"Letters Beneath the Storm"

The rain didn't fall. It punished.

Thick sheets of water slammed against the roof of the mansion, rattling the windows like fists demanding to be let in. Lightning carved the sky open. Thunder answered like a beast growling in its sleep.

In the center of the storm stood the Mansion Kerens, carved in black stone and ancient secrets. High arches. Glass walls that reflected no light. Gargoyles on the spires, forever watching.

To everyone's surprise, the former owner returned. His wavy golden hair dripped onto the entrance, greeted by the butler hurriedly holding an umbrella.

"excuse my delay"

Inside, beneath the chandeliers that refused to flicker, stood Sanathiel.

Soaked from the hunt. Shirt torn. left her well-worked body exposed. 

Blood on his collar.

Not his.

He dropped the broken medallion piece on the oak table. It rang like a bell—hollow, but sharp.

From the far end of the room, footsteps echoed. 

Purposeful. 

Cold.

Mica entered. Grey suit. Gloves. Immaculate. The kind of man who could order a massacre and straighten his tie in the same breath.

"The Council of Thirteen has summoned you."

Sanathiel didn't turn.

"They can wait."

"They won't."

Lightning flashed. For a second, Sanathiel's reflection in the glass looked more wolf than man.

"Let them try and force me."

"You're playing with fire." Mica voice was calm. Almost amused. "They think you're unstable. Uncontrolled. A broken weapon."

Sanathiel turned. Eyes golden. A snarl under his breath.

"Then maybe I should show them what broken really means."

Mica stepped forward and dropped a sealed envelope onto the table beside the medallion. Wax stamped in black, the sigil of the Thirteen pressed deep: a tree with thirteen branches, all on fire.

"They want your answer by dawn."

"They'll get claws by midnight."

Somewhere Deeper in the Mansion... Moira watched from the upper gallery. Her fingers traced the hilt of a dagger strapped to her thigh.

Sanathiel. Still too human. Still too angry. But there was something in his silence tonight.

A storm inside the storm.

She turned and disappeared into the corridor before he could sense her presence.

"Sir," the steward bowed, just as Sanathiel was trying to leave the mansion, offering him a parasol with a silver handle engraved with runes of restraint, due to the rain. 

"House Verona insisted you read this before your meeting with the community of the thirteen."

Sanathiel ignored the object. Icy drops slid down his crescent-shaped scar, igniting a burning that wasn't just physical. 

A memory engulfed him with the same intensity as that storm centuries ago.

The air smelled of orange blossom and iron. Flowers and blood. Beauty and death intertwined.

Zaira screamed his name as the Nevri pack stalked them. Between the trees, silver eyes glittered with suppressed hunger.

But this wasn't a simple attack. They expected it. They expected her.

The rain turned the earth to thick mud. Zaira slipped, her breath caught in fear. Sanathiel could have caught her. But he didn't.

"Do you think their poison affects me?" —he murmured as he broke the green wax seal.

A sulfurous smoke escaped from the parchment, winding up to form a face in the air. Aisha.

She looked identical to Zaira. Right down to the mole on her neck. But it wasn't her.

Sanathiel staggered a step back, as if the smoke had hit him in the chest. Zaira's memory didn't just visit him… it bled him dry.

The last time he saw her, she was covered in mud and a deep wound, her black hair plastered to her forehead, her breath trembling.

"You won't die for me," she told him, staring at him, that sky-blue gaze that haunted him so much.

"You'll live for both of us. Even if you hate me for it."

And he, hated her

Not for what she did.

But for not having the courage to tell her he loved her… before the fire devoured her.

Now fate placed a shadow of Zaira before him. A woman with the same courage. The same light. The same mole on her neck.

"What do you want from me, Moira?" she spat, her eyes clouding. "See if I have the courage to save her this time? Or watch her burn too?"

Her claws scraped the edge of the table until it splintered.

Because if Aisha died, it would be her fault. And if she lived… It would also be her fault.

On her skin, a scar broke the symmetry of her reflection. A deep mark, left by the white wolf.

In the library, the blue curtains billowed like dancing specters. The candle flames flickered as Sanathiel dropped the parchment onto the ebony table.

As she brought the candle closer, the fire didn't consume the paper. Instead, Latin verses coiled around her wrist, like living snakes.

"Sanguis Zaïrae ligat te ad aeternum." (Zaira's blood binds you forever.)

The Letter Alone again, Sanathiel stared at the seal.

"Burn it." 

"Shred it."

"Ignore it.""

Instead, he opened it.

Inside: A letter written in blood and gold.

**"The Pact breathes. The heir awakens. The bloodline fractures.

The Nevri line must answer. The white wolf has two paths: Obedience. Or extinction."**

He closed his eyes. His fingers curled around the medallion shard until it bit into his skin.

Two paths.

And neither led to freedom.

Later That Night... He stood before the mirror. Shirtless. Scars like constellations across his chest. Symbols carved by fate, not choice.

Outside, the storm howled.

Inside, he did the same.

Flashback: 

(Sanathiel, age 13) 

Always the rain.

He knelt at the foot of the altar, soaked and shivering. Blood on his lips.

Luciano stood behind him, dry under the temple's roof.

"You must learn to obey before you can lead," the man said.

Young Sanathiel turned.

"Then I'll never lead. I wasn't born to kneel."

Luciano's expression didn't change.

"No, Sanathiel. You were born to rise."

Back in the Present... 

Thunder shook the sky again. Sanathiel folded the letter and slipped it into the fireplace. Flames devoured the threat in seconds.

But the message stayed.

Two paths. Obedience… or extinction.

"I choose neither," he muttered.

"I make my own path."

A low growl rumbled in his chest.

The storm outside paused.

Just for a breath.

As if the world listened.

Meanwhile, Mica picked up the remains of what had been thrown, as if it still throbbed.

"When you fall... not even your curse will remember your name, white wolf," she said with disdain.

In the forest, the stained-glass window shattered. Steven watched from the darkness, his silhouette barely visible among the trees.

In his hands, a journal opened by itself, the letters bleeding onto the page.

Zaira's drawing distorted, her eyes turning violets.

In the distance, three howls rent the air.

They weren't wolves.

They were something worse.