunt, pallid face—and for a flicker, something moved behind his pupils. Something not him.
"No time," he muttered, and the sound of his own voice made him flinch.
He staggered to his desk and grabbed the worn leather journal, the one he always avoided. As he opened it, pages slipped free on their own, revealing faded sketches he didn't recognize:
Cristal, eyes bloodshot, cradling a baby whose tears burned like acid.
Aisha, a silver dagger jutting from her chest, smiling.
Rasen squeezed his eyes shut. Did I draw this? Or… did He?
The candle hissed, casting shadows that twisted like claws up the walls.
The Instructions
He lit a second flame and began to write. His hands shook, but the pen never stalled. Each word was a wound on the paper—a betrayal of himself… and love for those he could still protect.
Instructions: SANCTUARY AND TRUTH
Precise. Cold. Unmistakable.
"If you're reading this, Sariel has taken control."
"Take Cristal to the rebel Nevri sanctuary—Darian's stronghold on the Ras Val border."
"The twins must not be born near me. Protect my wife. Protect your niece."
"This is the true enemy's name: VAREK. My ruin. My descent into death."
"Do not let Aisha find me. Do not give Sariel the key he needs."
"Find the Dagger of Fate—it's what he fears most. Only your White Wolf will know how to wield it. Tear his power away. Even if my body dies… free me."
Every sentence cut deeper. A map for a world about to burn.
"I won't let that demon reach them."
Without Sariel's presence, his body broke into sweat, droplets staining his hands. He didn't care. From the drawer, he pulled a tarnished silver amulet—engraved with the sigil of the bloodline he'd tried to forget.
The one thing Sariel couldn't touch.
He laid it atop the journal like a silent sentinel.
A breath. He knew what came next.
The Bargain
Lionel materialized in the doorway, his ash-gray skin and hollow eyes as grim as ever. But his gaze glowed with a worry not even immortality could hide.
The vampire scraped a razor-sharp nail across the journal's cover.
"Do you understand the cost?" His voice was a grave's whisper. "The spell won't just erase Sariel… It will take her too."
Rasen froze. Her. Aisha's name was a knife twisting in his ribs.
"I'd rather forget her… than let Sariel use my love to find her."
Lionel bared his fangs in something too grim to be a smile: "Love was always your torment, Rasen. Now it'll be your void."
Rasen thrust the journal and amulet at him. "When it's done… erase my memories."
Lionel blanched. "If I fail, you'll remember nothing. Not even who to trust."
Rasen clenched his fists. His choice was selfish. Desperate. The only way.
"Better empty… than let Sariel dig this truth from my mind."
A weighted silence.
"And if it all goes wrong," Rasen pressed, locking eyes with his friend's blackened stare, "if I'm lost—if I'm just a husk for Sariel—find the White Wolf. Sanathiel. Give him the journal."
"You're asking him to kill you."
"I'm asking him to stop me," Rasen rasped. "Even if it means killing me."
For the first time in centuries, Lionel's hands trembled. But he didn't argue. Couldn't.
Rasen turned to the window. The night watched, indifferent. His reflection showed his face—and the thing wearing it.
"Tell Cristal… the names are already chosen," he whispered.
Before doubt could take root, Lionel pressed ice-cold fingers to his temples. The spell of oblivion slithered in, splintering memories:
Aisha, laughing in the rain. ("A prince who can't dance?")
The stench of burning flesh in the Nevri village.
Sariel's first whisper: "I chose you because you were already broken."
"Stop—!" Rasen snarled, but it was too late. His past ripped apart like parchment, leaving white scars where pain once lived.
The Aftermath
When Rasen awoke, the void in his mind wasn't just absence—it was a chasm.
He stared at his hands. Didn't know why they shook. Why his chest ached. Only that somewhere, his soul begged him to brace himself.
Because the darkness had only just begun.
Meanwhile, far away, in the wreckage of a fallen sanctuary, Sariel's laughter curled through the ruins—and this time, it wasn't alone.
A masked figure (Varek?) extended an object: an hourglass where blood replaced sand.
"You're certain he won't remember?" asked the distorted voice.
Sariel smiled with Rasen's teeth: "He'll forget fear. But instinct? That never dies."
And in the silence, the tick-tick-tick of the hourglass began to quicken.