Chapter 9:
The oil lamp cast a dim light over the documents scattered across the desk. Lionel carved the name Aisha into the wood with the tip of a ceremonial blade, pressing as if cutting flesh. Each letter sank into deep grooves, bleeding splinters.Behind him, Sanathiel's painted portrait stared with golden eyes, his lunar medallion gleaming falsely beneath a layer of dust."Prepare yourself, brother," Lionel whispered, driving the knife into the heart of the name. "This time, your wolf will gnaw its own leg."
At the doorway, Mica hunched, his burn-scarred hands twitching."Young Lionel… the White Beast will never forgive—"
A sharp thud. Lionel slammed him against the wall, fingers bruising his neck in a trident-shaped grip."Do you know what a shepherd does with sheep that bleat too loudly?" he hissed, the blade grazing his cheek. "He shears them… or slaughters them."
The snip of scissors cut the silence. Each lock that fell was like a heartbeat torn loose. Mica trembled, but did not move. Lionel smiled, letting the strands slip through his fingers like the feathers of a dying bird.
The House of the Wolf pulsed like a diseased organ. In the council chamber, the Elders of the Thirteen sat like statues of flesh draped in crimson silk. Lionel advanced, boots leaving mud on the polished marble."The woman," he declared, tossing a file stained with black wax. "She is the key to bleeding Sanathiel dry. Give me hunters, and I will bring you his heart beating in my hands."
The elders exchanged glances. In the shadows, a figure in a turban—Stefan—turned the hands of a pocket watch."We will give you hawks," said the eldest, pointing to a cage where three blindfolded men bit their own tongues. "But if you fail… you will feed the beasts."
Sanathiel drifted through the villa like a ghost, boots trailing mud and ash. Noah followed, flipping coins marked with the S.S.V. seal."The hunter reeks of desperation," he muttered, licking the edge of one coin. "Let me play with him."
A whistle split the air. Sanathiel caught a dagger mid-flight, the blade dripping violet liquid that hissed as it ate into the marble."Falco is dead," Sanathiel lied, tossing the weapon at Steven's feet. "But his corpse still flickers in your eyes."
Steven lunged, sword carving arcs of silver. Sanathiel moved like cursed wind, letting the strikes shred portraits and curtains. At the peak, Steven drove a dagger into his palm—then froze as black, tar-thick blood welled out."You're one of them!" he shouted, stumbling back from the crimson blaze in Sanathiel's eyes.
With terrifying calm, Sanathiel ripped the blade free and buried it in Steven's shoulder. He leaned close, his breath as cold as a guillotine."Run, rabbit. Tell your masters the wolf no longer hides… but still loves the hunt."
The library was heavy with shadows. Sanathiel wiped his blade when the candle flames froze blue."Do you think Itzel wept for you?"
The voice bled from his reflection in the glass, warped into a horned silhouette. This time, it didn't just speak—it laughed. A sound like bones snapping beneath the earth."She died smiling, knowing you were too weak to save her."
Sanathiel crushed the medallion in his hand until the skin tore."Show yourself, coward. Or are you only good for barking in the dark?"
The glass shattered. A spectral hand struck his neck. Sanathiel collapsed to his knees, breath turning to black vapor. Through blurred vision, he saw a hunter's boots… and Stefan's pocket watch ticking backward."Everything is connected," the shadow whispered, conjuring a dagger above his back. "And you… are the thread I will cut."