Rasen's decision to join as a Protector for the Community of the Thirteen marked the start of an era defined by trials, intrigue, and battles that would test his body and spirit to their limits.
The night before accepting Steven's offer was unnerving. Steven stood tense, his usual arrogance shadowed by simmering unease.
"No room for error. Learn, adapt, and surpass the others."
His tone was clipped—an order brooking no argument.
He handed Rasen a satchel of basic supplies, an ID with a new identity, and a clear mission: prove his worth.
Rasen clenched his fists. It wasn't the desert heat burning him—it was the image of Aisha vanishing if he failed. Steven was right: this hell was the only path back to her, armored and ready.
The training compound, nestled in the desert's heart, felt more like a prison than an academy. Hostility hung thick from day one.
"Ipse est loser."
Laughter echoed behind him. He didn't need Latin to taste their scorn.
"New, aren't you?"
A carefree voice cut through his thoughts. A sharp-featured youth smirked, eyes glinting with mockery.
"'Loser,' they called you. Creative, right?"
"Who are you?" Rasen asked, expression flat.
"This year just got interesting. Hope we get… acquainted." The youth's grin widened before he vanished into the crowd.
"Ignore them. Especially him."
Another voice, calm but edged with warning. A subtly imposing boy watched him, gaze inscrutable.
"The weak don't survive here. The curious die faster."
The stranger introduced himself as Elliot Kadosh. Rasen didn't trust him—but something in his poise kept Rasen alert.
The first days were torment.
Training sessions were brutal; instructors showed no mercy. Yet every blow, every fall, only hardened Rasen's resolve. Pain became routine; endurance, his only shield.
But the real threat wasn't the drills.
It was Björn.
Scion of a minor house, yet radiating undeniable authority. He was king here—everyone knew it.
Björn produced a locket identical to Rasen's. Inside, the Thirteen's symbol bled over a photo of Lionel.
"You're Omar, yes?" Björn's voice was a calculated purr as he leaned in. "I'm intrigued."
Björn had chosen him.
For weeks, he watched, tested, probed. Rasen didn't break. And that, it seemed, fascinated Björn more.
The night Björn appeared in Rasen's room, the game snapped into focus.
"I could report you… but where's the fun in that?" Björn traced invisible patterns on the polished wood, his ring click-click-clicking like a metronome. "I'd rather watch you fight."
Rasen, weary of veiled threats, kept his voice steady.
"I'm not your toy, Björn."
Björn tilted his head, lamplight catching his twisted smile.
"Not yet."
Tension hung knife-sharp—until Elliot burst in.
"Björn's dangerous," he stated bluntly. "Take a mission. It's your only way out."
Rasen didn't trust Elliot. But he knew he was right.
He agreed to infiltrate the records room. Anything to escape Björn.
But Björn didn't tolerate rejection.
The Punishment:
Retribution came at night.
The door slammed open.
Rough hands dragged him from bed.
Blows.
Biting ropes.
Björn watched from the shadows, arms crossed, ring spinning.
"Told you—you don't leave without my permission."
Rasen's blood dripped onto the floor; his breaths were ragged gasps.
"What the hell do you want from me?"
Björn crouched, voice a whisper.
"You."
Silence.
"I want to break you, Omar. But you're… resilient. I like that."
Before he could continue, Adrián stormed in.
Björn's followers fell one by one.
Adrián reached Rasen, carefully untying his raw wrists.
"Thanks, Adrián. I'll handle this."
Björn didn't flinch. Just smiled, blocking the exit.
"The hunter and his pupil. Touching."
With glacial slowness, he seized Adrián's hand—and twisted.
CRACK.
The sound of snapping bone filled the room.
The window shattered. A shard impaled Adrián's palm.
"NO!"
Rasen lunged.
A brutal headbutt broke Björn's grip.
In the chaos, Rasen drew a dagger from his boot—and pressed it to Björn's throat.
Silence.
The blade kissed Björn's jugular.
But Björn didn't look away.
His smile curved like a scythe… yet…
His eyelid twitched.
The first crack in his mask.
"Think this changes anything?" A venomous whisper.
"Would you kill someone who knows you better than yourself?"
Outside, wind howled.
A clock's tick echoed like gunshot.
Elliot appeared in the doorway, his shadow stretching over Björn like a noose.
"Lower the blade, Rasen."
Elliot didn't raise his voice, but his presence stifled the room's tension.
Björn clicked his tongue, annoyed.
"He can't even lie convincingly," he muttered, glaring at Rasen with contempt.
Elliot stepped forward, eyes locked on Rasen's medallion.
"Björn doesn't give gifts without hidden intentions."
An envelope on the floor gleamed under moonlight.
Rasen's world blurred. Björn watched him with a crooked smile, the dagger's mark still on his neck, as Elliot stood relaxed yet focused.
A dull thud pulsed in Rasen's chest. Not his own.
Aisha's.
Trembling, he picked up the envelope.
The coarse paper felt unnaturally heavy.
Björn chuckled lowly.
"Open your gift, Omar," he taunted, spinning his ring. "I dislike impatience."
Rasen slid his thumb under the flap, breaking the wax seal.
Inside: a photograph.
Aisha.
Her dark hair swept by wind, her crescent-moon pendant glinting under sun.
But what froze his blood was the note beneath:
"Think her pendant shields her from us?"
A choked roar built in Rasen's throat.
Lionel Golmish of Rwanda.
That name—printed at the document's bottom—anchored him.
This wasn't a gift.
It was a warning.
Or worse… a death sentence.
Elliot stayed silent, but his gaze pierced Rasen with unsettling understanding.
Björn leaned closer, his smile stretching like a shadow.
"Seems someone wants you gone, Omar. For a… fascinating reason."
Wind wailed through the compound's ruins.
Rasen's blood smeared the photo's edge as it dripped from his finger.
Rasen felt a prick at his wrist. Elliot stood beside him, fingers brushing the violet scar throbbing beneath his skin.
"Curious…" Elliot murmured, pocketing a syringe filled with purple liquid. "The Mark reacts to fear."
Before Rasen could protest, a voice whispered in his mind—identical to Aisha's: "Trust none of them."
Rasen studied the photo: Aisha slept, but in her hands gleamed Zaira's obsidian dagger. Flipping it, his blood stained a Latin phrase:
"CUM LUPUS ALBUS CADET, ELEGET QUIS VIVAT. SANGUIS SANATHIEL VINCIT."
(When the White Wolf falls, she will choose who lives. The Blood of Sanathiel conquers all.)
Whatever truth lay behind this, only one path remained:
Accept the job.
Find Aisha.
Because if Lionel hunted her, she was in grave danger.
And if Rasen didn't reach her first…
someone else would.
"We'll meet again, Björn," Rasen whispered, tucking the photo into his jacket.
But as he turned, Björn's smile vanished.
"You understand nothing, do you?" His voice, usually mocking, turned raw—each word costing him. "You're what I could've been… before this place shattered me."
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Rasen half-turned, but didn't reply.
Björn clenched his fists, his eyelid twitching violently.
"Stay on this path, Omar, and you will break," he spat, fury unmasked. "And when you do… no one will pick up the pieces."
Ice slid down Rasen's spine.
But his choice was made.
Without looking back, he vanished into the night.
Björn stood in gloom, Elliot's shadow still upon him.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow.
"That fool… If he doesn't leave this place, I'll kill him myself."
Elliot smiled faintly, tilting his head.
"Are you sure, Björn?" he murmured, enigmatic. "Because I suspect… if he breaks, it won't be by your hand."
Björn's ring spun once more—then his hand fell limp.
And the night swallowed everything.
POST-SCENE
In the greenhouse, Moira clutched the tarnished moon medallion (stolen from Luciano's dead daughter). For a second, the white flower reflected a dark-haired girl playing beneath an oak… before it withered.
Her left eye, a window to fate's threads, projected chaos:
Aisha driving Zaira's dagger into a twin heart.
Lionel drinking from a goblet of emerald blood.
The flower absorbed the visions, withering instantly.
The smoke-creature at her feet lifted its many eyes:
"Azael asks: Will the girl fulfill her role in the Pact?"
Moira tightened her grip on the dead girl's medallion (Prologue I):
"She'll shatter chains… or become one. The White Wolf will decide."
In the crystal sphere, Aisha's image split: Zaira embraced her from the shadows, their voices merging: "Blood calls to blood…"