🜏 Narrator: Varek"Some wounds don't bleed when they open… they bleed when you try to let them heal. They hurt, and they leave scars as a reminder of what was done."
Winter had barely stripped the last leaves of autumn when the decision began to take shape.Aisha's father, Doctor Darian, had returned after months of absence. His presence was like that of a scalpel: cold, precise, always looking for something to cut away. Since his arrival, Sanathiel's visits to the garden had become increasingly rare. I noticed it before anyone else.
"I don't like that boy around my daughter," Darian said one afternoon, measuring the distance between the roses and the sun. "It's… too sudden, his closeness."
He pointed through the window: Aisha was laughing, holding a ball in her hands while Sanathiel stood nearby, smiling in that rare way he showed no one else.
"And you, Varek?" —the ball bounced once more in his palm— "Beasts never lose their instincts; they only look for cracks… and new victims to use."
I didn't answer. I only nodded. Part of me already knew those words were planting a root I might never be able to rip out.
That night, I saw Aisha waiting in the garden. The basket clutched in her hands, her fingers red from the cold. She said nothing, but her eyes kept searching for a silhouette that never came. When she saw me, she opened her mouth to speak, then held it to her chest, as if hiding something there: a folded letter. She never gave it. She never asked.
Soon after, we met Itzel. She was introduced as the daughter of the late Fallian, an ally of the first scientists of the Thirteen.She was ten years old. Jet-black hair that gleamed like wet glass and emerald eyes with a faint golden spark at their core, almost imperceptible but alive. Daughter of Beatriz, a woman who had cheated death thanks to Sanathiel's blood. I learned it from the whispers, from the medical files Darian kept locked: Itzel was from the first Nevri generation.
The day they met, the air thickened.
"Hi… are you Sanathiel?" she asked, with a natural ease that disarmed even the guards.He, who rarely smiled at strangers, only inclined his head."Yes. And you?""Itzel." She smiled—the kind of smile that doesn't ask for permission, it just takes up space. "They told me you're… special."
And without asking, she sat beside him. Her hand brushed his medallion without permission.
"This is yours… may I see it?"Sanathiel didn't move."Give it back.""I just wanted to see how heavy it was…" she said, holding it a few seconds longer than needed before letting go.
From that moment on, she began to orbit him like a small moon. She didn't demand. She didn't beg. She was simply there: with flowers, with books, with questions. And Sanathiel, carrying the silent memory of his Nevri kin, accepted her because in her he felt something familiar: for the first time, he wasn't the monster—he was the root.
I saw it. I allowed it.I let Aisha wait in vain by the rose bushes.I let the routine shift. Every stolen hour went to Itzel.
Once, I found them in the library. Itzel wasn't reading a book—she was daring him.
"They say your blood can cure this," she said, pointing at a diagram of a degenerative disease in a heavy medical tome. "Is it true? How does it work?"Sanathiel, who always turned away from direct questions, looked straight at her. Not with suspicion, but with wonder. For the first time, someone wasn't asking what he was—but how he was."I don't know," he said—and his voice wasn't defeat, it was a mystery unfolding. "But… we could try to understand it."
Itzel smiled, not the wide, occupying smile from before, but a smaller one—one that hinted at complicity. In that moment, I saw it clearly: she didn't want to save him or admire him; she wanted to understand him. And for someone who was an enigma, that was worth more than compassion.
One afternoon, I confronted him.
"You haven't been visiting the garden lately, Sanathiel," I said, blocking his path. "Is it because of Aisha… or because of her?"His golden eyes didn't waver."It's because of me. I don't belong here. With Itzel, at least I feel like I'm not just a shadow.""And what is she to you?" I pressed, jaw tight."A door," he said. "But I… I know where it leads."
I didn't fully understand then. But I planted the seed.I was the one who spoke to Darian in the halls.I didn't just speak; I sowed the doubt with the precision I had learned from him. One afternoon, as he was reviewing reports, I paused as if an idea had just struck me.
"Doctor Darian," I said, low enough to sound conspiratorial. "I've noticed that little Itzel shares a natural curiosity for the same subjects as Sanathiel. She's almost… scientific. Don't you think it would be more beneficial for both to nurture that camaraderie? At least, it will distract Sanathiel from other things… less productive influences."
I said the last word glancing toward the garden, where Aisha played alone. Darian said nothing, but his fingers stopped drumming on the table. His silence was confirmation enough: the seed had found fertile ground.
I was the one who told him Sanathiel was a risk to his daughter.I was the one who left the door open for Itzel to become the better company.And Sanathiel… left with her.
He ran away one night, following the trail of his Nevri kin, carrying his medallion as the only reminder of who he truly was.Aisha learned at dawn. I found the unopened letter on the table, its corners damp from being clutched all night. I pretended to know nothing.
Three years later, the letter I signed with Luciano Kerens' seal ordered his confinement.The ebony quill felt like a slab in my hand. The ink, black as betrayal, was ready. Before the tip touched the parchment, an image burned into my mind: the dark-haired boy in the garden, smiling for the first time at Aisha's attempts to play. I took a breath. What was I doing?Was I the brother who swore to protect him? Or the loyal son choosing the "safe" side?
The memory faded, replaced by Darian's cold expectation. I closed my eyes not to doubt, but to say goodbye. The quill scraped the paper, each curve of my false name tearing not the parchment, but the oath of brotherhood we once made. When I opened my eyes, my signature—elegant, firm—stained the document. The ink was still wet, gleaming under the light like tears I would never shed.
What are you doing, Varek? I whispered to myself.
But I signed it.By then, he was no longer the boy of the gardens: he had destroyed a scientists' base, slaughtered those who tried to use his blood to halt time.He was a beast in the world's eyes.And I, his brother, the one who cast the first stone.
"I thought I was protecting her. I thought I was saving him.But all I planted was the thorn that would divide our blood…And ever since, every drop spilled reminds me:monsters are not born alone.They are inherited."