Chapter 5:
Sanathiel had returned to his duties within the Community of Thirteen, that brotherhood of scientists whose thirst for power had turned his blood into a resource—no longer medical, but cursed. Behind the façade of medical advances and promises of innovation, darker purposes thrived: control, politics, and unbridled ambition. Lionel was the living proof of what they could create, a warning wrapped in human skin.
Since his punishment had been annulled, Sanathiel walked under clauses and invisible chains—reminders that even in freedom, he remained a prisoner. Forced to take part in their experiments, he feigned resignation, but every gesture was calculation. He was both the keystone of their progress and the threat that haunted it: the mold, the weapon, the wolf they sought to domesticate.
That night he was summoned to the council. Council: a euphemism for the sterile laboratory where their darkest experiments were conducted. The white walls were coffins for memory. The air smelled of ozone and fear.
—Sanathiel, good evening. The council is expecting you —announced an assistant, never daring to raise his eyes.
Sanathiel watched him with that calm that burned. He slipped something into the man's hand, speaking in a low, deliberate voice:
—Keep it. No one has to know. And you will be rewarded.
The assistant swallowed hard. Greed outweighed fear. His trembling hands accepted the bribe while Sanathiel moved forward.
Inside, the hum of machines blended with his own pulse. He adjusted the lab coat, the fabric creaked like strained chains. On a tray, a needle gleamed. At its tip, a crimson drop trembled. The metallic scent struck him like a memory: the first night of his curse.
The procedure dragged on longer than usual. Sanathiel noticed everything: a technician, nervous, left exposed a tattoo on his forearm. A number, etched with surgical precision. Small, insignificant to others. To him, a crack in the wall. A clue.
Later, as he left, the air felt heavier. He ran a hand through his hair: strands of black fell between his fingers. Silence pressed around him until it shattered with a whisper.
He reacted in a heartbeat—his hand at a throat. But he stopped upon recognizing the man with the tattoo. The man extended a white cloth. Inside, something gleamed.
Sanathiel took it cautiously. The medallion was cold, too cold to be mere metal. On its surface, the initials "L.K." glimmered with a venomous green light.
A shiver coursed through him. Images struck like shards: the scarlet blaze of the red moon, the iron stink of blood under his boots, Kerens' laughter slithering through the dark.
His nails dug into the medallion. The stench of sulfur made him choke back bile. Kerens. His shadow. His mark.
He paid the man in gold coins.—Calm yourself. I don't intend to devour you.
The man fled, grateful, but the cold remained anchored in Sanathiel's palm.
Back at his mansion, Lionel awaited him. A sealed envelope rested between his fingers.
—Brother —Lionel said with his serpent's smile—. Doctor, white wolf, perfect specimen of the Community. Always a pleasure to remind you.
Sanathiel leaned forward, his shadow consuming Lionel's.—What worries you? That one day your syringes will run dry?
Lionel toyed with a pocket watch. Tick. Tock. His fingers trembled faintly—imperceptible to anyone else. Not to Sanathiel.
The envelope landed on the table. Its wax seal—a coiled serpent—cracked with a sharp thud.
—It's an invitation from the Arceo family —Lionel said with false ease—. You might see a familiar face. Enjoy yourself.
Before leaving, he cast one last poisoned blade:—When you think you're ahead… it's only because you're already a step behind.
The shadows swallowed him whole.
Sanathiel crushed the envelope in his fist. A thread of dried blood flaked from the seal. The medallion clattered onto the table. He stared at it. Cold. Too cold. Like a fragment of night.
He picked it up. His golden eyes ignited. The air thickened. And then, tears slid down his face.
He did not know why he wept. He did not know this emotion.But it hurt.It hurt like nothing else.
And in his mind, Kerens' voice was a knife:
"Did you truly think you escaped? I only let you run… long enough to wear yourself out."