The air was thick with tension as the blood moon bathed the scene in its crimson glow. Sanathiel, disguised as Stefan, approached Aisha with an unsettling calm. His breathing was steady, each step echoing like a sentence passed.
With a swift motion, he grabbed her arm and forced her to face him. His eyes, glowing with a supernatural gold, seemed to pierce through to her soul. Without warning, Sanathiel lowered his head to her neck and left his mark.
Aisha's scream shattered the night's stillness, a mix of physical pain and something far deeper. She felt something burn inside her, as if a part of her will had been ripped away and replaced. It wasn't just pain: it was the certainty that she was no longer alone in her own mind. Sanathiel had left more than a mark—he had planted a shadow of himself.
"Now everyone will know who you belong to," Sanathiel murmured, his deep voice heavy with satisfaction. He released her arm, and she stumbled back, clutching her neck.
She had barely caught her breath when Varek emerged from the shadows. His imposing figure radiated determination, his unsheathed sword reflecting the moon's red light. Every step he took was laced with restrained fury, his gaze fixed on Aisha and the mark she now bore.
"Stay away from her!" he roared, his voice crashing through the night like thunder.
Sanathiel didn't flinch. He smirked slightly, stepping back but showing no fear. From the shadows, Noah appeared like a specter, a grim reminder that the threat did not come from Sanathiel alone.
In a cruel act, Noah killed a nearby dog and its owner, his blade gleaming under the moonlight as their screams filled the air. The violence was a distraction—a reminder that chaos was his greatest weapon.
Varek didn't look away from Sanathiel. Nothing else mattered.
"This is a lie!" he shouted, pulling Aisha to his chest while raising his sword. He shielded her instinctively, his body a barrier between her and the danger surrounding them.
"I'm sorry, but I'd rather do this than watch you die as a traitor," Varek whispered, his voice thick with pain and resolve.
Aisha tried to resist—her body weak, but her spirit still defiant. Yet Varek held her firmly, placing his hands over her head. His gaze filled with sorrow as he began to erase the memories of that night, knowing full well the weight of the decision he was making.
"Varek, don't..." Aisha whispered, her eyes brimming with tears as her resistance faded.
Her memories slipped away like a flood escaping her mind. Every fragment of that night—every word, every sensation—dissolved into a void. Aisha fell into a deep sleep, her body crumpling gently in Varek's arms.
He laid her carefully on the ground, her face peaceful yet streaked with silent tears. Around them, the garden was stained with blood, the air thick with the scent of iron and death.
Varek rose slowly, his eyes locked on Sanathiel, who observed him with a triumphant smile.
"This isn't over," Varek said in a low, threatening voice, gripping the hilt of his sword.
Bathed in the crimson glow of the blood moon, Sanathiel stepped forward with a mocking smile.
"Always the martyr, brother. It's a shame you still cling to a lost cause," he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "But did you ever stop to wonder if she even wanted to be saved?"
Varek clenched his jaw, ignoring Sanathiel's venomous words. His sword gleamed under the moonlight as he raised it with conviction.
"This isn't about what she wants," he replied coldly. "It's about what I refuse to let you do."
Varek stood still, the blade of his sword trembling slightly. Sanathiel wasn't just an enemy—he was blood. And yet, he knew one day he'd have to kill him. Not for Aisha. Not for honor. But because Sanathiel had crossed a line there was no coming back from.
Sanathiel laughed—a low, dangerous sound.
"Always so noble, Varek. But nobility has no place in this game. The moon is watching us, and I doubt it favors you."
In a swift motion, Sanathiel vanished into the shadows, leaving only the echo of his laughter behind.
Varek turned back to Aisha, lying unconscious on the ground. The weight of what he had done—and what he might still have to do—hit him like a wave of cold. He knelt beside her, his trembling fingers brushing her face.
"Forgive me, Aisha," he whispered, barely audible.
With the red moon lighting the garden, Varek rose, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He knew this night was only the beginning of something far greater—something that would consume them all.
And the blood moon, a silent witness, seemed to nod in agreement. It wasn't just a witness. It was judge. And its verdict was written in blood.
"It wasn't the end… just the first move of a war that would rage under many moons."