The night was thick with an ominous silence as Sanathiel trailed Arcángel's movements. His steps were light, yet each one echoed in his mind like a haunting memory. Arcángel—once his brother-in-arms—now moved like a cautious enemy, unaware of the white wolf stalking him from the shadows.
For Sanathiel, this was not merely a matter of survival. It was a reckoning long overdue. He remembered the days when they fought side by side, driven by ideals that now seemed like distant dreams. But those bonds had been severed by the sharp blade of betrayal.
"Why did you choose this path, Arcángel?" Sanathiel thought, his eyes fixed on every calculated movement the other man made.
Arcángel froze at the sound of a branch snapping beneath a boot. Before he could react, Sanathiel emerged from the darkness—his towering figure bathed in moonlight.
"I never thought this day would come, Arcángel," Sanathiel said, his voice low and laced with restrained fury. "The day my brother, who once swore loyalty, would become my greatest disappointment."
Arcángel didn't flinch, but his eyes flickered with both defiance and regret.
"You were never a leader, Sanathiel. Just a force with no direction."
The tension between them ignited. A silver stake flashed in Arcángel's hand.
"I won't make the mistake of underestimating you again."
Sanathiel dodged the first blow with predator-like precision. But the stake grazed his side, tearing through flesh and igniting a sharp, searing pain. Still, he didn't falter. Instead, he used the momentum to disarm Arcángel, wrenching the weapon from his grasp and plunging it into his chest.
"It's not the silver that hurts," Sanathiel whispered as Arcángel dropped to his knees, "It's the betrayal."
Arcángel's body began to crumble into ash, but his final words echoed with chilling sorrow.
"You'll never understand... what it means to protect your own."
Sanathiel remained still, watching the ashes slip through his fingers. Victory was his, yet the weight of the past clung to him like chains.
He pulled a crimson envelope from his coat. The contents burned in his mind. Fallían's journal held dark truths—not just about Sanathiel, but the entire community. Each word was a wound, a reminder of the horrors inflicted and the abyss they were all drifting toward.
The journal spoke of inhuman experiments carried out using the blood of the Nevri. Fallían, once a respected member of the community, had manipulated that blood to create hybrids and seek immortality. But his research had not only deformed bodies—it had unleashed a plague that devastated them decades ago.
Sanathiel knew the knowledge was dangerous. But letting others wield it would be a death sentence for them all.
"This will destroy them," he murmured as he lit a flame and let the pages burn.
Smoke spiraled into the night sky, but Sanathiel knew he couldn't burn away truths already revealed. Maurice and Björn had read enough. The journal was gone, but the poison of its contents would linger in the minds of the community.
The Community Gathering
Tension hung heavy in the air at the community's central hall. Maurice had called a meeting to present the results of their latest experiments—using Sanathiel's blood. Images flickered across the walls: test tubes, pulsating organs, and charts outlining the potential of this newfound power.
"Sanathiel's blood grants more than strength," Maurice declared solemnly. "It may be the key to our survival."
Björn sat cloaked in shadows, his eyes glinting with cold calculation. His mind was a chessboard of possibilities. Lionel arrived late, his gaze locked on Sanathiel—jealousy and ambition simmering just beneath the surface.
"What do you say, brother?" Lionel asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Will you bless us with silence—or another one of your famous threats?"
Sanathiel didn't answer right away. He rose slowly, his presence casting a heavy silence over the room.
"The power you seek won't save you," he said, his voice echoing with gravity. "The weak always crave shortcuts to escape their insignificance."
Björn scoffed, his smile sharp.
"And because your blood runs through our veins, you think you have the right to preach?" he snapped. "The community will survive—with or without you."
Sanathiel stepped forward, his gaze locked on Björn.
"Then tell me—if you're so sure of that, why do you still need my blood to stand on your own?"
His words struck like thunder. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but Björn held his ground.
"Priorities have changed," Sanathiel continued, turning to address them all. "This is no longer about me—it's about what you're willing to sacrifice. If you think this experiment will unite you... you're already more divided than ever."
Lionel stood, his hands trembling with barely restrained rage.
"We don't need your lessons, Sanathiel. Not anymore."
Sanathiel gave him a cold, hollow smile.
"Then survive your own way. But when the time comes to pay the price for your choices... don't come looking for me."
With that, he turned and left the room, the silence behind him heavy with doubt.
Under the cloak of night, Sanathiel walked alone—carrying the burden of his choices and the weight of a destiny he never asked for. His power was undeniable, but he knew the greatest battle would not be fought with claws or fangs. It would be fought with truths no one dared to face.