The dim glow of an oil lamp cast shadows over the documents scattered across the desk. Lionel traced the name "Aisha" with the tip of a ceremonial knife, carving it into the wood as though it were flesh.
The blade followed each letter with cruel precision, leaving deep grooves that bled splinters. Behind him, the portrait of Sanathiel watched with painted golden eyes, his lunar medallion glinting falsely beneath a coat of dust.
"Get ready, brother," Lionel whispered, driving the knife into the center of the name. "This time, your wolf will bite off his own leg."
Mica stood hunched in the doorway, his scarred hands trembling, twisted from old burns.
"Young Master Lionel, the White Beast won't forgive…"
A sharp crack. Lionel slammed Mica's warning against the wall, his fingers leaving trident-shaped bruises on the servant's neck.
"Do you know what a shepherd does to sheep that bleat too much?" he hissed, pressing the knife to Mica's cheek. "He shears them… or slaughters them."
The sound of scissors cutting through hair filled the room, each snip like a stolen heartbeat.
Mica trembled but didn't dare move. Lionel smiled, running his fingers through the fallen strands before letting them drift to the floor like feathers torn from a dying bird.
The House of the Wolf breathed with the rhythm of a sick organ. In the council chamber, the Elders of the Thirteen sat like statues of flesh, wrapped in crimson silk.
Lionel advanced, leaving muddy footprints across polished marble.
"The woman," he announced, tossing a file stained with black wax onto the table.
"She's the key to bleeding Sanathiel dry. Give me hunters, and I'll bring you his heart, still beating in my hands."
The elders exchanged glances. In the shadows behind them, a figure in a turban—Stefan—twisted the hands of a pocket watch.
"We will give you falcons," said the eldest, nodding toward a cage where three blindfolded men bit down on their own tongues.
"But if you fail… you'll feed the beasts yourself."
Sanathiel moved through the villa's hallways like a phantom, his boots trailing mud and ash. Noah followed, flipping coins marked with the S.S.V. emblem.
"The hunter reeks of desperation," Noah warned, licking the edge of a coin. "Let me play with him."
A whistle cut the air. Sanathiel turned, catching the dagger Steven had thrown between his fingers.
The blade dripped with violet liquid that hissed and ate through the marble.
"Falco's dead," Sanathiel lied, tossing the dagger at the hunter's feet. "But I can still see his corpse flickering in your eyes."
Steven drew his sword, its arcs of silver carving the air. Sanathiel dodged like a cursed wind, letting the strikes shred portraits and drapes.
At the climax, Steven plunged a dagger into Sanathiel's palm—and laughed when the blood that oozed out was thick and black.
"You're one of them!" he accused, backing away from the crimson glow in the wolf's eyes.
Sanathiel pulled the dagger free and drove it into Steven's shoulder with terrifying calm.
He leaned in, his breath as cold as the blade of a guillotine.
"Run, little rabbit. Tell your masters the wolf no longer plays hide and seek… but he still loves to hunt."
The darkness in the library was dense, alive. Sanathiel cleaned his sword as the candle flames froze into blue ice.
"Do you think Itzel cried for you?"
The voice came from his reflection in the glass, now twisted into a silhouette with horns.
But this time, it didn't just speak—it laughed. A broken laugh, like bones snapping underground.
"She died smiling, knowing you were too weak to save her."
Sanathiel clenched the medallion until it scorched his skin.
"Show yourself, coward. Or are you only good at barking from the shadows?"
The mirror shattered. From the glittering shards, a spectral hand struck him at the base of the neck.
Sanathiel dropped to his knees, his breath turning into black mist.
On the floor, vision blurred, he saw the hunter's boots approaching… and Stefan's pocket watch ticking backward.
"Everything is connected," whispered the shadow, as a dagger materialized above his spine.
"And you… you are the thread I'll cut."