Three days after the assault, the safe house atmosphere became strangely bizarre.
The previous needle-sharp hostility and sparks had vanished, replaced by heavier, more complex silence. Elian and Rafe, like two wounded beasts forced to share a cage, carefully maintained safe social distance—neither provoking nor approaching.
Rafe's injuries, under the influence of Elian's "heart blood" drop, healed at supernatural speed. Those grotesque wounds had scabbed, fresh muscle tissue regenerating madly beneath blackened flesh. He could feel his strength not only recovering but becoming more... refined. As if some cold, pure energy had merged with his blood, subtly transforming his body.
He knew what it was—Elian's life essence.
This life-saving debt weighed on his heart like an invisible mountain. Werewolf law demanded "debts repaid, favors returned." He owed his most hated vampire his life. This tormented him more than any wound's pain, making him restless.
That evening, Rafe finally broke the silence.
He blocked Elian's path to the study, his expression unnatural, even evasive—extremely rare for a straightforward werewolf.
"Hey," he began, voice somewhat dry. "Come out with me tonight."
Elian stopped, gray-blue eyes calmly observing him without speaking, seemingly awaiting continuation.
"You saved my life," Rafe's tone was stiff, like stating something unrelated to himself. "I want... to show you what you saved."
This wasn't an invitation—more like a challenge.
Elian studied him for several seconds, seemingly trying to read something deeper from those amber eyes. Finally, he nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Alright."
Night fell as they left the suffocating safe house. Rafe didn't ride his flashy Harley but drove an extremely low-profile black SUV. The vehicle left the downtown bustle, heading toward the city's edge where vast forests spread.
The farther from the city, the fainter human scent became, replaced by fresh earth, vegetation, and wild animal aromas. Rafe's tense shoulders seemed to relax.
Finally, the car stopped before a hidden valley surrounded by massive rocks. Before exiting, Elian already heard distant drum beats, laughter, and... dozens of strong, powerful heartbeats from the valley depths.
He followed Rafe into the valley.
The sight before him shocked even Elian, who had lived three centuries.
At the valley center, a massive bonfire blazed, flames illuminating the entire hollow like daylight. Dozens of men and women—old and young, strong and tender—surrounded the fire, eating heartily, laughing loudly, or dancing to stirring drums with crude, powerful movements.
They were all werewolves.
This was one of Crescent City werewolf tribe's most secret gathering places.
Elian's appearance was like ice thrown into boiling oil. All sounds instantly disappeared. Dozens of wary, sharp, even hostile gazes focused on him. They smelled his "sworn enemy" scent—cold and ancient.
"He came with me."
Rafe's voice wasn't loud but carried unquestionable authority. He walked to the bonfire, naturally accepting roasted meat from a tribesman, then looked back at Elian standing in shadows.
That glance seemed to say: "This is my world."
This was completely different from Elian's known world.
No false courtesy, no elegant pretense, no cold calculation. Everything here was primitive, burning, full of life force. He saw several half-grown children chasing and playing, accidentally knocking down a wrinkled elder, earning not scolding but kind, hearty laughter. He saw two strong men wrestling over a trivial matter—the loser didn't get angry but patted the winner's shoulder, joining him in competing for the largest roasted leg.
He saw... "community."
Saw that warm yet chaotic bond he'd long forgotten, called "home."
His world was vertical, hierarchical—built from elders, nobles, and servants based on bloodline, power, and cold rules. But this world before him was horizontal, tightly connected. They were a whole, each individual an indispensable part of this vast network.
A young werewolf with dreadlocks approached Elian hesitantly, carrying a wooden plate with charred meat and steaming ale.
"Master Rafe said... you're a guest," the young werewolf said nervously.
Elian looked at the still-dripping roasted meat and cloudy ale—his palate, accustomed to blood and wine, instinctively recoiled.
But he eventually reached out, accepting the ale cup.
"Thank you," he said softly.
He didn't drink, only held the warm cup in his hands. The temperature transmitted through the vessel brought unfamiliar warmth to his perpetually cold fingers.
Rafe had somehow appeared beside him.
"How do you feel?" he asked. "Do you think we're loud and chaotic, like uncivilized savages?"
"No," Elian looked at flames dancing in the bonfire, saying quietly. "This place is very... lively."
"Vitality is the only thing we possess," Rafe followed his gaze toward the reveling tribesmen, his eyes becoming unusually gentle. "We're not like you, with eternal life and endless wealth. Our lives are short and dangerous. So we must rely tightly on each other, like a fist. For survival, and to... not be so lonely."
Elian fell silent.
"Loneliness"—like an invisible needle, it lightly pricked his long-dormant heart.
"You saved me, which means saving all their hope," Rafe turned, looking seriously at Elian. "So regardless of my personal hatred, this debt will be remembered by the entire tribe. This is our law."
That night, Elian said nothing more, only standing quietly in shadows, watching the "savages'" revelry. Watching them lift Rafe high, cheering for his brave survival. Watching Rafe's face show that heartfelt, unguarded smile.
That smile was like nothing he'd ever seen.
Returning to the safe house near dawn.
"You showed me your 'honor,'" Elian stopped at the door, turning to Rafe. "Now, as repayment, let me show you my 'curse.'"
He led Rafe to the study's deepest section, pressing an extremely hidden switch. The entire bookshelf wall silently slid apart, revealing an elevator crafted from bronze and obsidian, emanating ancient aura.
The elevator descended deep underground, seemingly toward hell itself.
When doors reopened, Rafe was speechless at the sight.
This was an unimaginably vast underground library.
The dome stretched beyond sight, endless rows of bookshelves standing like silent giants throughout the space. The air was heavy with ancient paper and historical dust. Not a trace of life existed here—only deathly silence and knowledge's awesome, eternal weight.
"This is the 'Primal Word Vault,'" Elian's voice seemed particularly hollow here. "It houses almost all recorded history, knowledge, contracts, and... names of every enemy and friend we've personally buried since our race first developed writing."
He led Rafe past shelf after shelf.
Rafe saw some shelves holding not books but weapons and tokens sealed in special crystal, long decayed.
"This is a sword belonging to one of our ancestors from 1200 BCE, the Trojan War," Elian pointed to a broken blade. "He loved a human priestess and participated in that war for her, ultimately turning to ash with the city."
"This is a ceasefire agreement we signed with the first generation 'Purifiers' during the 14th century Black Death. We helped them find the plague's source; they promised to stop hunting us."
"This is... my 'sire's' diary," Elian stopped before a shelf, his gaze falling on a thick, human-skin-bound journal, his expression complex. "It records his transformation from human to an 800-year-old monster, finally... self-destructing due to unbearable eternal loneliness and emotional torment."
Rafe listened silently.
For the first time, he viscerally felt "time's" weight.
A werewolf's life, though dangerous, was vibrant and passionate. But vampire immortality was like an endless, solitary sentence. They were history's witnesses and prisoners.
He suddenly understood somewhat where Elian's ice-cold rejection originated. Perhaps it wasn't arrogance but armor forged by time to protect against further harm.
"We're not here for historical mourning," Elian quickly collected his emotions, leading Rafe to the library center where a massive stone table held an ancient, chain-locked forbidden book.
"About the 'Sacred Thorn Knighthood,' I found deeper records here," Elian pointed to ghostly ancient text, slowly translating:
"...The knighthood believes in an ancient prophecy. When 'The Crimson Tear' descends from the sky, the veil between human and otherworld will be weakest. They believe that night, through a ritual called 'The Great Severance,' using the moonstone as a key and borrowing stellar power, they can permanently sever all supernatural beings from their power sources..."
"What is 'The Crimson Tear'?" Rafe frowned.
Elian's expression became extremely grave. He looked up at the library dome's massive celestial instrument simulating stellar movement.
"In ancient times, it had many names," he said quietly. "But today, we usually call it... 'blood moon.'"
He paused, raising his hand toward the celestial instrument where a virtual star emitting ominous red light slowly moved toward the moon's orbit.
"And the next blood moon," his voice like Siberian wind, "is in... six days."