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Alley near the Bar, Washington, D.C.
Nate stared coldly at the man in front of him.
The man, panicked, had backed up against the wall, his nails scraping the concrete, leaving behind dark, wet trails. He was gasping violently, his chest heaving as if the air itself were fire in his lungs. His eyes were wide, glistening like those of a trapped animal. His dilated pupils struggled to focus, seized by pain and adrenaline.
Stefan watched him with arms crossed, one eyebrow slightly raised. There was a trace of disappointment — and annoyance — in his gaze, as if the display of desperation were some tasteless joke.
"This was supposed to be our champion?" he asked, his voice low but sharp enough to wound.
Vladimir appeared in a blink, his boots brushing the ground with a soft whisper. He let out a short, harsh laugh that sounded more like disdain than amusement.
He took a few steps toward the bloodied man, crouched without ceremony, and with a swift, precise motion, yanked out the knife lodged in the man's side. The blade came out with a wet, viscous sound.
The man howled in pain, convulsing like a wounded animal. His fingers clawed at the floor. Vladimir didn't flinch. He raised the still-bloodied knife and handed it to Nate like he was offering a forgotten cigarette — a useless thing.
"Looks more like a scared dog."
The wolf blinked, his eyes foggy with pain, but also something deeper. Something that reeked of humiliation. He curled in on himself, swallowing hard, his jaw trembling with helplessness.
"You only say that because there's no full moon," he growled, voice ragged, glaring at the three of them with glassy eyes burning with restrained fury. "If I had my full power, I'd tear you all apart!"
That didn't inspire fear — just something else entirely. Vladimir smiled, flashing his fangs with almost childlike glee. Stefan tilted his head, intrigued, as if the statement wasn't a threat but a fascinating revelation pulled from some ancient museum.
Nate didn't smile. He held the bloodied knife steady, eyes locked on the wolf. He stepped forward, the blade trembling slightly in his fingers, and calmly brought it close to the man's face. The edge gleamed under the sparse light reaching into the alley.
"We're not here to talk about what you could do," he said, voice ice-cold. "We want to know what happened to Richard Winter."
The name sliced through the air harder than the knife ever could.
The wolf's eyes widened. Something cracked in his expression. The rage crumbled for a moment, making room for a shadow of guilt — a barely visible fracture that left him exposed.
"Why do you care about him?" he asked, less defiant now, more cautious. Almost inquisitive.
Stefan snorted, amused. Vladimir stepped beside Nate and looked down at the wolf like he was the punchline of a bad joke.
"Look at him closely," he said, mockingly. "You're talking to his son."
The wolf went quiet. His breathing slowed, heavy. He squinted slightly, lifted his head, and sniffed the air awkwardly, like his senses were no longer what they used to be. He sniffed again, deeper.
"You don't smell like him..." he muttered. Then looked up at Nate, voice reduced to a tense whisper. "But you do look like him."
Nate took another step, tension climbing his shoulders like the very air was pushing down on him. His voice came out sharper, barely concealing his impatience.
"Tell me everything you know about Richard Winter."
The wolf, still slumped against the wall, hesitated for just a second. A blink. A tiny flicker of doubt… but it was enough.
Nate raised the knife again, its glint betraying a brutal intent.
Before he could act, Stefan lifted a hand — he hadn't moved from his spot.
"Easy, Nathaniel. I'm sure our new friend will tell you everything you want to know."
Vladimir moved forward without hurry, like the threat was just a rehearsed part of some ancient dance. He crouched, grabbed the man by the throat, and lifted him effortlessly off the ground. The wolf's body dangled limp, his legs swaying in the air.
"Or at least he will if he doesn't want us losing our patience."
The man flailed, kicking, clawing at the air like a butchered beast on a hook. Vladimir held him there for a few more seconds, his expression neutral and cruel, then let him drop as if discarding a bag of meat.
The body hit the ground with a dull thud. The man coughed, choking, and curled in on himself until he could prop against the wall. He was gasping, his sweat mixing with the blood soaking his shirt.
Nate took a deep breath. Once. Twice. He lowered the knife slightly, never taking his eyes off him.
"Start with the basics. How did you meet my father?"
The man met his gaze. His face was worn down by fatigue — but there was also something else. A shadow of something older. Something broken. He nodded heavily, like he already knew there was no way out.
"I've been in this city for a few years. Until recently, I lived with my partner… another of my kind."
He spoke slowly — not from weakness, but from the weight of memory.
"After a fight, she decided to return to the nomadic life. I wanted to stay. I wanted something stable. A roof. A routine. We spent too many years running from their kind."
He cast a quick, furtive glance at Stefan and Vladimir, as if their mere presence awakened buried scars.
"Can you blame me for wanting a home?"
Nate frowned. He realized, almost instantly, what the man was doing.
This wasn't a confession. It was a plea in disguise. An appeal to his empathy. His humanity.
And it made his blood boil.
He tightened his grip on the knife, spitting the words with restrained fury.
"I'll repeat the question. How did you know my father?"
The man lowered his gaze, visibly disappointed that his attempt to stir compassion had failed. He drew in a deep breath, as if carrying centuries of exhaustion, and spoke in a tone that was almost resigned:
"Richard was... he was my friend. One of the few men in my long life who accepted me as I was. Even despite my nature."
Nate frowned. For a second, that confession seemed to hit him. He hadn't expected that kind of answer. But before he could say anything, the Romanians reacted with distrust, almost as if they could smell the lie in the air.
"Don't take us for fools," Stefan murmured, and Vladimir finished the sentence as if they shared a single mind.
"We gave Richard the task of finding you only a few months before he died."
The wolf raised his head sharply. His eyes widened—not in surprise, but in indignation.
"Then he found me very quickly!" he exclaimed. "Richard had been speaking to me long before he died."
The Romanians exchanged a brief look, a flicker of doubt flashing across their otherwise impassive faces. They hadn't expected that.
Nate hesitated, but his voice came out laced with skepticism and a restrained tension:
"What's your name? If what you're saying is true, my father must have let your name slip at some point."
The man stayed silent for a moment. His gaze shifted toward Stefan and Vladimir, as if seeking permission. Finally, he lowered his eyes and sighed in resignation.
"In recent decades, I've been called Yamir. That's the name Richard knew me by."
Nate narrowed his eyes, searching the tide of memories—notes, conversations with his father, fragments of the journal. But nothing came up. The name didn't spark even the faintest hint of recognition.
"That can't be... If it were true, your entry in the journal would be longer. It said nothing—not even a description. It was brief, written in haste. I don't believe he found you that quickly."
Stefan frowned. Vladimir clicked his fingers with impatience. Their gazes darkened like gathering storm clouds.
"Every lie will cost a finger," Vladimir growled, stepping forward with a crunch of boots and clenched knuckles.
Stefan already had his hand outstretched, ready to grab the man, when Yamir shrank back against the wall and raised his hands in desperation.
"Wait, wait! I know about the journal! He kept me secret because I asked him to!"
His voice was a trembling roar, smothered by fear. The Romanians paused for a second—not out of compassion, but curiosity.
Nate, eyes fixed on the man who claimed to have been his father's friend, said nothing. A muscle tightened in his jaw as he weighed every word.
"Explain yourself," he finally said, his voice as sharp as the blade still in his hand.
Yamir swallowed hard, knowing that every second of hesitation could cost him more than just a finger.
He took a deep breath, as if the weight of the years were crushing his chest. His voice came out lower, rougher, almost like an echo too painful to repeat.
"Your father found me after a full moon. He never told me how. Werewolves aren't as easy to track as vampires—we don't leave as many traces... but I suppose he saw me transformed. Or at least learned of one of my nights."
He paused, lowering his gaze, as if reliving that moment.
"The next day, he showed up at the house where I was hiding. I could barely stand... After the transformation, we're left weak, dehydrated, our bodies wrecked from the inside. But I had enough strength to kill him. I could have killed him. And honestly... I was going to. I couldn't take the risk. I couldn't leave a witness."
His eyes searched the floor, as if hoping to find the courage there.
"But then he spoke. He said he could offer me a life without fear that I didn't have to keep running, hiding. That threw me off. Most humans... they don't know anything. They shouldn't know. But he started talking about things only our kind would understand. He spoke to me about the Volturi. About how they hunt us."
Nate's brow furrowed, hanging on every word. Yamir raised his voice just slightly.
"I believed him. I had no choice. There's no way an ordinary human would know about the Volturi. But I also thought maybe... he was one of those humans the Italians sometimes use as servants. Maybe they had sent him to lure me out of hiding."
The Romanians nodded slowly, as if they already knew where the story was headed.
"So I thought about ending him right then and there… but your father pulled out that knife," Yamir said, pointing at the blade Nate still held.
"And he cut me with it while I was weak. That terrified me. Nothing can cut through our skin… at least, nothing made by humans. In that moment, I backed off—I thought he was going to kill me. But instead, he said he came in the name of others... hoping to end the Volturi nightmare."
Stefan and Vladimir straightened when they heard him. Without needing to look at each other, they spoke in unison, their voices carrying a solemn conviction that filled the alley:
"Of course. We did."
Yamir nodded quickly, for the first time since the Romanians had arrived.
"Yes. He said he knew you. My creator once spoke of you—said you were the only ones who had ever opposed the Volturi. Richard said that with you, we could fight back. That he was sent specifically to find me."
Yamir continued, his voice dampened by memory.
"But I told him I couldn't… I'd been running for years. I just wanted to live in peace. Richard was a good man… he spent months visiting me. We met at bars where I used to make some money. He was always understanding… even when he could smell the fear in me. It wasn't fear of me… he knew someone was pressuring him to convince me…"
Nate felt a bitter stab of anger grow in his gut. He turned his head toward the Romanians, who were still watching Yamir with arms crossed. Their faces were tense. Their eyes are dark.
"And why would you refuse?" one of them spat, stepping forward. "The Volturi have hunted your kind for centuries! You should feel the same hatred we do!"
Yamir lowered his head. His voice came out cracked, barely a whisper.
"I can't. I can't face them. Wolves… we don't usually stick together. After a while, we start fighting among ourselves. We weren't born to live in packs. But when my creator bit me… he spent some time teaching me. Showed me everything we could do. To me, he was the most powerful being I had ever known. After a while… we drifted apart. It's in our nature."
He paused, closing his eyes for a moment. His chest rose and fell unevenly.
"A few decades later, I wanted to find him again. Even if things weren't great between us… he had been kind to me. But when I looked for him… I learned the truth."
Yamir's eyes darkened.
"The Volturi had hunted him down."
A thick silence spread like a blanket over the alley.
The Romanians said nothing at first. But the mockery had vanished from their faces. No trace of a smile remained—only a raw, ancient rage simmering beneath their skin like lava.
One of them growled, fangs barely visible under tense lips.
"And still you don't want to see them die?" roared the other, stepping forward. "Are you just a coward? We wasted so much time looking for you! We thought you might be the monster to end your kind… but you're nothing but a damned disappointment!"
Yamir looked up. Tears streamed down his cheeks without shame, carving through the face of someone who had no masks left to hold.
"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I HAD TO GO THROUGH!" he shouted. His voice trembled, cracked, but held firm. "My creator was far more powerful than I ever was, and even he couldn't stand against them! What could I do? What the hell do you want from me?! I just want to live in peace! I have nothing to throw against the Volturi!"
His chest heaved, unsteady. His hands trembled. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The alley fell into a silence thick with blades.
It was Nate who broke it.
"So... my father failed to convince you..."
He said it with a hint of sorrow, barely audible, but dense enough for everyone to feel it. His gaze shifted to the Romanians with a mix of doubt and unease. He gripped the knife tighter, still wet with the wolf's blood. In his mind, possibilities collided like a stampede.
What if they had lied to him from the start? What if the Romanians had killed his father for failing, for doubting, for feeling compassion?
The thought twisted his gut.
The wolf said nothing. His eyes were no longer defiant—they were empty. Dead.
But the Romanians moved. As if they too had smelled the venom of doubt in the air. One on each side, they seized the wolf by the arms. Vladimir didn't hesitate to dig three fingers deep into the muscle of Yamir's shoulder, making him scream—an agonized cry that sucked the air from the alley.
"There's more…" Vladimir muttered in a low, dry, dangerous tone. "You're hiding something."
Yamir screamed, doubled over, teeth clenched in pain, unable to form words. Stefan, jaw tight, grabbed his face and forced him to look him in the eyes.
"Speak the rest of the truth."
The wolf writhed between them. Sweat streamed down his face. The pain wouldn't let him think. In the midst of the torment, he looked at Nate. His gaze pleaded, as if Nate could stop it all, as if his word carried weight in this place.
But Nate didn't move. Didn't respond. He simply watched.
And in that silence, his mind replayed every moment. The vague answers. The awkward pauses. Yamir's reaction when he learned Nate was Richard's son.
Guilt. It had always been guilt—not surprise.
So far, Nate hadn't seen a single sign that the Romanians had lied to him. Their methods were brutal, yes—but consistent. And something in their nature made them seem beyond deception, like they didn't need to lie to get what they wanted.
Yamir, on the other hand… seemed rotten inside. The moment he felt cornered, every pretense crumbled—leaving only desperation.
Nate spoke with a cold voice. The kind that expected no compassion and gave no shelter.
"Finish the story."
Stefan let him go. Not out of mercy, but because he knew there was no longer any need to force it.
Yamir panted like an old dog, trembling, head bowed.
"Your father didn't fail…" he managed through clenched teeth. "He… he convinced me."
The words pierced the air like a blade.
The wolf inhaled, speaking low but clearly:
"He was kind to me… he only asked that I meet with you."
He looked toward the Romanians standing on either side.
"That's all he wanted. For me to listen to what you had to say… and if I didn't agree, you'd leave me alone. I thought about it for a long time, and I agreed. Not because I thought you could convince me… I did it for Richard. He was a good man, and he said with that favor, you'd let him live in peace."
"I felt a kinship with him. He said he'd let you know in a few days, and that you would come to me… but he had no way of knowing that it wasn't just you who were looking for me…"
The wolf's voice cracked as Vladimir's fingers remained buried in his shoulder.
Vladimir pulled his hand out with a dull, wet sound and stepped back to listen more clearly. Yamir slumped down against the wall, his eyes staring blankly at the ground. And he continued his story:
"A few days had passed since I agreed. I knew Richard would travel soon to inform them, so I stayed home, gathering the courage to reject them face-to-face. There were only a few days left until the full moon, so I thought I wouldn't see them again until after it had passed… I didn't believe they'd dare speak to me until I was at my weakest. But something happened that day… I was alone in my shelter. It was nighttime when I felt it—the scent of a group of vampires…"
"I panicked, but I thought… maybe you had decided to meet with Richard earlier than planned, and you wanted to see me as soon as possible… so I didn't hide. I waited for you. Even when I felt it was a large group, I thought you had already recruited more of your kind to take down the Volturi. I thought you'd use your numbers to convince me there was a chance…"
"But I found out the truth the moment they arrived. It was a group of vampires with those unmistakable red cloaks… Among our kind, we all know that if you see vampires wearing those cloaks… your minutes are numbered."
"It was a large group," Yamir continued, his voice tense, breaking now and then. "They cornered me in my own home and tortured me. They seemed… pleased with it. One of them, a huge man, by far the strongest in the group, laughed as I screamed and said it had been way too easy."
Vladimir scowled at that. With disgust, he muttered under his breath,
"Felix…"
Yamir nodded weakly and kept speaking,
"They all agreed with him. They laughed. Only one girl… one who looked delighted to see me shaking, stared me straight in the eyes and asked why I didn't run…"
The Romanians stiffened. A shiver swept through the air. Stefan muttered, his face hardened,
"Jane…"
Nate turned his head toward Yamir, finally recognizing the names that had until now floated like ghosts in whispered rumors. His gaze sharpened, focused. Yamir, drowning in shame and guilt, lowered his head as he spoke, his voice shattered,
"I told them everything. I said I was expecting others of their kind…"
The Romanians instantly tensed, grasping the weight of his words. Yamir swallowed hard and went on,
"That put them on high alert. They tortured me for hours, without rest, until I spilled it all. I told them a human had contacted me… on behalf of other vampires. I told them they approached me with the intent to… overthrow them."
The muscles in Vladimir's face tightened. His rage became palpable. He raised a hand, ready to strike him down in a single move. The air turned electric, like a storm was about to explode.
"But I didn't give them a name!" Yamir shouted desperately, tears streaking down his face. "I told them the human never gave me any names! Even when they tortured me harder, I never said a name!"
Vladimir's arm hung in the air for one more second… then he lowered it. His eyes locked onto the wolf's, waiting to hear the rest. Yamir gasped for air like it was water, and with a trembling voice, continued,
"Then… they started talking among themselves. They said that if there was a group recruiting werewolves… they would have to find a way to defend themselves. They made a deal with me. They said they'd let me live… under one condition."
He looked up, almost begging,
"They said I had to respond if they called me. That was when it happened… I would know what to do. They warned me that no one could find out about this. No one. Not even others from their group."
"And if the vampires recruiting others showed up, I was to alert them immediately. But I couldn't leave the city. One of them told me that… even if I tried, he would know. That he already had my scent."
Nate clenched his teeth. A name echoed in his mind. He knew it.
Demitri.
The same one who hunted the Romanians every few years without fail. His method was flawless. If he said he could find you, he would.
Yamir was still speaking, his eyes lost on a point on the ground, as if mentally returning to that night.
"In the end, just as they were about to leave… the girl spoke again. She said she wanted to see with her own eyes if I was useful. And then she added that… there was still one loose end."
Nate felt the world crash down on him. His mind was already stitching together the rest of the story before hearing it. His legs were trembling. The images he had seen so often in his dreams, the nightmares of his parents' death, were becoming sharper now, more vivid, more real—with a level of detail that chilled his blood. The pieces clicked into place with terrifying precision.
Stefan, unaware of Nate's internal collapse, pressed the wolf with a cold voice,
"Continue."
Yamir, tears rolling down his face, finished his confession,
"They originally wanted me to do it right away… but I knew Richard would travel during the full moon, so I convinced them to wait—so they could see my ability. I thought Richard would travel alone… so at least his wife and son would be safe."
Nate went pale. His mouth felt dry, as if his tongue were made of stone. He wanted to stand up and leave. He didn't want to hear any more.
But something dark, something buried deep within him, forced him to stay. Something had its grip around his neck and whispered: Listen to all of it.
"When the full moon came, we followed him until he was far enough from the city… out on a road where barely anyone passes. When he was alone—enough that no one could help him—we got ready."
Yamir swallowed, closing his eyes tightly.
"Even transformed… I kept some reason. I didn't want to do it. I swear on everything I didn't want to. I kept stalling… waiting for an excuse, a counter-order, something. But one of the vampires… got impatient. He slashed one of the tires while the car was still moving. Richard nearly lost control, but unfortunately managed to stop and pull over."
Nate clenched his fists. His throat burned. A growl was rising in his chest, but it hadn't yet escaped.
"When he got out of the car… the Volturi urged me to do it. I got closer. I really… really didn't want to do it. I had to summon all my courage. I thought: at least I'll make it quick. I won't make him suffer."
Yamir was panting.
"But then I smelled it. The scent of his wife. She was with him, in the car. Everything fell apart. I thought… maybe I could at least save her…"
Nate stared at him, frozen, his face white as a sheet.
"I attacked him while he was changing the tire... Richard... he recognized me. He looked me in the eyes. I didn't want to hear him speak. I couldn't. So I tore him apart right then and there. Like a beast. Visceral enough that anyone who saw it wouldn't be able to bear the impact."
The werewolf's voice broke. He clenched his teeth.
"I thought maybe... the shock would make the woman faint. I've seen it before. They shut down, unable to process it..."
He went silent for a few seconds, barely breathing.
"But this time, it wasn't like that. She got out of the car. Screaming. Crying. And the Volturi... they saw her."
"It was the girl who saw her first," Yamir murmured, his voice reduced to ashes. "I don't know what she did... she just looked at her. That was enough. Richard's wife clutched her belly and started screaming, howling like a wounded animal. She had no visible wounds, but she screamed like she was burning from the inside. No one moved. No one did anything. She endured several minutes of that invisible pain until her heart… her heart just couldn't take it anymore. She dropped dead, very close to where I was."
Yamir finished the story with his eyes downcast, letting a sepulchral silence fall over the alley. The air grew heavy. No one breathed. Nate stood still, unmoving, as if his soul had abandoned his body for a few seconds. Tiny tears began to roll down his cheeks, hot and silent. In his mind, the scene unfolded with brutal clarity. He saw his father torn to pieces, reduced to fragments, and his mother collapsing with wide, wild eyes, falling like a broken, nameless ragdoll. He hadn't been there, but he felt it as if he had lived every second. The pain shot through his chest like a dull gunshot.
The Romanians didn't give him a single moment to grieve.
"If you were transformed..." Stefan said in a low voice, almost a whisper laced with ice.
"Why didn't you kill the Volturi right then?" Vladimir continued, each word soaked in contempt.
Yamir raised his gaze, no longer crying, no longer desperate. His empty eyes held only the resigned calm of someone who has lost too much to feel anything else.
"There were too many," he replied. "Even if I'd managed to defeat them — which I doubt, because of that Felix — if even one escaped, more would come, and then more, and more. They would've never stopped. I… I was afraid. I just wanted to live in peace. I didn't want to end up like my maker."
The Romanians said nothing. Their faces were masks without expression, like statues carved from ancient rage. They looked at each other slowly and, without another word, nodded in silent agreement. Then, Stefan spoke, his voice cutting through the air:
"Richard was worth twenty times more than this waste."
Without urgency, but with a force that froze the blood, the two stepped forward toward Yamir. Their movements were slow, ceremonial, as if performing an ancestral rite. Each one grabbed one of his arms, holding him firmly. Yamir looked at them, confused at first, not understanding what was happening... but when he felt one of them step on his leg, and then the other, rendering him completely immobilized, his face twisted into pure panic.
"No! No, wait!" he screamed.
The dull crunch of tense bones was followed by a guttural scream. Yamir howled in pain, his voice shattering the alley's stillness. The Romanians ignored him as if he were nothing more than a wounded, insignificant animal. Instead, they turned their gaze toward Nate, who stood with his head bowed and fists clenched, as tears fell onto the stone floor in slow, steady drops.
That's when Vladimir spoke, in an inquisitive tone, as if stating an undeniable truth:
"It's time you finish what you started, Nathaniel."
Stefan followed, his voice as sharp as a blade:
"End the life of the coward who took your father from you."
Yamir, upon hearing the Romanians' words, broke into desperate pleas. His voice trembled with feverish urgency.
"Wait! I was alone back then! But with you, we could ambush them!" he shouted, eyes wide, locked onto the impassive faces of Stefan and Vladimir.
They didn't even look at him. They stood firm, as unmoving as ancient statues. Yamir struggled harder, yanking uselessly against the unbreakable grip that held him.
"Listen to me!" he screamed, voice cracking. "There's a chance! I didn't stay in the city the whole time! I went out a few times... on full moons... I bit several people near D.C... If you gather them and bring them to the Volturi during the full moon... even if they can't be controlled, I'm sure they'll attack every vampire they see!"
For a moment, a glimmer of malice appeared in the Romanians' smiles. It was a twisted idea — but a tempting one. However, Vladimir was the first to speak, his tone dropping like ice:
"That's almost tempting..."
Stefan added, with cruel calm:
"But we don't need a cowardly dog to find them."
Yamir's eyes widened in horror. He realized, with a knot of cold climbing his spine, that he would not convince them. The judgment had already been passed.
His head snapped toward Nate, who remained still, head bowed, the knife still in his hand.
"Please, wait, Nathaniel!" he begged, his voice soaked in anguish. "Your father wouldn't have wanted this! I only did it because I wanted to live! Richard would've forgiven me! He was a good man!"
Nate looked up. His eyes were glowing embers, damp with rage. His clenched jaw, his hands trembling slightly. The Romanians smiled, satisfied to see the fire in his gaze.
Stefan spoke, guiding the ritual:
"Straight to the heart, Nathaniel."
Vladimir murmured, almost with ceremonial gravity:
"No mercy."
Nate began to move forward. Each step was a drumbeat in the silence of the alley. The knife flickered in his hand, briefly catching the dim light, as if it were part of an ancient sacrifice.
Yamir struggled, but he was trapped — his legs pinned down with precision, his arms locked tight with no chance of defense. He looked like an animal in the slaughterhouse's waiting room, eyes pleading, wet with terror.
Nate stopped in front of him. Slowly, he raised the knife, placing it right at Yamir's chest. His hands were shaking — but not from fear. It was something more complex. There was doubt.
In his mind, something cracked. A tiny fracture. A voice whispered that killing him wouldn't bring his father back. That his mother would still be dead. That the guilt would stay, and the absence would never be filled. The knife lowered slightly, hesitant, uncertain.
The Romanians noticed it instantly. And without speaking, they each placed a free hand over Nate's. The touch was firm, cold as marble.
And together, with a swift thrust, they drove the knife deep into Yamir's heart.
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Author's Notes: If I see a lot of support with powerstones I'll advance a chapter.