"For in the tunnels of betrayal, only one truth burned brighter than steel: Aisha was the nexus… and they all knew it."
"Human emotions are the perfect framework to blur our passions, showing that in every stage we learn, we chastise ourselves, and we remain prisoners to them."
After years confined in darkness, the light of the outside world emerged as a new dawn for the Nevri people. We had endured generations of shadows, and the hope of something different now rose above our scars. But the price of freedom was not simple; it was steeped in sacrifice and in the blood of those who dared to dream of a different future.
"It is time to rise, my Nevri people," proclaimed Salomon, his voice echoing as a call to leadership etched deep into our souls. From the slope of an abandoned tunnel, we watched those who prowled the surroundings: men dressed in black, armed, alert, like shadows that thrived in twilight. The air was thick with tension, and our senses—honed by generations of hunting—caught every movement, every heartbeat, every trace of weakness.
Salomon, his back marked by the triskele, bore the weight of our lineage and the decisions that would define our existence. Upon his chest, the lunar medallion—a relic of power—had been passed on to Sanathiel, who had once left us, taking with him not only leadership but also the hopes of many.
But time waits for no one.
A roar shattered the stillness, followed by two shadows emerging from the forest with relentless fury. They were werewolves—colossal, monstrous forms lunging toward me. Every movement was lethal, their claws tearing through the air as I dodged their attacks. With calculated precision, I struck the jaw of one, breaking it with a sharp crack, while the other fell after a brutal counterstrike. As both lay motionless, I felt the weight of victory—and the warning their presence carried.
From a distance, Salomon observed calmly. His eyes, filled with wisdom and resolve, barely reflected any emotion as he murmured:"They are insignificant compared to us, the Nevri. But even the weakest shadows can conceal greater threats."
With a deliberate motion, he dropped one of the fallen werewolves from a great height. Upon hitting the ground, the creature writhed and, under Salomon's watchful gaze, its colossal form faded, revealing a thin, pale man.
In his hand, a vial of purple and black liquid clinked against his torn skin. The container fell and shattered upon the floor, releasing a pungent chemical scent that filled the air—a toxic reminder of the experiments we now faced.
For a moment, as he gazed at the shattered bottle, he recalled the eyes of his people—those who had trusted him, those who still followed him despite their fear.
How many more lives would this war cost?
But the moment passed. Determination returned to his eyes, his expression inscrutable as he stepped past the broken vial. Yet his mind was elsewhere.
A message, brief and direct, had reached his hands hours earlier:"The woman who binds the fate of the two wolves."
A trick, a summons—or perhaps a trap. But Salomon never ignored the signs of destiny.
"War waits for no one. Nor does fate."
Though composed, his expression revealed the weight of what he had just witnessed.
"They are playing with forces they do not fully understand," he murmured to himself, raising his gaze toward the tunnel that plunged into darkness. "And we must be the ones to stop them."
Meanwhile, deep within the forest, Elliot—a scientist in service to the Community of Thirteen—worked tirelessly in his improvised laboratory. He divided the samples into two groups: Group B—beings consumed by darkness and rage—and Group A—werewolves of human proportions but uncontrollable monsters.
"These creatures are weapons, nothing more. Once they serve their purpose, we will eliminate them," he said with disdain, adjusting the doses of purple and black liquids.
—
A few hours away, on the outskirts of the city, the most loyal families were summoned to answer to Varek. Among them were the Snova, Bjorn, Velona, and Golmish families—including Darian's daughter—all stationed at various strategic points, gathered in a tense atmosphere.
"Varek knows how to discard what no longer serves him. This feels more like a trial than a meeting, don't you think?" murmured Skiller with sarcasm, leaving his coat in the car while toying with a dagger in his hand.
Sanathiel, eyes serious, turned toward Aisha. "You'd better stay here. We don't know what kind of dangers await."
Aisha met his gaze defiantly but said nothing. The bond between them was undeniable—a thread that seemed to tighten with every choice made.
"Ready?" asked a guard, appearing to escort them inside, his expression blank as he led them toward the tunnels.
The entrance lay beneath the concrete floor—a dark, oppressive passage. A trap, perhaps—but there was no turning back. The man with glasses descended in a single leap, then motioned for the others to follow.
"You're telling us to jump into that hole?" Skiller asked with a click of his tongue. "You sure you're just a regular human? That's quite a drop. You could've broken your leg."
The man made no sound—no expression.
Skiller stretched his arms, muttering: "I'm a bit rusty, but let's do this."
With a carefree tone, he jumped into the void... until a roar shattered the silence.
A werewolf lunged from the shadows.
"Finally, some action!" shouted Skiller, dodging the attack with agile movements—like a dancer amid lethal chaos.
Sanathiel reacted instantly—his sword slicing through the air, cleaving the creature's torso. Its howl echoed through the tunnels—a warning of what was to come.
Suddenly, a blinding light exploded from the depths, disorienting them all. The Nevri began to fall, weakened by the radiance seemingly designed to destroy them.
"It's a trap!" Skiller shouted, shielding his eyes as he struggled to stay upright. "Duck, White Wolf!"
Meanwhile, Sanathiel grabbed one of the beasts—using its body as a shield to block the light and protect his eyes—giving Skiller the opening to strike.
"Time to clean house."
With his hands behind his back, poised and waiting, Skiller drew his three-bladed oriental sword. The blade sang through the air. Spinning on his axis, the sword flashed in a perfect arc as the werewolves tried—too late—to react. Three flashes. Three heads splashed into the water with a muted thud.
"I always come prepared, Sanathiel," Skiller quipped, exhilarated.
The water that had splashed around them after the blast suddenly turned to blood, swirling and reaching their boots.
Sanathiel's eyes widened in shock.
"What the hell just happened here…?" he growled, tearing his sleeves to wipe the blood from his hands.
And then—only she filled his mind.
"Aisha...""No matter what happens… I won't let anything happen to you."
The bond between them—forged through adversity—now burned like a silent fire in the darkness.
Aisha was no mere piece on the board; she was the nexus capable of breaking ancient pacts… or forging a new destiny for all.
The fate of the Nevri people hung in the balance. And though danger was imminent, love, loyalty, and the strength of their lineage would be the key to confronting what lay ahead.
In the echoes of the tunnels, blood and light intertwined like ancestral dancers. And as bodies fell and decisions weighed heavier than any weapon, the triskele burned with a silent fire on its bearer's back.
For the future, the present, and the past... had just converged upon a single point: Aisha.