The altar burned. No flames—just the runes on his skin, searing like hell's teeth gnawing his bones.
Luciano Kerens knelt, gasping. Not from faith. From guilt. "Give me the wolf," he whispered to the stone. "Or damn me forever." The wind answered with sulfur. And behind it—footsteps. The footsteps of his curse.
The moon hung over the forest like a pale eye, illuminating the stone altar where Luciano knelt. The markings on his skin burned with familiar fire, a reminder that the pact still lived.
The storm had passed, but the darkness in his chest clung thicker than winter fog choking the trees. The cold bit his skin—nothing compared to the weight of the oath etched into his bones. A pact that had bound three generations.
His eyes, dulled by decades of shadows, traced the altar's grooves. Time-worn stones still wept the same sulfur stench from that night.
A branch snapped. Before he could turn, a voice laced with frozen resentment speared his blood: "Luciano…"
He pivoted with the slowness of a man facing the inevitable. Between the trees, a slender silhouette advanced. Moonlight kissed the claws first: curved, lethal, obsidian-sharp. Then it revealed the eyes: gold. Burning. Identical to those haunting Luciano's nightmares. "Sanathiel," he murmured—not a name, but a death sentence.
The young man emerged fully from shadow. His breath was the forest's only sound—ragged, deep, as if air scorched his lungs. His claws flexed, tendons cracking. "Come to pray to your stone god?" Sanathiel's voice was a throttled roar. "Or beg forgiveness?"
Luciano stayed silent. His gaze locked on the silver medallion at the youth's throat: a wolf howling at a full moon. The same one he'd given him the night he'd pulled him from the smoldering ruins of Pueblo Esperanza. "You haven't changed," Luciano lied, each word dragging them closer to the edge. "Still the boy I saved from the flames."
A growl shredded the air. Sanathiel stepped forward. For the first time, Luciano saw the scars: claw marks raking his torso, fresh and bleeding—newer than his own. "Flames you lit," Sanathiel spat.
Heat surged up Sanathiel's throat—molten words he couldn't swallow. Zaira. If she were here, she'd cradle his face in those trembling hands that once healed his wounded back. She'd whisper what she'd said in their root-hidden cabin: "You're not like the one who did this, Sanathiel. Don't break what you can still save."
But Zaira was gone. Only her voice remained—a sweet, fire-cracked echo. He doesn't save. He punishes. Her words couldn't cool his hate. Not this time.
His white pelt erupted—not a transformation, but an unleashing. Fur pierced his skin like shards of ice until only those gold eyes remained, blazing with human fury.
The words tolled like funeral bells in Luciano's skull. Sanathiel raised his claws. In their reflection, Luciano saw Pueblo Esperanza's inferno: thatch roofs devoured, silhouettes fleeing, his own younger face watching from the hill. "I'm not your creation," Sanathiel roared. His pelt bristled like frozen blades, each strand crackling with arcane energy. "I'm your punishment."
Luciano stumbled back against the altar. Runes seared his spine through his tunic, branding him with his demon oath. He wanted to scream the truth: that pact had saved the seven-year-old boy sobbing beside his parents' corpses. But the mist from Sanathiel's mouth reeked of gunpowder and charred flesh—just like that night. "Stop!" Luciano's voice fractured as claws raked his chest. Three gashes oozed thick, black fluid.
Sanathiel slammed him against stone. Gold eyes became white-light wells. In their depths, Luciano saw ancient wheels turning—the Ritual of Three Suns. The pact's true price. "Look," Sanathiel hissed, forcing the vision on him. "You taught me to count lies. The demon taught me to dig them up."
Mist coiled into shapes: Luciano, decades younger, kneeling at this altar, gulping from a chalice of liquid shadow while a small, lifeless Sanathiel lay at his feet. "It was the only way to save you!" Luciano choked. His defense became a gurgle as claws clamped his throat.
A shrill whistle split the air. Noah materialized, plunging an obsidian dagger into Sanathiel's side. The blade sparked against moonlit fur. "How fast's the finale, little brother?" The vampire grinned, fangs tar-stained. "The Master wants his drama in three acts."
Sanathiel hurled Luciano against a pine. Branches snapped. The medallion shattered against rock. Both watched the silver wolf roll across dirty snow.
Noah struck. Fingers clawed Sanathiel's wound, yanking luminous veins like puppet strings. "Run, old man," the vampire spat, eyes tracking the white wolf. "Your son and I have Act Two to rehearse. No happy ending this time."
As Luciano crawled from the clearing, his last sight was Sanathiel howling—not at the moon, but at the broken medallion. Cracks in the silver etched forbidden constellations only Kerens blood could read.
Deep in the forest, something answered the howl. Something older than pacts. Hungrier than demons. A guttural roar tore through the trees—a beast becoming man. "Till darkness fades…" an ancient voice whispered. Sudden silence. From the shadows, a figure watched, its smile barely visible in the gloom. "Curtain up. The real show begins."