Sanathiel had returned to his duties within the Circle of Thirteen — a covert community of scientists whose hunger for power pushed them to experiment on his blood, treating it as an invaluable asset.
Their research, masked as medical innovation, concealed far darker intentions: political dominance, economic gain, and control over supernatural bloodlines.
Lionel was proof of their ambition — a living warning born of their twisted experiments.
Ever since his punishment had been lifted, Sanathiel lived under a leash. The clauses of his conditional freedom reminded him daily of his subjugation.
He complied with their laboratory procedures, masking his resentment behind careful calculation. His presence wasn't just tolerated — it was essential. His blood held the key to their latest advancements: lifeforms designed to suppress his own power... and, ultimately, him.
That night, he was summoned to the Council — a sterile euphemism for the cold, clinical lab where the Thirteen conducted their darkest rituals. He already knew the routine, though that did little to dull his distaste.
"Sanathiel. Good evening. The Council awaits you. Please, go ahead," an assistant muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.
Sanathiel paused before entering. His gaze lingered on the assistant — sharp, assessing. Then, with a subtle flick of his fingers, he slipped something into the man's hand.
"If no one knows... just keep it," he murmured. "You'll be well rewarded."
The assistant hesitated, swallowing hard. But greed won.
His trembling fingers clutched the item, avoiding Sanathiel's eyes.
"This is too much… for someone like me," he whispered.
Sanathiel offered a thin, unreadable smile, then walked into the chamber.
The air inside was heavy with familiar oppression.
He yanked his lab coat sharply, as if it burned his skin.
The seams strained under his grip. Around him, machines whirred and blinked, printing lines of data on cold-blue screens.
A hypodermic needle shimmered beneath fluorescent lights, a single crimson droplet trembling at its tip.
He stared at it. Inhaled deeply.
The hum of ventilators merged with the pulse pounding at his temples.
This procedure took longer than usual. Sanathiel noticed: careless hands, distracted eyes. One technician's sleeve slid down, exposing a tattoo on his forearm — a number, etched with surgical precision.
It would mean nothing to most... but not to him. That number could be the thread he needed to unravel the web behind the community.
Later, as he stepped outside, even the air felt heavier. The breeze, once cool on his skin, now hinted at danger. He ran a hand through his hair — and noticed strands falling between his fingers.
"Silence took over my mind... until something shattered it."
A whisper. Foreign. Wrong.
He turned sharply and grabbed the intruder by the throat on instinct — only to freeze when he recognized the man: the same technician, the one with the numbered tattoo.
"I-I'm sorry, sir," the man stammered, sweat beading on his brow. He held out a white cloth. Inside, something gleamed.
Sanathiel narrowed his eyes and cautiously took the object. A medallion. Cold — too cold for metal.
He turned it over. The initials L.K. shimmered faintly, glowing green like they were carved from venom.
The air thickened instantly. A chill ran down his spine as scattered memories surged: the crimson glow of the red moon, the copper scent of blood-soaked soil, the echo of a deep laugh in endless darkness.
Kerens.
His fingers clenched around the medallion. It was his mark. His shadow. A cruel reminder that he was still watching — still playing from the dark.
The stench of sulfur hit his senses. He gagged dryly, his nails digging crescents into his palm.
One night.One pact.The beginning of his curse.
His breathing faltered — just for a second — but enough for the man to take a terrified step back.
Sanathiel closed his eyes, reasserting control.
Then, calmly, he reached into his coat and tossed a few gold coins toward the man.
"Relax. I'm not going to eat you."
The technician bowed and fled, mumbling:
"This is more than I'll ever earn… thank you, Lord Sanathiel."
On his way back to the mansion, Sanathiel examined the medallion again. His own initials, S.S.V., gleamed softly — but it was the L.K. engraved on the back that unsettled him.
That couldn't be a coincidence.
Kerens' voice slithered through his thoughts like poison:
"Perhaps you still remember me… As long as your heart remains bitter, I'll wait patiently… until we meet again, Sanathiel."
Kerens was guiding him. Somewhere. Toward something.
When Sanathiel arrived home, Lionel was waiting — a sealed envelope in hand.
"You're here already? Good. Go on," Sanathiel gestured, impatient.
Lionel grinned, always theatrical.
"So easy for you to say, brother. Still not used to what you are, huh? A doctor. A white wolf. The community's perfect little prototype."
Sanathiel leaned forward, his shadow stretching over Lionel's smirk.
"What's wrong? Afraid your needle might run dry someday?" His voice was a blade wrapped in silk.
Lionel fiddled with a pocket watch — his nervous tic. Tick. Tock. Sanathiel noticed the faint tremble in his thumb. Just enough to betray him.
Still, Lionel dropped the envelope on the desk. The wax seal — a coiled serpent — cracked against the ebony surface.
"Don't be mistaken, brother," he murmured, running a finger over a torn letter, "Blood always finds a way… even if it spills through another wound."
Sanathiel took the envelope with disdain. Something about it felt... off.
When he opened it, the metallic scent from the paper dragged his mind back — to chains, cold metal, and a table stained by his blood. His jaw clenched, though his face remained calm.
The Arceo family didn't invite.
They recruited.
Lionel's smirk widened.
"Oh, and one more thing," he added. "
I got you something interesting — an invitation from the Arceos. You might see a familiar face. Have fun, brother."
Sanathiel's eyes narrowed. Lionel never did anything without a hidden motive.
As he turned to leave, Lionel tossed one last move onto the board:
"Don't forget, Sanathiel… the moment you think you're winning — that's when you're already a step behind."
With a mocking bow, he disappeared into the shadows.
Sanathiel crushed the letter in his hand.
A flake of dried blood broke off the seal.
In the silence that followed, he could almost hear Kerens whispering:
"Did you think you escaped? I only let you run far enough… to get tired."