Yamina

Links to chapters:

FanFiction.net:

AO3:

It's still on going.

Bad news: it's going to be a long journey.

Good news: I will complete it , no matter what;weather you like it or not.

Have fun <3

Teaser 2:

Title: "Lara Croft"

Rain had washed over Paris since morning, turning the streets of the 11th arrondissement into slick ribbons of gray. The Central Police at Directorate Rue Oberkampf loomed like a fortress against the overcast sky.

Outside, Autumn air was sharp with sleet; restless journalists pressed forward, microphones and cameras gleaming like weapons. 

Questions cut the air:

“is it true the Monstrum struck again?”

“seventeen dead in four nights, Commissioner!”

“are riots from two days ago related?”

“rumors there’s a suspect,and  is foreign. Can you confirm?”

The glass doors swung open. Lars G.Mirpoix; founder of the Interpol Special Investigation Section, emerged, his aging figure composed in his dark overcoat, sight glasses over his thinning gray hair. To his right, Philip Hugo, advisor to the Vice–Head of Parisian Security, smirked thinly. Behind them, Jérémie Orlick, head of the 11th main police center, carried the weight of his office in his broad shoulders.

Mirpoix raised his hands, and silence fell. “Paris bleeds,” he began. “Seventeen victims in four days; and tonight, I come before you with a name.”

The reporters erupted again, but Mirpoix’s voice cut through: “a woman. A foreign national. once connected to the late Professor Werner Von Croy; a world renowned archeologist, whose body lies among the Monstrum’s latest victims. Her name… Lara Croft.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Then an inquiry was heard among the journalist

"Do you have proof of this, Commissioner?"

Jérémie stepped in, answering: “An eyewitness placed her leaving the professor’s residence within the critical window. The description fits her profile.”

The press exploded again; shouts battered the steps:

"Lady Croft? Countess of Abingdon?"

"Is she in Paris now?"

Mirpoix’s eyes narrowed like a blade slipping between ribs. “Unless she proves her absence in the thirty hours surrounding his death, she will be considered a primary suspect in the Monstrum killings.”

Chaos erupted, cameras flashed, questions tumbled,rain hammered umbrellas;and Commissaire Mirpoix endured it all, calm, composed, untouchable. Then, with a nod, he and the two other men retreated into the Directorate’s stone maw, leaving the storm behind.

Far from the frenzy, in a cramped office, a radio hummed with static. Raphael Marcherelli listened as her name was carried and twisted by the press;he didn’t flinch. The door creaked. Lisa Hugo stepped inside, Léo Dominique close behind, a folder tucked under his arm. “You were right, Captain,” she said. “It’s Gunderson; the AGENCY leader. He’s planning to invade the Louvre.”

Raphael’s eyes lifted. “Then it’s time to stop him.”

In the dim quiet of his study, Jean-Yves stood over the telephone, the distant cries of his newborn child threading through the silence. The news from the TV channel lingered in the walls and ceiling like fragments of a truth already breaking apart. He dialed once, then again, listening to the hollow ringing stretch toward doubt; until, at last, the line caught and a familiar voice answered, low and guarded. For a moment he could not speak. Then, very softly, as though the words themselves might carry danger, he said only, 

“Lara… it’s me Jean. VonCroy is dead and they want you for his murder.”

Trust is fragile. Betrayal is certain. The game is survival. Every ally is a risk,every secret a weapon; to survive the Monstrum, Lara must face more than shadows.

When Von Croy’s murder makes Lara Croft the prime suspect, she must fight not only for her freedom, but for the truth buried beneath the Monstrum killings.Alongside Kurtis Trent, Louis Bouchard, and—on the other side of the law;the mysterious young detective Cadol Foseca, as well as Interpol’s blacklisted CRS officer Raphael within the Special Interpol Investigation Squad, they uncovers facts that lead deep into the Cabal’s hidden war ; a war of betrayal, politics, and ancient power.

Time is running out, allies fall, enemies shift; and a single tape may expose everything… even at the cost of those they cannot afford to lose.

.

.

.

.

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What none of them knew was that the storm had been planned long before the first drop of rain touched Paris.

First, Happy Birthday to our Beloved Lara <3

Second , Prologue and 1st chapter coming up this week.

Chapters will be posted on AO3 and FanFiction .net.

Links will be shared here.

Thirdly, I want to apologize for the delay since I last promised to post the fic. I had some personal things and health problems that prevented me from writing.

and now that I'm feeling better, I'll do my best to write and post it until the end, no matter how much it takes.

I'll fullfil this childhood wish .

Teaser 1: "Obscura"

Here's the link to the AO3 post of this narrative arc if you can't read it here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/75442041/chapters/197233471

I was a good boy once; or so the villagers claimed, in those soft, stupid tones adults use for children destined to disappoint them.

Before "she" found me.

I did not know what she was then ;  only that she smelled of cold rain and burning resin; that her shadow reached the floor before her feet did.

 She spoke my name the way a surgeon touches flesh; careful, deliberate, deciding where to cut.

At eight  years old ; she first asked me if I wanted to see ‘the world as it truly is.’

I first met her in my reflection on the water river ,when I was collecting firewood in the sear forest with my uncle.

I said  ‘yes.’

Children are gullible, and I was lonelier than most.

She sat at my bedside night after night, she lit candles for me; whispering lessons my mind should not have understood. The language of herbs, the organs that harbor fear, the art of exchange ; that ‘something’ must always be ‘surrendered’ for something greater to appear.

I thought she was an Angel, or a friend sent to comfort me.She smiled at that, she smiled at everything I said. And I, with credulous eyes ; I could see her , even without a candle light, even in the dark.

I was born in a village whose name no longer exists ; and rightly so.

“Anschlosska.”

A gray blot near Warsaw, where ignorance bred like mold.

I grew up in a cottage of books.My parents were inept creatures; a herbalist mother whose hands shook when they should have carved,and a father who called himself a healer yet knew nothing of transmutation,nothing of sacrifice.

Knowledge filled our shelves, but affection never filled the rooms. They fed the village before they fed me, and  I learned early that attention is earned; not given.

Their tomes became my solace;  schemas of anatomy, forbidden sigils scribbled in margins, alchemical notes disguised as medicinal recipes. They believed knowledge was power, yet withheld it from me. 

“You must not touch anything.”

“You must be careful!”

“You must behave!”

“You must not be like this.”  I never submitted however.Their books; herbalism, medicine, fragments of ancient rituals ,were my first inheritance. I read them in secret, memorized their diagrams, and dissected their meaning.  I consumed it all long before they realized it, and she was still beside me ,guiding me.

I remember the first time I saw death; an old patient in my father's cabinet, a simple heart failure. His family members screamed, and my father tried to revive him.

I watched, the moment fascinated me ;the silence between heartbeats, the strange stillness.I wanted to understand it, control it. That was when desire became clear to me; Alchemy, Power, Immortality. Not for glory………………..For freedom.

And  there came the incident , that little burst of fire that consumed them ; My parents. It  is still whispered by fools as tragedy. It was nothing of the sort; I sought to heal, even then.To remake, to improve.

When my father lost his limbs in that accident ; because of me, as they never stopped reminding me , she pressed her cold fingers to my cheek and said, 

"Heal him,......try."

I did; I stole one of my mother's manuscripts, cut off my pinkie finger for blood and muttered the words she hummed into my ear .

The flame bloomed like a flower, the cottage evaporated into white heat and screaming.

Whether I did it or her; that remained a question in my head until the present day.The ritual failed, yes ; but not because it shouldn’t have been attempted.Failure is the womb of mastery.

The flames took them, but I survived; untouched.

All of it; my parents died, and in the ashes,I cried , sobbed , laughed; maniacly ,didn't know why .

But  I understood two immutable truths; Power is the only way to protect oneself. I am destined to wield it, or perish. I took this as a sign, just as she promised.

People thought it was the end; but she called it inception:

“The Obscura pact.”

My uncle took me in,I even think he was the one who got me out of the fire that night, but said never to bring the incident story again.

He taught me the black arts he hoarded like a dragon;but I learned wiliness more than black magic from him. He saw potential in a lone orphan, thought he was shaping me, he thought he was my master. The truth is ;I was already taken. She was always there ,behind me, beside me, inside me, I felt her in my veins ; a second pulse beneath my skin,a lullaby in my ear. I never said her name because she never gave one, she didn't need to. Names are for humans, and she never pretended to be that but I knew she wanted to be one.

As she confessed that I owed her more; more than two lives, more than a burned childhood.

So I gave her what she asked for;a life here, a life there. A practice,a habit. A calling.They call it the Monstrum these days; as if the word could contain what I became.

When she vanished, after the uncle died ; twenty-five years without a whisper , I almost convinced myself she'd had been a fever, a childish delirium. But I kept killing anyway, I had to; her lessons had soaked into me like blackened ink. Sacrifice, she said; sharpens the mind,sacrifice makes the world pliable.

The winter of my thirty-fourth year dawned cold and merciless; It had been twenty-five years since she disappeared into the veils of possibility, yet I had never known a moment without her shadow pressed against my mind.I could feel her gaze sharp as obsidian, irreducible. I still recall her last words:

"You have walked the path I set for you," she said, each syllable a caress and a command.  I will grant you a vision of the world that you cannot yet imagine. But first, you must see yourself as I see you."

And I did; I saw the boy who had burned his parents, the apprentice who had killed his uncle to rise, the quiet student of the black arts, and the predator who had learned to love cruelty as one loves fire.All of it ; the Monster I had become, the secret terror I carried across the lands of European villages was hers and mine together.

The people whispered of me as a shadow in the night, villages spoke of a man whose eyes always made the sunlight deemed  around them, whose presence alone seemed to draw fear from the bones of those who dared live under his gaze.I walked unmolested, yet feared by all; not because I was loud, but because I was Silent. My crimes were subtle, the missing, the ruined, the decayed ; all invisible, like alchemical smoke curling through the halls of the ignorant.

Yet the Lux Veritatis ; those self-righteous guardians , took notice. Their fear only fueled me. And she;  breath that fear into me, turning it into power, sharpening my intent until I could taste it like wine.She taught me that every death, every ritual, every shattered body, was a lesson in transformation.

At certain moments ; I started rejecting the idea of her .It  felt like a mad infatuation, I looked like a Love sick-frantic soul , I didn’t ask  for any of it.

I drank every potionI of elixirs I could find to cleanse my mind of her, but it was useless;if anything, it worsened, and she began to invade my dreams,as though she had stirred herself into the very potion. Her voice,her notions  in precise words ; fiendish yet warm and otherworldly , explained the alchemy of sacrifice.

And then she whispered the idea of the Cabal.

"You have the vision, you have the hands,I know what's in your mind.You can lead them, you can make them servants of your design.We will strike the Lux Veritatis, and the world will bend beneath us."

I realized then what she intended; not only to test me, not only to seduce me, but to forge a world in which she and I were unchallenged.

She fell for me not as the boy who had killed for her, but as the man who now commanded death and devotion alike.   And I, at long last ; controlled her.

I cannot deny that she loved me in her strange, devastating way;a succubus, a spirit, a revenant bound by hunger and fate, she chose me. And through it all, she watched me, smiled, and let me lead ; the first truly human being she had ever chosen to love, the one she allowed to take control of her, of her destiny, of the world we would remake together.

The Cabal was not born overnight.

I handpicked each member: weak-willed, ambitious, ignorant ;they were clay to be molded by my hand. Each initiation, each oath, each secret ritual, bound them closer to me and further from each other.And she watched, her eyes gleaming; feeding my obsession and my ambition. She taught me the art of patience; that conquest of mind, body, and soul must precede the conquest of the world.

We struck first against the Lux Veritatis; the night was heavy with fog, the moon a pale smear behind the clouds. I had waited years for this moment, and yet the weight of it pressed against my chest like molten lead. 

The Lux Veritatis female leader ;Elowen.  radiant, defiant, mortal yet infused with a cameleer that made my fingers itch with admiration , knelt bound before my altar. She was a woman of remarkable courage, the first to take notice of my rising ;challenged me for years, and became my first true victim.

Kidnapped, bound, and left in my cellar lab, she would not survive, yet her body endured.

as I began the slow, intricate rituals of torture.Each scream, each plea, each terrified heartbeat was a note in the symphony she  had inspired, and I was the composer.

One night, after hours alone with my prisoner, exhaustion seized me; I cast aside what I held and crashed into the room’s corner. My human heart thrashed, my body betrayed me, and a spark of my mortal soul shivered under the weight of its own fire.

Suddenly I heard her in my ears drums, clinging like the blood over my garment .

"See what you are; this is not the boy who trembled at the kiln, this is not the student of your uncle. This is the Monstrum you were always meant to be. And yet ; it is not too late to shape it further. Do not shrink from your own greatness."

And I did not,I pulled myself up,crawled over my beautiful prey.I saw my reflection in Elowen's eyes, and for the first time, I understood;my cruelty was exquisite, my obsession was divine, my mastery over death, life, and alchemy was absolute. And her lingering voice kept  flowing through me, not with flesh but with presence; a soft, persistent hum in the marrow of my bones.

"Remember, " she whispered, "all that you have done, all the lives you have harvested, all the rites you have mastered ;  it leads here, one final offering., one final opening."

I raised the ceremonial blade, tracing the sigils she had taught me on the floor, each line a channel for energy, each mark a promise of transformation.

I kept looking at Elowen's face, and I saw something unexpected; beauty untainted by fear, a brilliance that had survived decades of secrecy and guardianship.

I hesitated, not out of mercy, but because I recognized her as worthy, as the vessel of a creation I had dreamed of for long years, Beauty and Resilience.

The candles flickered, casting shadows that danced like long-forgotten ghosts. I closed my eyes and began the incantation, words of the old alchemists that twisted the air into a metallic tang; each syllable drew upon the lives I had taken, the Necromencer within me stirring and awakening.

I couldn’t tell which voice I’m hearing, to whom the weeping belonged, but the  feminine struggle moaning was a melody, a rhythm, a cadence that tuned the ritual's energy.

Her  incorporeal form circled the space,I felt her intertwining with my body, it was Euphoric yet excruciating.I almost shriek, but  her voice steadied me; pushing me forward, guiding the lines of power, shaping the alchemical currents,whispering :

"the final act, my boy, the final act."

The Lux leader's pulse slowed beneath my hands, her body trembling as the energy of the ritual entwined with her essence,I traced the lines of the final sigil over her chest, and as I did, a spark of heat traveled up my spine.

She was perfect, in every way that mattered.And yet, she was destined to die. The moment the final words left my lips; the world seemed to fracture, the air trembled. A surge of alchemical force erupted from the lifeless vessel.

And there she was; human, complete.Yet not entirely herself ; her form the intricate marriage of her essence and the body of Elowen.

Her red hair fell in molten-dark waves, framing blue eyes that stirred like restless storms,the subtle sculpting of her face, the slow swell of her human form, gleamed now with an otherworldly curve; something eternal, wrought from fire and shadow, meant to be felt as much as seen.

I fell fully to my knees, The Alchemist within me did not falter; it shivered with exultation.

I had created her,I had fulfilled the decades of guidance she had sown in me.

She looked down at me; a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips.

"You have done well." she whispered, voice the same as it had always been; yet now tangible, warm.

"The world will see what we can accomplish together."

I rose, trembling, not with fear, but with awe and uncontainable reverence.

For years, I had followed a ghost ; a whisper, a shadow, a desire that shaped every cruel act I had committed. And now she stood before me, flesh and blood, the ultimate alchemical manifestation of my obsession and her design.

She placed her hand on my cheek, and unlike the time when I was a child, I felt her finger tips bear over my skin.

I did not recoil,I did not resist,I let her guide me, finally acknowledging the one who had shaped me ;and realizing, for the first time, that in some strange way, I had become hers as she had always been mine. We were now co-creators; she the inspiration, I the instrument.

And the world ; mortals, Lux Veritatis, Cabal, all , would bend beneath the perfection we engineered together.

We were teacher and student, lover and master, predator and prey ; existed in a strange equilibrium.

I  referred to  her by : “Ereshkigal”  or "Kur"

When she took her first breath in the stolen body, the world shifted its alignment around her.

She walked beside me now ; no longer a whisper in the corners of my mind, but a presence of flesh, grace, and something else, something that burned through her new form like sunrise through stained glass.Her footsteps made no sound, her eyes held the memory of centuries.

And yet; when she turned them upon me, I felt elevated,chosen.I had believed myself master of the dark arts by my own genius……….

But in truth; she had been guiding my hand since childhood. Now, fully incarnate, she filled the spaces she had once only haunted.

Now in the act of feeding on human flesh, a human heart took root; it's fragile with passions, desires,tender, consuming, and exquisitely hers for me to revel in, to claim. and  laid bare for me to savor,to coax, to consume;  a sin I could taste on her trembling lips and in the quiver of her yielding body.

Some nights were too loud with  no words,many nights; just breath and lust. She would press against me with that soft growl in her throat, her body already remembering mine. Our breaths tangled; sharp and hungry, and her fingers dug into my skin like a creature claiming what was hers.

My low moans, the heat of her against me, the way our souls snapped together with a force that felt more instinct than choice. We moved not out of thought, but instinct;two creatures returning to the same fire.

But I do recall that one night,a moon-kissed night .

The room was still warm with the echo of our bodies, a slow pulse in the dark. My breath hadn’t yet settled. She half over me, her skin cooling against mine, her hair  river of blood spilling over my chest. She dragged her fingertips down my ribs as if drawing sigils only she understood; soft, fawning, dangerous.

“Arne ………..” she whispered into the hollow of my throat. The way she said my name always felt like an invocation, not affection. I closed my eyes. Her weight on me, the scent of her hair, the languid way she moved;it all blurred my thoughts like smoke.

“You work so hard,” she murmured, lips brushing my jaw. “Surrounded by men who pretend to be your equals.”

A subtle tension pinched my spine. “They’re not my equals,” I muttered.

She smiled against my skin; I could feel it, curved and knowing. “Of course they aren’t. And yet… you share everything with them. Your thoughts, your discoveries, your future.”

Her hand slid up my chest, then wrapped around the back of my neck, guiding me to meet her eyes. They gleamed in the low lamplight; silver, predatory, almost tender.

“They hold you back,” she breathed. “All of them.”

I swallowed. “They’re loyal…………….Useful.”

“Useful?” She let out a soft laugh, draping herself over me like a silken net.

 “My love, you don’t  need ‘ useful’ . You need ‘unquestioned’. You need what you already have inside you; without them copying, stealing, diluting.” Her fingertips traced my collarbone, slow and hypnotic. “You are destined to reshape the world, they only want to stand beside you when you do.”

She shifted higher, straddling me lazily; just enough weight to keep me pinned beneath her warmth. My pulse hammered, every word she spoke seemed to settle into my blood.

“And what if,” she whispered, lowering her lips until they hovered over mine, “you didn’t have to share any of it?”

I inhaled sharply. She felt the reaction, and her smile deepened.

“What if their knowledge… their artifacts… their positions… belonged to you alone?” Her breath mingled with mine, hot and slow. 

“Imagine it, my love; All their secrets, absorbed by you. All their authority; falling to ‘you’, No more compromise, no more waiting.”

Her nails grazed the back of my neck, a shiver of command.

“You would be unstoppable.”

My thoughts flickered, unstable; desire and ambition tangling like veins.

“And you know they’re not worthy,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to mine. “You know it every time they question you, every time they try to tether you to their pace; you feel it here.” 

She guided my hand to my own chest, over the furious thrum of my heart. “This fire is yours, not theirs.”

I exhaled shakily. “Kur..……”

She took my face in both hands, eyes luminous, mouth brushing mine with maddening slowness.

“If you want to rise,” she breathed, “you must stop sharing the sky.”

Her lips finally claimed mine;soft, deep, possessive, sealing the thought before I could resist it. And her fingers moved through my hair as if reading the lines of fate etched into my scalp.

“And when they’re gone,” she whispered into the kiss, “you and I will build something no one can challenge.”

Something hot twisted inside me; dark, intoxicating, inevitable.I knew then that I would do it.

And she knew she had won.

The night  trembled,candles burned low.The Lux Veritatis shuddered, the black alchemists will fall . And I ; Pieter van Eckhardt ,fostered the darkness with the same devotion I once reserved for innocence.I will be the One and only Black Alchemist that history will whisper about.

For in her eyes, I had found a destiny. And in her creation, I had found a  god ;myself.

When the first Cabal member fell last, I felt it immediately.

Each death left more than silence behind.

The moment their corpses hit the floor; I saw a clarity I had never known. Not triumph, not horror; clarity. It was as if every caution, every false loyalty, every hesitation had evaporated from me in that single act.

I stepped into the chamber, and the air trembled beneath me. Five shadows before me; the Cabal in their haughty procession, eyes blazing with the confidence of immortals. They thought themselves untouchable, they thought their centuries of scheming had prepared them for anything. I raised my hand, and the world bent to the will I had honed for decades; centuries even. Fire leapt from the tips of my fingers, coiling like serpents of molten fury, while shadow poured from my palms in thick, suffocating waves, dark as the void between stars. The two forces collided in the air before me; a storm of light and darkness, alive with hunger.

The Cabal didn’t flinch; they never did. Pride is a slow death, I thought, and with a thought, I unleashed it. The fire screamed, the shadows writhed, and the chamber became a crucible. Walls cracked, stones splintered, and the floor trembled like the heartbeat of some fallen Titan. I moved with the certainty of inevitability, and one by one, the Cabal members were swallowed;screams caught in their throats, forms distorted and writhing as my strike tore through flesh and soul alike.

I saw the terror in their eyes, the disbelief as the shadows claimed them, as the fire devoured every arrogance, every secret they carried. Their carefully woven powers unravelled, leaving nothing but fragments, echoes, whispers of who they once were. All five; I saw them fall, one after another, their cries silenced in the conflagration of my making.

And when he finally sank to the floor  Régis Limoux, the first, and the last to die, I did not celebrate, I did not revel. There was only silence; and the weight of absolute authority settling over me.

I looked down at him; the first of my Cabal, sprawled in the candlelight, and I saw the foolish faith he had placed in me. How naive, how utterly blind; he thought the bond we shared, the rituals, the secrecy, the whispered lessons, would protect him. That his loyalty was enough. It was not.

And then silence; a silence so complete it felt unreal, like the world had paused to witness perfection. I let my chest rise and fall, the fire sputtering, the shadows retreating. I had done it. Every member;the Cabal, extinguished. no one remained.

EreshkigalEreshkigal’s  voice whispered in my ear, though she was nowhere near, her influence lingering as always: “Do you see it now? Do you understand what you can have, all of it, without compromise?”

 All five were gone; in my certainty, their plots, their lives, their arrogance;they had ended here, under the weight of fire and shadow and my hand. The chamber reeked of ash and burnt ambition, and I walked away, leaving nothing behind but the echo of absolute judgment.

“See what you have become………..This is only the beginning. They were the first, not the last. And now… you can lead.”

She emerged from the shadows holding a shard no larger than her palm, its surface whispering with faint, shifting sigils that pulsed in answer to the fresh death still echoing in the room. I asked her what it was, but she only smiled; soft, secretive, a smile that told me everything I wanted to believe.I ran my hand over the shard, warm and alive in my grasp. All of it; their knowledge, their secrets, their artifacts, was mine.

‘ years of weaving souls, bloodlines, and fragments of Nephilim vitality to bring it this far, and that it was meant for my hand alone. I did not yet understand its purpose, only that through it;and through her, I would finally step beyond the reach of mortality itself. ‘

She had guided me, as always, pushing me to the precipice, and I had leapt without hesitation.

From that day onward, the Cabal would be mine to mold, mine to break, mine to wield as an instrument of something far greater than any of them could ever imagine.And in the dark, in the quiet of the candlelit chamber, I allowed myself one rare, unspoken thought; I am no longer a man,I am the Monstrum , and I am The black Alchemist.

A decade later, we returned to Anschlosska, the place of our birth. She and I ; inseparable, unstoppable, fire and shadow entwined ,strode through the streets as if the world itself bent around us. The villagers, recognized of course .Pathetic dolts, saw only a blissful and ordinary couple; how quaint, how laughable. They could not perceive the bond of power, the deadly synergy between us, the quiet promise that together we commanded what none of them could ever touch.

However, she has gone more humane with the years, and I became something that despises the human shape.

She fell for me as much as I had been manipulated by her, but her love was framed by my ascendancy. I had killed, deceived, and created horrors for her, and she had returned in human flesh, fully embodied, to see that her faith had not been misplaced.

Her succubus discipline fractured; her devotion slipped beyond her control. That was when the rules finally bent to me; I saw it in the way her hand lingered on my shoulder, in the way she let me believe I controlled her,in the way she stood behind me when emissaries of the old alchemical orders came seeking alliance.

She wanted a king, and I, in my arrogance, believed I was born to the role.

Yet in the stillness of  many nights, I sometimes felt the faint, nagging tug of mortality ; the whisper of what I had sacrificed to reach this point; my innocence, my uncle, Lux veritatis, the Cabal members and countless others. But her presence always smoothed the edges of my conscience.

"Do not question yourself," she said. "You are what must be."

And so I embraced it; The Monstrum, The Black Alchemist, The architect;all became me, shaped by fire, shadow, and her hand. I became both predator and priest, executioner and prophet, visionary and destroyer.

A day came when her voice grew sharp enough to cut through me.

The room was dark;only the oil lamp was muttering in its glass,and she stood half-manifested by the window, the pale shimmer of her borrowed skin flickering as if she were ashamed to wear it. We had wrangled before, we always did; two decades of circling one another like wounded animals, bound by the pact we could no longer name. But this time… this time she sounded human enough to hurt me.

“You don’t trust me,” she said.

“I trust what I’ve seen,” I answered.

Her face tightened; the half-formed features blurred at the edges, her shape slipping between a woman and something older, colder.

 “You believe every rumor, every glance I give another soul, every word spoken to a man becomes betrayal in your mind.”

“Your mind is not mortal,” I hissed. “You slither in and out of thoughts, why speak to that merchant? why linger with him when you know what it stirs in me?”

“I lingered because he deals in rare minerals; because I needed him.Because our work; your greatness, depends on what I must gather. There are Nephilim elements only I can sense; you cannot reach them, you cannot even see them.”

I clenched the silver shard in my hand; the metal burned cold. She had made it, long ago; with a tenderness that felt like choosing me. She had placed it in my hands with the conviction that I would guard it better than she ever could, she said demons did not keep treasures; they lost them, but men kept what they loved.

And like a fool, I believed she loved me for entrusting me with it.

But she never told me what it does,and I had to figure it out myself.

“You gave me this,” I said, lifting the piece so its engraved veins caught the lamplight. “But you never give me the truth.”

She stepped forward, and for a heartbeat her body solidified; eyes pale and mournful, lips trembling with a softness that had undone me since youth. 

“It is because I trust you that I do not burden you with the full truth; there are things humans are not ready to know,you should not know, not yet.”

“Not ever,” I corrected. “You mean not ever.”

Her breath hitched; not quite human, too hollow around the edges.

“I need you to keep killing,Arne; I need the bodies, I need the elements purified by fear and rupture, I need that piece in your hand fed. And while you do that, I must gather what remains; Nephilim compounds that only my senses can detect.”

“So you leave,” I spat. “Convenient; When questioned, you flee.”

Her expression softened in pain. “I leave because it is necessary; not because of you.”

A lie, or truth; I no longer knew which was worse.

‘ Why do I care? Why should I care?

I tell myself it is nothing ; a passing irritation, a moment’s lapse in judgment , yet the thought of her with another human burns beneath my ribs like a brand.

I saw her smile at him,I saw his eyes linger where only mine should fall;  a trivial moment, meaningless… and yet something in me twists.I hate the feeling, I hate the weakness it exposes, I hate that she carries the power to wound me without even knowing it.She said it was harmless , she said he was suspicious ,she was curious,she needed information, supplies, a simple exchange.

But when I asked, her eyes shifted ; just slightly, just enough, and that was what my consciousness needed; doubt slithered in, cold and insidious.

Doubt, the first true enemy of any alchemist, and suddenly the world made a cruel kind of sense; Of course she lies, of course she strays, of course she plays with me ;she bends men like reeds in the wind, Of course she who made me kill my members in the cabal.If she can sway my heart, she can break it, and I cannot allow that.’

“Go, then,” I said. “Run; you always return eventually.”

She flinched, as if the certainty in my tone wounded her; though what right had a creature like her to be wounded?

“You speak as though I serve a cycle,” she whispered. “As though my returns are a weakness and not devotion.”

“Isn’t it?” I challenged.

For a moment I expected the room to erupt in her true wrath, the walls trembling, the glass cracking, my bones liquefying under her real, eldritch gaze. But instead she only grew smaller; almost filly in her sorrow.

“You will not understand until the end,” she murmured. “But you will.”

Then she left, no grand exit; only a flicker of the air, a hollowing of the shadows, and the faint warmth she carried with her fading like a dying ember.

And suddenly the room was too silent, too empty, too ‘hers’.

I thought the absence would cleanse me, instead it fermented. With every week she was gone; my mind twisted into shapes even I could not recognize. I killed at her bidding because she had asked it; because she had said it was necessary. but without her presence to temper my purpose, the killings became something else; a language I spoke fluently, a rhythm of certainty, a proof of existence.

She left me with the silver shard; her trust, her mistake,my unraveling. And in the silence, the village of Anschlosska began whispering; first fear, then suspicion, then opportunity.

They watched me from behind shutters, their eyes sliding away when I passed. They whispered about the woman who was with me; who drifted in and out of sight like smoke, who laughed without sound, whose footsteps never marked the snow. They wondered why no one saw her anymore, they wondered if she had cursed me, or if I had cursed her.

There was that merchant of gold who asked after her once, twice; a man who traded in gold dust and old stones. His eyes lingered too long on the ruins of her presence, on the chair where she read, on the corner where her form once shimmered. He asked if she would return.

I told him nothing, but I noted how he pressed his fingers to the spot where the wood was faintly scorched, as if feeling for the last warmth of her shape.Something in the gesture gnawed at me.

Recognition? longing? memory?

I buried the question beneath work, beneath blood, rituals,beneath the constant breath of the pulsing piece against my palm. But the doubt grew teeth.

Months later she returned, I don’t know how many, I didn’t count.Her body; still not fully human, shimmered with distortion, but her belly was round, heavy, undeniably bearing life.

 I stared, unable to breathe.

‘She is with child…..’

She said nothing at first; her eyes, faintly luminous, searched mine with fear I had never seen in her before.Not fear of me ; fear for me.As if I had already become something she could no longer recognize.

I stepped toward her, she flinched. 

Good.

“Whose child is that?” I asked softly.

Her voice cracked. “Ours.”

“No,” I whispered. “Not possible.”

‘How could it be? How could this fragile, impossible thing exist between us? No. That child could not be mine; I am sterile,always have been. That was a certainty carved into my bones. Nothing she could say would alter it; I am incapable of creating such life………….She’s a demon who bore human flesh…….and I….’

She reached for me,“Arne , listen………”

but I stepped back. 

“No.”

Her face crumpled, and something in me… something long dormant… woke like a serpent uncurling.

“It’s not what you think…..that night you and I……….” , She pleaded,

I silenced her with a look, a voice I didn’t bother raising.

‘Motherhood…..That’s what she wanted,  but not mine to share. She would mother someone else, WORSE; someone else’s child while I remained nobody’s father.But I am nobody’s father; and I will never belong to any child.left to seethe at what I could never hold. the fury of being cast aside, consumed me.’

This was the moment, the moment her trust ended, the moment my transformation became inevitable.

The next few days, I did not need to do much; a glare. A whispered suggestion, a corpse or two left in the right place.I told them she consorted with demons, that she had whispered dark incantations in the shadows, that she cursed the earth and all who dwelled upon it.I told them she’s a hex, the slaughterer, the Monstrum.

They believed me; why wouldn’t they?

Rumor is a tool; sharper than any blade.I did not discourage their terror; no. I fed it, slowly, carefully, as she had once fed me. Fear is a seed; suspicion waters it. The villagers did the rest.

They began speaking of her again; not as the strange companion of Arne the recluse, but as a She-Witch, infidel who ravished him, drained him. They recalled old tales of monsters that walked as women, of barren fields that followed their steps, of children born with no father.

“Didn’t she vanish for months?” they muttered.

“What did she do while she was gone?”

“Haven’t there been disappearances?”

Every word was a nail, every whisper a spark; but I gave them only one sentence to ignite it all:

“She is not what you think,” I told the village elder in confidence, “and the child she carries is not mine.”

I saw the terror bloom in him; the same terror I once felt when she first appeared to me as a child. That fear that freezes breath and logic alike.

I did not need proof; my certainty sufficed, their suspicion became obedience. But she did not know, she can’t,too soaked in sadness,too human to read me like an open book this time. Her eyes met mine once, for a moment, the world stilled. I could see the betrayal she did not commit, and I believed it. By dusk, the entire village was speaking of her; by dawn, they had sharpened stakes, and by evening, they had torches.

And I? I merely watched.

They came for her while she slept.

She had curled herself on my bed, exhausted from the journey back, her body flickering in and out of stable flesh as if she were fighting to keep the form intact. Her breathing was shallow; each breath sounded like the rustle of pages in a dying book. When the first stones shattered the window, she woke with a gasp.

“Arne ?” she whispered.

I did not move, the shouts outside rose;

“Witch!”

“Harlot!”

“Burn her!”

Her gaze snapped to mine, searching for the man she had returned for, the one she always returned to; she saw nothing but the cold mask I had carved from months of doubt.

“You did this,” she breathed.

I said nothing, her form trembled; not with rage, but with a heartbreak so immense I almost recoiled. She stepped toward me once, faltered,

"I will never forgive you for this,Arne Saknussemm! " She said, and I could hear the anguish in her tone ,vividly so.But I couldn't see her face as she staggered toward the back door.

The mob crashed into the front;I let them.

She fled into the forest, the villagers roaring after her with torches tearing holes in the night. I followed from a distance, unseen, silent, watching her falter beneath the weight of her unnatural body.She stumbled often, held her stomach, pressed her forehead to the bark of trees as if the world were spinning too fast around her.Something was happening inside her; something more than fear, more than exhaustion.But I did not dwell on it, I did not want to understand. At the edge of the woods, a figure stood in the half-light; the gold merchant. Always too calm, always exactly where he should not be.He lifted his lantern, illuminating her broken, trembling form.

“You,” she rasped, gripping a tree to stay upright. “Not now… please…”

The man stepped forward, cloak brushing the snow, eyes too knowing for a simple trader.

Their gazes locked, and something passed between them;recognition, old connection, or perhaps only necessity.

She reached for him;desperate, pleading, but the villagers burst through the trees behind them, shouting, throwing ropes, hurling sparks into the brittle winter branches. Flames caught; the forest shuddered with sudden light, the merchant vanished into the smoke with a speed that did not fit his frail frame.

They burned her, or tried to.

And she… she did not fight, she could not,I swear I could still hear her laughter in the flames.

Within hours, Anschlosska wiped out existence; not by the mercy of time or feud, but swallowed by fire, by alchemy, by her execution,by the fury I unleashed when I thought she had been using me all along.

 So I commanded with words, a flicker here, a whispered incantation there, until the earth swallowed itself whole; no maps recall it, no prayers mourn it.

I remember the smoke rising, I remember the silence afterward, I remember the echo of her absence.

By the time afternoon came, the village was ash, the mob never returned, no survivors limped home, no victor celebrated. The flames they set spread faster than reason; hotter than earthly fire. The piece pulsed in my hand, feeding;yes, feeding,on the panic, the deaths, the collapsing breath of a whole community devoured by its own fear.

I walked through the ruins, the air thick with the metallic sweetness of scorched flesh. The first piece of the Sanglyph had awakened fully. Lines of red and black crawled across its surface like veins drinking deep.

And now I could sense everything she made of me. I knew, then, that my obedience to her ; to the nameless force that had guided me for years , had led me to this.

 That so-called ” love” , in the shape she had taken, demanded sacrifice. And I had given it.

I had given everything, I loved “Her”; even as I killed the whole village to erase her.

Because love, like alchemy, demands a sacrifice worthy of the transformation.

And the inception of the Obscura painting emerged.

I hope you guys enjoy the lore crafted for Tomb Raider AOD REimagination timeline.I know it's long but believe me It took so long to craft this lore and put it into readble words.

It is of course inspired from the information Murti Schofield provided for his villian in AOD , I only tweaked and added few details to expand on tone and styleI'm building for this fanfic.

Arne Saknussemm is an Alchemist from the 14th centuary mentioned in Murti's website. the details about him suggest very much that he is the Black Alchemist.

Celebrating Tomb raider 29th anniversary.

1-The REimagined fic of Tomb raider AOD that I've been scrambling since I was 12, which follows the events of Aposatazia;with recycled events and characters ,explored subplots ,a supporting cast Of OC's,enhanced and explored lore. And a sprinkler of Drama and Romance with more focus on the Noir,forensic, political aspect of the Monstrum killings.

Lara will not only have to face the Parisian underground forces,but the mass corruption that is rooted in the Parisian security apparatus .

2-Or , directly move to the romance tragedy fic that takes place after the events of AOD Reimagined in a post apocalyptic setting,where everything and everyone is trying to recover from the damage caused by the Neo Cabal members and Karel ruling. After Karel was defeated by Lara , Kurtis, Morgau and the other two characters from the supporting OC cast ; Morgau Vasiley manages to survive and heals her body,but she is still wounded not only due the mental and physical torture imprinted by Eckhardt and Karel,but also due to the loses and defeats she faced.Morgau will deal with emotions of late adolescence going through a journey of redemption and self discovery.

So , the choice is yours dear readers❣️.

Epilogue:

"Moon and Sun"

December 20th -1998

Cadol woke drenched in sweat, her breath ragged. The dream again. Always the same;an endless snowfield where shadowed figures blurred in and out: A tall woman dragging a girl with white hair, a man with gray eyes collapsing with two bullets in his chest, another tall figure clashing against him with something like fury and grief, and the flash of a knife glowing in the hand of a commanding figure before it was swallowed by darkness.

She had no names for most of them. But she knew the pain was real. She felt it every dawn.

The bell rang. The suddenness of it jolted her heart. She hurried to her desk, fingers brushing the small trinket she had kept hidden: the dreamcatcher earring Kurtis's mother Marie had once pressed into her palm before they had separated. She fixed it to her ear quickly, almost guiltily, as if it could shield her from whoever stood at her door.

"Fonseca...Someone's here for you."

And there he was. A broad shouldered man; big frame, warm skinned and and wearing his long black hair in a low ponytail , strange in presence but calm in voice; Rad hand Shigancha ; Kurtis's half brother.

She recognized him .

"Big brother..."

"Cadol ." he said putting his gently hand over her shoulder. "Sorry for surprising you like this."

She let him in.

"Kurtis was lucky we got to him on time; he was there wounded in the snow,more than two bullets penetrated his muscles." Shigancha sighed.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

" And yet he survived..."

"Thank God!" Cadol said with a cracked voice.

"I don't know how he does it, he got a very strong will power. He's reckless sometime,but can't help but feel proud of him as someone with the same blood in his veins." Shingnsha smiled.

Cadol didn't know if should smile back or keep her unreadble mask.

"He did favor you more than his own father..." ,She tried to calm her nervs out of stress.

Shigancha only nodded.

Then She asked:"What happend?"

"I can't tell you everything, but I owe you some truth. He fought for something most people wouldn't believe, and he nearly died because of it. Others... did die. Protecting you; protecting what you are, even if you don't know it yet."

Her hands trembled at her sides, the earring glowed faintly in the sunlight.

"If the world ever finds out who you really are, Cadol," Shigancha continued, "It won't stop at kurtis interventions, nor the dreams or visions; It'll be worse. And none of us may be able to stop it."

He said that as if he could feel what her soul is going through.

Fear crawled into her stomach, mixing with guilt. She wanted to ask 'why her', wanted to scream. But no words came.

Shigncha placed a folded paper on the small table beside her door. "For when you're ready. Mother wrote it for you ;It's Kurtis's story . Read it when the nightmares get too loud." He gave a faint nod, then walked away.

Cadol closed the door slowly, leaning against it. The dreamcatcher brushed her cheek, heavy now with the weight of things unsaid.

Across the street, Raphael Marcherelli stood; hands in his coat pockets, watching. He hadn't planned to stay this long. Something in him recoiled every time he saw her, with that dreamcatcher, like a silent accusation. As though her innocence was a lie, as though she carried blood without knowing it; a part of him 'blamed her', unfairly, unwillingly.

But another part; a quieter one, saw only a girl frightened and lost, bearing nightmares she could not escape.

He turned away before she could notice him.

Ten months prior in Irland: March 19th ,1998

The rain in Dublin was thin but relentless, veiling the street lamps in halos as Raphael crossed the courtyard toward the church; his coat was still damp from the ferry crossing, and the weight in his chest felt heavier than his bag.

Inside, the air was warmer ; candlelight spilling across old wood and stone. The church was empty except for the faint murmur of a priest in the far transept. Evening light burned through the stained glass, painting fractured blues and reds across the wooden floor.

Raphael slipped into the confessional booth, the smell of cedar and incense pressing close.

He sat inside the confessional, elbows on his knees, his face half in shadow.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," he began, voice low, almost mechanical. "It's been... years since my last confession."

Patrick Dunstan's voice came through the grille, calm and steady even warm. "Go on, my son."

Raphael hesitated. When he did speak, it wasn't the controlled cadence of the CRS officer, nor the sharp tone of the Interpol investigator; it was bare.

The words didn't come in order ,they came like shards, long and saffocating

'A young woman's face in a hospital bed, the sound of waves in a Greek harbor.,the sharp metallic taste of blood.'

"I failed her," he said at last. "I told myself I was saving her but I wanted to do more than that. and my arrogance..." His voice cracked. "It put her in more danger than she'd ever been in."

Patrick said nothing; letting the silence draw more from him.

Raphael went on, his voice hollow, almost detached.

"And a good friend... betrayed me," Raphael confessed, his voice low, weighted with something heavier than anger. "He took their side; my enemies, let himself be swallowed by whatever game they were playing. " His breath caught, almost a laugh.

He leaned forward, pressing a hand over his eyes.

"I lost him to them, but worse than that... his family lost him to me. I still can't get over his son's face... or his wife, weeping during that trial."

"I should feel something for his death... but I don't. Not sorrow, not rage; nothing. And that emptiness frightens me more than losing him ever did. It tells me I've changed, that the man I used to be is gone. My morals... whatever they were, they've withered. Father, I'm afraid there's nothing left in me worth saving."

Patrick's voice was quiet. "And this... young woman? Who is she to you?"

"Nothing, not related in any way." Raphael admitted. "But; I couldn't live a child behind me just like that. Or maybe I just needed someone to believe in me again. Doesn't matter now. She's gone..."

Father Patrick lowered his gaze, the silence between them briefly sacred. When he spoke, his voice was steady, measured.

"You mourn what was taken, and what you could not save. That grief is human, my son. But do not confuse grief with guilt, you cannot chain yourself to them forever."

"Well ,Thanks to that old friend; the homeland of my family washed its hands of me. They branded me as human trafficker shadow, partner betrayer. Papers whisper I sold my badge for blood money. Interpol has me painted in green ;not quite red, but enough that I can't walk into those lands and cities without someone spitting my name. To them; I'm not a man anymore. I'm a warning."

Father Patrick was silent.

A pause. Then:

"But... There was... someone; a woman. Not the kind the Church would be pleased with , but one of the few who still believed in me when the walls caved in. She lost more than I ever did, yet she didn't spit my name into the dirt like the rest of them. Maybe because grief makes strange bargains, or maybe because she saw in me the same ruin she carried inside could've buried me with the others ; and God knows I deserved it , but instead, she kept me standing I cost her one of her people; her buisness . But instead, she stood beside me. my assistant too, whom almost lost his life because of me.

"We built something from her silence, from her refusal to condemn me; a shadow's work, Father, but it breathes."by day I'm the officer they tolerate, by night we stitch a web of whispers through Paris's streets. The three of us together build a World; a 'Circle Without Chains'. Not to save ourselves, but to chain down those who think they can write fate for children like that young woman."

His hands clenched.

"If you ever see me still moving in this world,it's because of that ; because someone who should have hated me didn't."

Raphael exhaled sharply, the words burning on the way out.

"And that, Father... is the worst part; that her mercy feels heavier on my soul than her hatred ever could."

"There's another... one , ally you if I can say; someone was present with me in the battle field , but I spent every step thinking he was my enemy. Strange man. He fought like the world owed him nothing, like pain was the only truth left. Sometimes I wonder if he's even whole after all that, or just a cripple carrying ghosts."Raphael scoffed, pressing a hand against his arm where the Chirugai scar burns faintly

"Maybe I should've kept him an enemy ; would've been easier. But in the end..."He pause, voice lowering"he was the last one who didn't want me dead."

"And then... there was her, another woman. The one who slipped in when I thought I was crawling out. She never raised her voice, never needed to. She dressed her lies in gentleness, in patience. I followed, thinking I'd found light, Paved the way for a future ; and only when I was too far in, I realized it was just another shadow. Maybe the worst one of all... because I wanted to believe her."

The candlelight trembled, and the room seemed to grow colder.

"I killed my father," Raphael went on, each word heavier. "Not out of hate... but to stop him from killing the girl. He was..." His breath hitched. "He was the one behind those Atrocities of last year. He was the one who baited me all over Europe."

Raphael kept speaking of violence, of failures. He avoided names, but each word dripped with truth.

And then,like an accidental -purposeful slip ; the real reason surfaced.

Silence stretched again. Then Raphael leaned forward, lowering his voice almost a whisper of exaustion.

"Both of them ...They got me involved within the Vasiley family and the Lux Veritatis Damn runner."

Something shifted on the other side of the grille, the faint sound of movement was heard ; a scrape of wood, a change in the air.

"Who are you?" Patrick opened his booth door and stepped into the aisle, his eyes sharp now.

Raphael opened his side, pulled out his badge. "Raphael Marcherelli; French police. Currently under an Interpol green notice."

Patrick's jaw tightened, eyes narrowed ; not in moral judgment, but in calculation.

After a long pause, he gestured for Raphael to follow. They left the nave through a narrow side door into a modest stone rectory that smelled faintly of old peat ,rain and old woodsmoke.

"You know more than most ever should," Patrick said, finally sitting.

Raphael didn't waste time. "Inspector Morlock...In Switzeland... told me you could fill the gaps."

Patrick's hands folded over his knee. "The Vasileys were bound to the Shadow War. They had an illegitimate child, ablasphemy; 'golden-eyed girl' Cadol ...was taken in by the Heissturm family; The headers andconductors of the Lux Veritatis. Before that, she lived with her mother. Her mother committed an act the Lux could not forgive; she was too sinful that gave them a alibi to kill her. They would have killed the child too, but... they didn't ; They couldn' erased her memory with the help of someone from the Cabal."

Raphael's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

For the first time, Patrick's composure broke; his gaze went still , a flicker of fear tightening his face.

His eyes darted toward the window, as if even the stone walls might have ears. "Some names," he said softly, "are more dangerous spoken than left buried."

"I see..." Raphael said in surrender.

"She's the half-sister of the Vasiley renegade; Morgau. the last child ; the Albino one." Patrick explained.

" Her real name is Samael, but they buried it under false names. First Cadol, then Danial when the widowed man adopted and raised her for eight years. They did everything to keep her from the Cabal, from the Black Alchemist;starting with tearing her away from her true father, Mathias Vasiley. As it was his second betrayal against them; and that was his punishment.

She carries features that betray the bloodline she enherated from her father, but she hides them. An alchemical trinket suppresses her very DNA, masking the truth in her flesh."

Raphael's jaw locked, his breath uneven as the words sank in.

"The earring..." he murmured, almost to himself, something like denial tightening in his voice. His hand brushed against his own ear unconsciously, as if comparing.

Then, sharper, he looked at Patrick.

"You talked about her father's bloodline. Did her mother... carry another significant one?"

Patrick hesitated, his expression darkening. Finally, he gave a slow, bitter nod. His voice was low, weighted with dread.

"She carried the one bloodline they fear even more."

The words hung between them like a sentence, the silence that followed pressing down until it was unbearable.

And there, before Raphael could force another question, a hollow ache opening in him as he realized he was standing at the edge of something far worse than he had imagined.

But the priest finally consoled the officer cutting him off his dark thoughts.

"And what of you, my son? Where does that leave your soul?"

Raphael lifted his head, green eyes glinting through the shadows.

"Souls are for men who walk in daylight, I've been branded already. Hero, villain, scapegoat ; take your pick. All I know is I still breathe, and as long as I do, someone out there will curse my name. Maybe they're right, maybe I deserve it."

He exhaled slowly, his breath trembling.

"But Father... it doesn't matter what they call me, it matters what I do next."

Outside, the rain struck harder against the windows. Inside, the candle flames wavered.

Patrick said nothing more.

Later that night, Raphael stayed late in the cloistered quiet of a cottage. Father Patrick listened without interruption as he narrated more about his story of battle in the snow; where too many had died and nothing had been won,and spoke of what he witnessed and knew about the Cabal, the Lux Veritatis, the Vasiley bloodline.

Fade to black.

Finally ,I finished a fic ,for the first time in my life; thanks to you.

This work and many others is dedicated toTomb Raider: The Angel of Darkness and a tribute to Murti Schofield, whose vision continues to inspire.

You deserve to know that this story was cut in half; and was planned for 20 chapters. I had to do it so I could finish it on time before the school begins and I go back to work.

But still I'll do my best to comeback with the next story which of course will follow the event of this one, and it is going to be :

TR AOD REimagination-Alternative timeline:which might go on one go or divided into two or three part.

As well to share the other AOD fics I wrote within this alternative scenarios.

I hope you Enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter 10 : “Blood Snow and Tears.”

"When the masks fall, the truth burns brighter than the lies"

Location: Spain: Cadiz - Sweeden: Gotland .

Time: Novmber 27 th -November 28 th 1997.

FILE REF: A010 – Informant Contact :Kurtis Trent- Alain Seck -Janice Boudout

Spain : Cadiz /Dahl palase -November 26 nd /mid -night 02 a.m:

The house lights dimmed. Morgau's breath snagged in her throat as the curtains peeled back, revealing a sea of eyes, hundreds of them fixed on her; waiting. She had been watched her whole life; her face, her hair, her eerie presence drew stares wherever she went,but this was different. This time the attention was a cage. The cuffs clamped around her wrists in the shape of silver bracelets;they were Vera's condition, Dahl's leash, and each cold link seemed to amplify her fear.

Among the orchestra sat Rozic, violin poised under his chin. His gaze slid to hers;calm, appraising, almost familiar. When the first note of her voice slipped into the hall, his bow answered, weaving around her like it belonged there. By the time he broke into a solo, their harmony felt rehearsed; uncanny. She could swear she had seen him before, standing in the shadow of her father when she was still a child.

The crowd stirred as another presence claimed the stage. Sveta appeared; descending into the light with the grace of a Fallan Angel. A ripple of awe cut through the audience; Cabal allies, Interpol, strangers alike-each one caught in her spectacle.

Raphael stiffened. Vera was in the wings, a remote clutched in her hand, Esteban standing close with a pistol. 

"Janice, Alain;backstage. Stop her now, before she blows the place." His voice was a harsh whisper into their ears.

Janice slipped away, dragging Alain with her, but Esteban spotted them and stepped forward, gun raised. "Not a step closer."

Raphael was on him in an instant, arm locked around Esteban's throat, forcing him back. Vera's thumb hovered over the remote.

The night in Cádiz broke apart in fire and smoke.

The first glass shattered when Janice with a quick motion slammed Vera's head against the bar counter in the back. Bottles toppled, liquor splashing across the floor as patrons screamed and bolted for the doors, and The remot fell under Alains feet ,he collected it and ran like a mouse. Vera hissed like a cornered cat, swung a knife, the blade nicking Janice's cheek. Janice snarled like a raged dog, her hand closing around Vera's wrist; twisting,and more twisting ,until the knife clattered free.

"Now I know why I never liked you, bitch!!" Janice spat, and drove her knee hard into Vera's gut. Vera doubled, gasping, but lashed out blindly, catching Janice across the jaw.

The two women staggered, grappling in the half-light, faces smeared with sweat and messed up make-up mixed with blood, every slam of their bodies echoing through the bar like thunder.

A signal cut through the noise and crowd;sharp, decisive, like a blade of sound. Rozic's cold hand lifted the violin with ritual precision. Müller's eyes narrowed, glinting in the half-light. Boaz's lips drew tight, a breath held in the calm before the storm, and the room went silent.

Morgau staggered back. "No... you're not Samael. You can't be........" She said scanning Sveta.

Sveta leveled the gun at Dahl's temple, and pulled Morgau by her arm.

"Call off your men," she hissed. "Or you'll die."

Gasps tore through the hall. Dahl did not flinch; his lips curved into a thin, poisonous smile.

"The blond bitch," he whispered, low enough for only her to hear. "Expected. But useless; I already have the other girl. Cadol is in my pocket."

"Cadol?!" Morgau repeated, the name striking her like a note she had always known.

Dahl snapped with his fingers.

And suddenly, Kurtis dropped from the rafters like a shadow with steel.Those were Gunderson behest to his Cabal collegues in form of  orders to the Craws.

 "No chance," Kurtis said flatly. " As I said before,She's in love."

His boot struck Dahl's chest, hurling him backward into the crowd of the orchestra.

Chaos erupted.

"Say that name one more time and I'll cut off your tongue loos ."

A red glint flashed in Kurtis's eye behind the mask he was wearing, fixing Dahl with the most chilling stare of his life despite the cover on his face. Teeth clenched, he rose and advanced toward Morgau.

On stage, Morgau in Sveta's hand felt the cuffs snap open, her power breaking them loose; forcing the interpol commisione, to release her.

Two of Gunderson's craw dogs lunged for Morgau as she wrenched free of Sveta's grip;but Dahl put a dart in one and blew the other's head back with a shot, snarling. then he lunged before she could act. The sting of the tranquilizer bit into her arm, cold fire rushing through her veins; he hauled her to the side, desperate to spirit her away.

'Should've known Gunderson would sell me out; him and that snake Joachim, rotten to the marrow.'

 He ran with quick steps towards the young woman.

"Not tonight," Raphael snarled, shoving Esteban on Dahl and cutting his path as he fell on him. Masked Kurtis appeared from the opposite side, silent and deadly, boxing Esteban in before he could catch up.

Janice scrambled onto the stage, reaching for Morgau before Dahl could get up  and escape with her ;only for Esteban to recover, shooting Kurtis who dodged the bullet swiftly and shoving her hard to the floor. She gasped in pain.

"Janice!" Raphael barked.

Alain barreled forward, yanking Esteban back by the collar, buying her a chance. Together they pulled Morgau upright, her body slackening from the drug but still conscious enough to resist, but Vera went after them.

The crowd roared in Panic and confusion as Sveta turned back to them and raised her arms, claiming the chaos as part of her theater.

Raphael appeared behind her for a back stroke, but across the haze, Esteban blocked him.

 Raphael and Esteban locked eyes through the swirling smoke.

"Rapha..." Esteban's voice was hard, almost pleading. "Don't make me do this man."

But Raphael had already drawn his weapon. Not to fire; just to keep the distance. His chest heaved, anger vibrating through him. "You already chose your side, Esteban."

But Esteban was smaller and with that quicker,stepping foward.His grip found Raphael's wounded arm, squeezing until Raphael staggered with a sharp grunt. Using the opening, Esteban shoved him aside and threw the window latch, icy air flooding the place. He was one leg out when Raphael's voice cut through the chaos:

"Don't flatter yourself, Esteban. If it weren't for Greta and  Mateo; I'd have thrown you under the bus in the Alps when I had a better chance. "

For the first time in their brutal exchange, Esteban faltered. His knuckles whitened on the frame, breath catching, the name of his family hanging in the air heavier than any threat. That heartbeat of hesitation was all Raphael needed to lunge again.

They clashed again. Esteban charged, slamming Raphael into a table, wood splintering under their weight. Fists flew; Raphael's right hook splitting Esteban's lip, Esteban's elbow cracking against Raphael's ribs. The fight was close, desperate; two old friends turned into predators, each strike charged with betrayal.

A smoke grenade hissed nearby, filling the room in thick choking clouds. Shouts echoed. Sirens screamed somewhere outside.

Gunfire cracked through the palace hall, the gilded walls choked with smoke and dust. Shouts, boots, and the sharp echo of breaking glass tangled into one unbroken roar. Raphael staggered across the marble, his lungs burning, vision tunneling from the blow Esteban had landed minutes before. He raised his pistol to fire into the blur of retreating shadows when;

A shot rang out; too close, too perfect.

His ear buzzed.

He never saw it coming.but expected him ; of course.

Then the impact; not in his chest, but behind him. A figure slammed into him, knocking him sideways. The bullet chewed a pillar where his skull had been.

"Watch it, Marcherelli!" a voice growled, taking of the mask.

Raphael blinked up through the haze. Messy brown hair, gray eyes, sharper than the muzzle flash still burning in the air. his lean figure, black mercenary suit smeared with dust and blood.

"Renner," Raphael spat, half in disbelief, half in raw relief.

"Still picking fights you can't finish?" Kurtis pulled him upright with a rough jerk, scanning the balcony where more Agency Craws regrouped. "Your friend just cheated on you, again."

Raphael wiped blood from his mouth. "I almost had him in Switzerland."

"You never almost have him." Kurtis turned his pistol, squeezing off a clean double shot that dropped one of the craws trying to flank them. His tone was dry but not cruel. 

"Hate to bring it to you, I knew he's a good player the first time I saw you with him in Milan."

"He's quicker than you, meaner too.It's me that you need me right now, young man; you need someone like me."

For a breath, Raphael almost shoved him back. The memory of Malta flared-fists in the dirt, insults hissed through clenched teeth, the humiliation of losing control.

But then he saw Morgau in his mind's eye; pale, small, her dream of nothing more than finding her sister. And he saw Esteban, vanishing away  like smoke through his fingers going after Janice.

Raphael's shoulders sagged. "Damn you Runner; I hate to admit it, but you're right."

Kurtis gave him a tight  smiling nod. "Good. Because you need to hear this."

He pressed his back against the column as another burst of automatic fire shredded the air. He spoke low, urgent, over the ricochets.

"Gunderson cut a deal with Dahl. Morgau wasn't just another runaway to them. Dahl was ready to sell her and her  'the supposed sister', but when Interpol crashed the exchange weeks ago, the girl was none existing; no big sister. Just the younger one by herself. Gunderson wants her back on the table, and he'll burn through anyone to get her."

Raphael froze; the words hit like cold water down his spine.

"No sister?" His voice cracked despite him. "But........"

"She was a ghost; maybe never real, or maybe already gone." Kurtis's face was unreadable,  shadowed in the muzzle flashes.

"On official recordes." He muttred. "Doesn't matter now. What matters is Morgau's still alive, and they're planning for her be delivered straight into Gunderson's hands. We've got to keep her away from them, got it?"

Raphael met his eyes, the fury, the pain, and finally;something sharper,resolve.

"Yes, It's only You and I who can do this ."

 "As long as you don't get in my way." Kurtis mocked him.

"And don't think we're friends by any circumanstance."

"I take back what I said; you're meaner than your boyfriend."

"What ever you say partner." Raphael sighed with a smirk and walked forward.

Kurtis allowed the faintest grin. 

Another grenade blast shook the chandeliers overhead, raining glass around them. Instinctively, the two men ducked together, backs touching, weapons raised in opposite directions. For the first time, they moved in rhythm; not rivals, but soldiers caught in the same firestorm.

Raphael drew in a long, scorched breath. "Alright, let's get this done."

"For her," Kurtis echoed, before shoving him toward the side stair. "Not for this war."

The hall thundered again with chaos, but the two men were already in motion;side by side, finally pointed at the same target.

Through the chaos, Janice stumbled toward the door, dragging Morgau, who was limp and half-unconscious, her eyes fluttering. "Stay with me, baby girl," Janice muttered, hauling her like a shield through the haze. As Alain stayed few halls at the back dealing with Dahl and Mercs backing up his captain .

She found the getaway car idling, slid Morgau into the backseat, and climbed into the driver's side. Her hands shook as she jammed the key.

Then;headlights sliced across her windshield.

Sveta stepped out of the dark like a phantom. She wasn't alone; two of Janice's girls stood with her, eyes wide, forced forward at gunpoint.

"Drive away, Janice," Sveta called, her voice too calm. "And I paint the street with them."

Janice froze, heart hammering. "Don't do this; they're just kids.Let's talk it through."

"Then hand over the one in your backseat," Sveta said, gun steady. "Give me Morgau Vasiley. Or I kill them both."

Morgau stirred weakly, a ghost of breath escaping her lips. Janice clenched the wheel tighter; her expression showed refusal. 

"I'll count to three; One......Two........" Sveta counted with a cold stare into Janice's soul,that sent shivers down her spine.

"Wait......" Janice said as she was about to step out of the car, but........

Sveta smiled faintly, then pulled the trigger.

"Three..............."!!!!

The crack split the night. One of the girls dropped instantly, lifeless, blood spreading across the pavement. The other screamed, collapsing to her knees, shaking uncontrollably.

"Fu***! Nadia!!!" Janice slammed her fist against the wheel, tears burning in her eyes. The surviving girl's sobs filled the silence, breaking Janice in two.

From the shadows, Alain rushed forward, pistol raised. "Stop this madness!"

But before he could fire, Esteban appeared out of the smoke and struck him across the skull with brutal efficiency. Alain crumpled to the ground, unconscious a inches away from Janice's car.

Esteban didn't hesitate,  yanked open the car back door, dragged Morgau's weak body from Janice's grasp, and shoved her into the passenger seat of his own car where Sveta was waiting. "This ends tonight."

The engine roared, tires screamed. Esteban vanished into the night with Morgau and Sveta, leaving Janice behind; paralyzed outside her car,fallen in the ground with a dead girl bleeding on all over the place, a broken one sobbing beside her, and Alain sprawled unconscious at her feet.

Then came the sound of boots;Raphael and Kurtis burst onto the scene, weapons drawn, eyes searching in shock.

They froze at the sight; blood on the asphalt, Janice's hollow face, Alain down, the sobbing girl cradling herself like a child.and Morgau dissapeared.

Raphael breath hitched, rage and guilt crashing together. 

"Jesus Christ..." Kurtis knelt, 

Raphael's hands trembled. "I lost her again. And another innocent life is gone, because of me."

Janice turned to him, her face streaked with blood and grief. "They took her. Sveta and Esteban;they took Morgau."

Kurtis observed the place, scanning the direction of the escape. "Then we don't waste time."

But Raphael looked back at Janice, at Alain;he leaned and pulled him in is arm against his knee observing his bleeding tample. then looked at the girl who had just lost her friend; his voice broke, quiet but firm.

 "No more. I can't keep dragging you into my mistakes."

He gripped Janice's hand. "Take Alain, take them; get as far away as you can. This is on me now."

She stared at him, silent, broken.

"Gotland; that's where the Craws leader is waiting." Kurtis hesitated, then continued" Your father; Vittorio will take her to Gunderson. We move now; We've got only one shot at this, or she's gone."

Raphael stood, dark eyes blazing with resolve. He looked to Kurtis.

 "Then we end this in Gotland."

Kurtis gave a curt nod.

Together, they vanished into the night; toward the storm where Sveta ran away with Morgau.

Janice stood up , trembling in the half-light; cradling the crying girl, while sirens grew closer. Smoke still hung in the streets, the blood not yet dry.

Gotland:

The night air over Gotland was razors on the lungs, the kind of cold that bit straight through skin and bone. A white storm rolled across the open fields, smothering sound, flattening everything into endless shades of silver and shadow.

Somewhere in that blizzard, Morgau was being driven like a prize mare toward her doom. Sveta and Esteban had her bound in the back of a stolen truck, their eyes darting over their shoulders for the Craw unit they knew was hunting them. Esteban's hands gripped the wheel like iron claws, while Sveta's pistol never once left Morgau's ribs.

"Don't think of running," Sveta murmured, low and venomous, her eyes glittering in the mirror. "This road belongs to wolves."

They weren't wrong.

The wolves came in the form of Vittorio's Craws. Black figures emerged from the swirling snow, armored silhouettes hemming in the truck. Spotlights flared. Gunfire cracked the silence. The windshield splintered, and Esteban cursed, throwing the vehicle into a wild swerve.

"Ambush!" he barked.

Sveta smirked, as if she'd expected this all along. The Craws opened fire; tires burst. The truck skidded, flipped, and came to a shrieking halt against a snowbank. Morgau was dragged out by the arms, choking on the cold, her world a blur of smoke and howling men.

Far away, hours later; Raphael pushed forward through the gale. Blood ran warm down his arm from an old wound reopened, but he didn't care. He had Kurtis's words in his ear still;

"They're keeping her in Vittorio's cabinet. That's where she'll be before he takes her south."

It was betrayal and alliance at once, the kind of fragile pact forged only by necessity. Raphael had looked him in the eyes after Malta,Switzerland after everything, and both had silently agreed; no more running in circles. Whatever else they were, they were soldiers, and Morgau's life was worth their combined steel.

Raphael killed the Craw guards on his way like a beast unleashed. Knives flashed, guns roared, his body moving on instinct older than thought; snow ran red in streaks. By the time he reached the cabinet from a hilly top, his chest heaved with the rhythm of a cornered animal.

But Vittorio wasn't there.

Instead;

"Drop it."

A gun barrel pressed into his temple. Esteban, ragged but alive, leaned close with that cruel half-grin, the storm painting frost on his beard. Behind him, Sveta hovered in the shadows, pistol raised, her eyes unreadable.

Raphael froze, teeth bared.

"Keep walking," Esteban ordered. "You're going to meet your Papa properly."

They moved a few steps forward. Esteban kept talking, though even he seemed unsure if he was distracting Raphael,or himself from what he was doing.

"Sorry I couldn't get word to you about Greta's reaction,as you asked back at Nice Hospital. But..." He exhaled hard. "You were right; she liked you,still does. She regrets not choosing you. I knew it, but I pretended not to." 

Raphael rised a brow confused .

"And I hated you for that bastard!!!" Esteban jerked him off.

And as he  was seconds away from lashing out.

The night cracked.

A bullet punched through Esteban's skull; he staggered, blood spilling from his throat, eyes wide with disbelief.

"No!" Raphael roared, his eyes blazed at him through a mask of shock and fury, his friend's last confession still echoing in his head.

Esteban collapsed into the floor, soaking in his own black blood spilling from his mouth.

Raphael chest heaved, fury rising, grief colliding with old guilt. His jaw worked, breath sharp between his teeth.

Behind them, Kurtis stood, rifle raised, his breath curling in the cold air.

"Sorry pal, I had to do that....." Kurtis coughed blood.

"I told you I'd be here," he said, voice shaking not from cold but blood loss. His side was torn open, crimson leaking through layers of black.

Sveta didn't hesitate;she shot him. The bullet slammed into his chest, spinning him half around. He grunted, staggered, and dropped onto Raphael shoulder. 

"Kurtis!" Raphael surged forward, hands outstretched as if he could hold him up, keep him alive by sheer will. But Kurtis collapsed into his arms; his knees in the snow, breath rattling, blood slicking Raphael's coat.

The Lux Veritatis only pressed a bloodied hand to Raphael's chest. "South," he rasped. "Don't worry about me.I'll be alright"He Coughed. "Vittorio running...  away ...with her.Hurr...y!!"

Then he pushed Raphael away with the last of his strength, forcing him forward.

Raphael hesitated, torn between staying, between vengeance, between his own shattered loyalties;He looked at Esteban dead body;he felt anger at the greed that consumed him and the memory of Greta's tired smile, of little Mateo's eyes, cut through him like steel.

He rose. He ran.

South.

Meanwhile in the south:

The chamber reeked of smoke and iron; shadows of the burning crates danced across the truck bay, and the sound of boots thudded like drums of war.

Morgau lay still on the cold surface of Vittorio's Truck.

the old man's frame hunched over the wheel, his Craw insignia glinting under the frost as he preparing to take on. 

Morgau's body slack, pale lashes trembling against pale cheeks. To the Cabal agents she was unconscious; another specimen to be studied and contained. But inside, her mind was thrashing through a storm of visions.

Shadows swam first ; whispering Latin chants, the echo of Rozic's voice resounding like an old hymn stretched across stone walls. His figure wavered, tall and spectral, his face half-concealed by light that burned too white to look at. "Daughter of the fallen line... the one who should never return..." His words spiraled, carried by the rustle of unseen wings.

The image cracked, glass shattering into fragments of color. Now she was somewhere else ; chandeliers glimmering like constellations, silk gowns brushing against marble. The Gala, Music swelled, indistinct, as if underwater, yet the crowd moved in perfect rhythm. Faces blurred, then sharpened; Janice's painted smile, a glass raised in toast, her sister calm silhouette lost in the crowd, she was still little as the last time she saw her. Morgau tried to reach out, to call ; but the vision slipped away before her lips could move.

The next surge hit harder. A cavernous space, the clash of metal, shouts tearing through the air. Two men facing one another ; one in black tactical gear, the other taller, broader, eyes flashing with the same steel-gray intensity. Raphael; his voice was thunder, rough and furious, and across from him loomed the figure of his father Vitorrio. Words were indistinct, only the weight of betrayal ringing clear. She saw them collide, fists striking like iron, blood on stone.

Her heart jolted, as if she had been struck; the scene flickered, dissolving back into darkness. Only Rozic's voice remained, trailing through the void like smoke: "The line bends. But it does not break."

Morgau gasped, eyes snapping open, the sterile ceiling of the truck blurring above her. For a moment she couldn't breathe ; the visions clung to her mind, too vivid to dismiss as dreams.

She found herself strangled ;she tried to struggle but her body faced her with exaustion.

Through the storm, through the crawling white void, until he saw it; headlights carving through the snow. Vittorio was already done with warming his truck, and in the back;Morgau, bound, struggling, desperate.

Raphael sprinted, gunfire peppering around him. He hurled himself forward, onto the path. Vittorio braked hard, stepped out, pistol already raised.

And without a word, he shot Sveta in the gut. She folded with a gasp, clutching her stomach, silenced before her schemes could spill from her lips.

The hall was hushed now, emptied of shouts and gunfire, yet Raphael felt no victory in the silence. His arm throbbed where Esteban had broken him open in the Gala, but the wound inside pressed deeper;the faces of his mother, of Janice and Alain,Esteban wife and son of the ones he had failed to reach before the curtain fell. For a moment he almost believed he could hear them in the draft that stirred the stage drapes, whispering of debts unpaid. He stood there, breath sharp and shallow, knowing the chase was far from done. But it wasn't the prospect of pursuit that hollowed him in that frozen quiet; it was the echo of all he hadn't stopped, all he hadn't dared to do.

The chamber reeked of smoke and iron. Shadows of the burning crates danced across the truck bay, and the sound of boots thudded like drums of war. Raphael's grip tightened on his pistol as he stepped forward, gray eyes locked on the towering figure by the steel containers.

"Take it off," Raphael said. His voice was steady, but the muscles in his jaw ached. "The mask. Now."

For a moment, Vittorio didn't move. Then, with deliberate slowness, he removed the tactical mask and lowered it, revealing his worn face;  older, harder, but still carved with the same sharp angles Raphael had seen in every mirror of his life.

The world shrank to father and son.

The wind howled between them. Vittorio's eyes were pits of winter ice, and Raphael saw himself reflected there;what he might have been if the years had gone differently.

"You should never have come back looking for her." Vittorio said, his voice like a hammer on stone.

"And you should've stayed dead," Raphael answered.

The fight that followed was brutal, primal; blood and snow mixing under their boots, fists cracking, steel flashing. Vittorio was strong, seasoned, a beast who had taught Raphael every trick he knew. But Raphael fought like a man who had nothing left to lose, and the snow drank deep of their war.

"Were you planning to return home with this kind of glory?" Raphael asked. His words trembled like they might shatter on his tongue.

Vittorio's lips curled in something between disdain and pity. "It's better than the one you think you'll carry."

Raphael took his gun again lifted it higher, but Vittorio stepped closer, voice dropping to something intimate, almost tender. "You think you understand. But you don't. She is a weapon; Raphael. A thing that can unmake nations. I will not let you throw your life away for her."

Raphael's throat burned; his heart slammed against his ribs. "She's a girl; not a weapon." His voice cracked, raw with fury. "And you ...... you're my father. Or were you just hiding in masks so long you forgot that?"

For the first time, something flickered in Vittorio's eyes. Not regret ; but something fractured, too human to be steel. "You have your mother's heart," he said quietly. "Too much of it....that will destroy you."

The words cut deeper than any blade,  and then Vittorio struck.

The pistol clattered to the floor as the older man's fist slammed into Raphael's ribs, forcing the breath from his lungs. Raphael answered with a savage hook, but his wounded arm screamed with pain. Vittorio seized the weakness instantly, twisting, forcing Raphael to his knees.

"You think love is strength," Vittorio growled, pressing his son's arm back until the bone threatened to snap. "It's a chain; that's why your mother broke."

"Don't you dare speak of her," Raphael gasped, striking blindly, his knuckles splitting on his father's jaw.. "You hurt her........... You broke her!"

The fight spiraled into brutal chaos; close, raw. blood and grunts, father and son locked in a war that was half survival, half confession. Vittorio pressed advantage, pinning Raphael, driving him down with soldier's economy. Raphael spat blood, refused to yield.

Then; the sound. Metal creaking.

 A crash; the back doors of the transport split open, a small figure stumbled into the light.

Morgau.

In the shadows; her body was broken, breath shallow, blood soaking her jacket. 

Raphael twisted toward her, voice breaking.

"Morgau...?"

She staggered, hand clawing toward the snow-dusted ground, crawling toward freedom.

"No; stay back!" he snarled, forcing his gaze off her.

Vittorio lunged, barring him with brute force, keeping his son from breaking past. Father and son clashed again, their struggle tearing through the snow and ruins.

From the archway, Kurtis staggered in, every step dragging a limp, blood smearing across his boot. His gray eyes fixed on the chaos; the brutal fight between Raphael and Vittorio, but then, beyond them, something worse seized his breath.

Morgau writhed down beyond the back of a truck, ropes biting deep into her throat as she fought for air, her face paling with every strangled breath.

He didn't think; he couldn't. Summoning what strength he had left, he let the Chirugai fly. The blade hissed through the air, slicing the rope clean; but also grazing Morgau's shoulder, blood blooming. She gasped, freed but weakened.

Sveta rose like a phantom, eyes blazing, and lunged for Morgau. Kurtis tried to intercept, but her blow sent him sprawling, coughing up blood. Morgau, trembling, summoned her Baetyl knife and hurled it with a flicker of psychic will; but it barely staggered Sveta.

Raphael turned on time; just in time to see Sveta's hand closing over Morgau again. Something snapped inside him. With a snarl that tore away every trace of restraint, he gathered what was leftof strenght in his bones and  shoved his father aside and drew his weapon. Then came the shots; wild, furious, merciless. Bullet after bullet tore into Sveta as Raphael screamed his rage, his grief, his madness into her body until she crumpled, empty of soul.

Or that what he thought.

For a moment, silence. All eyes on Raphael;the fallen in decay son ; soldier turned executioner. Even his father froze, staring as if witnessing a stranger.

Then the general moved; in one motion, he turned his gun on Kurtis and fired. The younger man rolled desperately aside, dodging death;but the effort stole his last reserves. He collapsed, gasping, strength gone.

The general seized Morgau, lunged forward, and with one arm caught her like a predator snaring prey. hauling her up like a trophy.His other hand lifted the pistol he'd taken; he leveled it up and shot Raphael in the foot. The scream ripped through the chamber, he cried out as fire seared through his foot, collapsing him to the ground; his scream echoed through the steel bay.Raphael toppling as his father dragged Morgau toward escape.

Vittorio hauled Morgau upright, his voice flat, soldier-like. "You see? You were never meant to save her. You were meant to learn what it costs."

Raphael's breath rasped, the world blurred. His gun was still there ;near his hand.

He looked up at his father, at the merciless weight in his eyes, at Morgau's pale face caught in his grasp. 

And he knew.

His hand grabbed his weapon, gritting his teeth against the fire in his leg, he raised it once more; his finger tightened on the trigger.

" If this is the cost ......then you were meant to die teaching me, father."

The shot rang out; final, absolute.

It shattered the frozen air. Vittorio staggered back, his grip slipping from Morgau as blood bloomed across his chest. He dropped to one knee, eyes still locked on Raphael, no words came ; only a long, ragged exhale that steamed in the icy night.

Raphael's gun fell from his hands. He stumbled forward, almost reaching for him, almost catching him. But Vittorio  body jerked, then fell;collapsed into the snow, helmet rolling from his head, crimson spreading in the white.

Snow was falling thicker now, clinging to the blood spreading across the ice.

Raphael collapsed to his knees beside his father; chest heaved, his body finally giving way, his father's lifeless hand just inches away. tears freezing on his face He reached toward it, trembling, as though some part of him still sought the bond that never was. His fingers brushed the snow, stopped short of touching.

Raphael's face pressed against the frozen ground, voice rasping, breaking apart in his throat. "...Morgau... run." 

The girl gasped.

Morgau staggered forward, her chest tightening at the sight of him crumpled in the red snow.

 'No, '

Her heart screamed, 'don't leave him like this. '

She took a step, but Raphael's arm shot out weakly, barring her with a bloodied hand. His green eyes, glazed with pain, locked onto hers.

"Quickly ..........." he choked, the words carried on a dying breath.

"Go!" he barked.

Morgau's resolve shattered, but her body obeyed. She turned; limping through the snow, forcing each step against the weight in her chest.

Then she froze, stood trembling; her face caught between fear and sorrow. Behind her, the battlefield burned ;smoke, corpses, blood mingling with snow. 

A shadow stirred in the whiteness. Sveta ; rising, impossibly, his silhouette breaking through the mist like a nightmare that refused to die. Morgau's head snapped back toward Raphael, panic in her eyes lingering on his crumpled frame and the fallen giant at his side..

But before the thought could take hold, a sharp whistle cut the silence. Kurtis. still thrown on the snowy ground, blood down his lips, but still alive.

Her eyes followed the sound; just in time to see the Chirugai spinning through the air towards her, humming like a blade of light. Instinct took over; Morgau's hand shot up, catching the weapon mid-spin. Its ancient weight vibrated through her palm, alive,warm, claiming her.

Then she vanished into the storm, leaving only the echo of what had been lost.

She didn't look back again. She ran, the Chirugai in her grip, snow, blood and grief burning in her chest, as Sveta's shadow closed in behind.

Moments later:

The forest swallowed the last echo of Vittorio's roar, leaving only the hiss of wind through the trees. Snow shook loose from the pines as shadows moved between them dark figures fanning out in disciplined silence.

Gunderson's men.

Their rifles glinted faintly in the moonlight as they pressed deeper, boots crunching over ice-crusted earth, hunting the trail of the vanished women. Vittorio had foreseen his own fall, and now the Cabal's backup swept in, methodical and merciless.

Ahead, somewhere in the tangle of roots and fog, Morgau and Sveta ran; but the net was closing.

And just like that

the forest swallowed them all.

The End.

Kurtis journal: "Every fight feels the same now; blood in my hands, snow under my boots, and tears I’ll never let fall. But what scares me most isn’t losing the war… it’s becoming the kind of man my father always wanted me to be."

Epilogue coming out tomorrow.

Chapter 9 : “Silver and Gold.”

"Behind the shimmer of chandeliers and velvet masks, bloodlines and betrayals come to light."

Location: France: Paris - Malta- Spain: Cadiz .

Time: October 28 th -November 12/27 th 1997.

FILE REF: A09 – Informant Contact : Alain Seck -Janice Boudout

France : Paris /16th arrondissement-Passy  -November 2 nd /night 21:45 p.m:

The building felt drowsy. Dim lamps threw honey-colored pools over threadbare rugs, the murmur of a late-night sitcom bleeding from the TV in the common room, laughter drifted up in bursts, mixing with the lazy rustle of magazines. The air smelled faintly of perfume, cigarette smoke, and the tang of nail polish.

Janice leaned against the balcony railing, a thin silk robe wrapped around her. A cigarette burned between her fingers, its ember catching the street's amber glow. She liked this hour ; the part of the night where Paris felt emptied, a stage after the curtain had dropped.

Behind her, soft heels clicked against the hallway tiles. She glanced back;four of her best girls, emerged from their rooms ; coats buttoned, hair curled into perfect waves, lips lacquered crimson and glitter. Each carried a small, neat suitcase. They looked less like they were heading for a quick job and more like boarding a red-eye flight to somewhere warm.

Janice didn't think much of it. Girls came and went at odd hours ;private clients,other cities, events, those kinds of things. But then, from the sofa where two others lounged, came a voice:

"Hey Nadia........you guys seriously traveling to Spain?"

Janice's cigarette paused mid-air.

She stepped inside, closing the balcony door with a quiet click. "Spain?" Her tone was casual, but the word landed like a hook in the air.

The four froze for half a second too long. One gave a little laugh ; too quick, too light.

"Work trip," the tallest one offered , shrugging like it was nothing.

Janice's gaze flicked from one suitcase to the next. These weren't overnight bags. And their makeup ; too exact for a last-minute client. "Since when do we do work trips?" she asked, walking toward them. "And since when do I not know about them?"

Another  named Nadia, the popular and most demanded one tried to brush it off. "Special invite....private event. They wanted just us."

Janice smiled faintly, the kind of smile that told them she wasn't buying it. "Private event where?"

Silence;a shifting of weight. One of the girls avoided her eyes, pretending to fix her lipstick. Finally, the youngest mumbled: "Cadiz."

Janice exhaled slowly through her nose;the ember at the end of her cigarette glowed like an angry eye. "Cadiz..." She rolled the name on her tongue as if testing it for poison. "Who's the host?"

This time no one answered, but in their silence ; and in the faint flicker of nervousness in their eyes , she felt it. That old instinct that told her when a man was dangerous, when a party was more than a party.

Janice's hand curled around the railing of the stairwell as she watched them leave; the click of their heels faded down the hall. And in the distance, in the shadow of her own thoughts, a date rose like a red flag.

Late November.

A date Clair Issoux was fixated on obssessively.

The echo of their footsteps had barely died before Janice flicked the cigarette into the street. She stayed at the railing for a moment; eyes on the slick black ribbon of asphalt below, then went inside.

Her robe trailed behind her as she crossed the warm, low-lit hallway. In the common room, the girls who'd stayed behind were still lounging, thumbing through magazines and giggling at whatever was on TV. Janice slipped into her office, closed the door, and pulled the cord on the desk lamp.

The warm cone of light landed on a battered address book,She flipped it open; the paper edges curled from years of use, and ran a manicured nail down the columns of names until she found one: 'Vera.'

Vera had been in the life longer than Janice ; an ex-girl who now run her own set in Madrid.

She the only one who attracted that kind of clients that Janice is sceptical about.

 If anyone knew what was happening in Cadiz; it would be her. 

The line rang three times before a husky voice answered. "Janice. Late for you, even later for me."

"They're taking my girls to Spain; four of them, tonight, to Cadiz."

A pause on the other end. Then, a sigh. "Cadiz..." Vera's tone dropped lower. "That'll be Dahl's thing."

Janice felt her jaw tighten. "What thing?"

"The November gala; 'Silver and Gold Gala'. He's calling in every favorite from Paris to Lisbon. Says it's for 'patrons', but..." Vera let the sentence hang. "The Cadiz house is old money and bad blood; I'm sure you don't want your girls near it."

Janice's fingers drummed against the desk. "Why would Dahl need my best ones?"

Another pause, this one heavier. "He's looking for a very specific... types; rare beauties. Heard he's making a spectacle this year. Two 'specials' at the center of it. That's all I'll say over the phone."

Janice closed her eyes for a moment, mind clicking through possibilities. "Fine; you don't have to say more."

When she hung up, the room felt smaller; the lamp's circle of light harsher. Dahl's name wasn't one she liked hearing ; too many whispers, too many girls who came back different... if they came back at all.

She stood there in the quiet, the ticking of the wall clock sounding louder than it should.

But who could possibly to link her girls to that man; there's no way he'd reach them himself.

"wait....."; She mumbeled to herself realising something"It gotta be him!!!! "

The drive from the 16th to the 11th was a blur of red lights and clenched teeth; Janice's leopard coat hung open over a silk slip, her hair pulled back tight. By the time she turned into Saint Mark the streets of the Parisian Ghetto were still wet from the night's rain, neon signs pale against the gray dawn.

The Serpent Rouge looked worse for wear ; the aftermath of another long, ugly night. Bernard, the old janitor, was out front with a mop and bucket, muttering to himself as he scrubbed the pavement. When he saw her striding up, he scowled.

"Eh! You think this is your place? Go back to your........"

Janice's eyes cut to him, cold and sharp as broken glass. "I am in a really bad mood, Bernard."

The old man's bravado collapsed; he stepped back, muttering curses under his breath but keeping his eyes on the ground.

Inside was chaos ; empty bottles on tables, the air thick with stale perfume and last night's sweat. She ignored Anton's raised hand.

"Scram!!"

 She brushed past the doorman without a glance, and cut straight through the lounge.

Pierre froze mid-laugh on the couch, Francine still on his lap; he stared at her like he'd seen a ghost. "Janice!!"

"Where the hell is Bouchard!?" she said flatly.

Before Pierre could stammer out a reply, two of the club's muscle ;Zac and Karl, the ex-boxer from St. Arcaird ;moved in from either side. "Ma'am, you can't just......."

The front doors banged open; Bouchard walked in with Anton and the doorman right behind him. He didn't even break stride. "Zac, Karl; let her go."

They hesitated, then stepped back.

Janice squared her shoulders, eyes locked on Bouchard. "Are the one who seduced  them?"

Bouchard adjusted his cufflinks. "Seduced who?"

"My girls; four of them, packed up last night, heading to Cadiz. Don't play stupid with me Bouchard."

He smiled thinly. "I don't handle their schedules, Janice. Maybe they......"

"Cut it." Her tone cracked like a whip.

The smile twitched, and he finally sighed. "Dahl's gala; he's paying very well. It's not............."

"It's exactly that bad." She took a step closer, the click of her heels loud in the quiet; pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, she jabbed a finger toward his chest. "You'll pay for this, Bouchard."

He held her gaze, but there was a flicker ,just for a moment ;of unease.

Janice didn't wait for Bouchard's reply. She spun on her heel, her coat flaring behind her as she pushed past Zac and Karl like they weren't even there. Outside; the early morning air was damp and cold, the street still half-asleep. She lit a cigarette before she even reached her car, the first drag burning hot in her chest.

Her hands were steady ; too steady , as she slid into the driver's seat. That was when she knew she was furious enough to do something about it.

November.

Cadiz.

Dahl.

It was the kind of combination that meant trouble was already in motion.

And she knew exactly who needed to hear it.

The CRS flic from the 11th district.

By the time she reached the 16th again, she'd already decided. She called the house phone she knew Raphael probably won't answer, but it was worth the shot. No response, she tried again.,and again.

The phone rang for days.

Then, by sheer chance, Alain picked up; 21 days later. "Oui?"

"Allo?"

"Yes; who's this?"

"It's Janice, The Escort lady of Le Domain D'Or . Are you the CRS officer?"

"I am , but you're refferring to Captain Raphael I suppose"

"Yes , That's him,the one who visited me asking about the Albino girl. Where's he?"

"He's on an international  mission;I don't know. He's... probably still in Milan."

'He still after her...'She murmured .

"Listen to me; tell him to get to Cadiz if he didn't get the girl yet, soon as possible; We almost November 18th "

A pause. "What's going on?"

"Not over the phone; meet me."

Later, at a quiet corner café in the Latine quarter:

Alain found her already seated, a cup of orange juice untouched in front of her. The place smelled faintly of rain and cigarette smoke; Janice didn't waste time.

"Four of my best girls;gone,Spain; for William Dahl's little November circus.The man who trafficks children."

Alain frowned. "November .............You're sure?"

"Yes, they went early, so I couldn't stop them. But I saw them leave with my own eyes. And if they're going, others will follow. He didn't name it 'Silver and Gold' for the aesthetics. Tell your captain this: Clair Issoux is a key component in his ceremony ; she's likely the 'Silver.' And the 'Gold' is no one else but the one Clair was searching for... the golden haired person. and for the life of me I swear  they're siblings; both of them could be in danger."

Alain's jaw tightened. "Both...?"

She leaned in, voice dropping low. "Just tell him, and tell him I'm not wrong about this."

1 day prior /Malta: November 25nd

The sea whispered beyond the shuttered windows, carrying with it the brine of another forgotten Mediterranean harbor. The house was old stone, plaster peeling; the kind of place Raphael could vanish in without raising questions,he had chosen it deliberately.

Morgau slept fitfully on the sofa, her breath shallow, face pale under the lamplight. He sat opposite her, still and haunted, as if by keeping watch he could will her through the night.

"You'll be safe here," he had whispered when they first arrived. "No Interpol, no Agency; just... time."

She had given him nothing in return, only silence; a silence that cut sharper than the Chirugai wound on his arm.

The evening grew heavier in the hills, the shutters of the old stone house rattling under the gusts. Inside; the fire cracked in the hearth, the only source of warmth against the damp chill. Morgau sat hunched on the worn sofa, knees drawn to her chest, her pale gaze fixed on the embers. Raphael lingered near the window, half-turned toward her, his tall frame shadowed against the dim lamp.

For a while neither spoke. Only the sound of the fire breathing and the occasional stir of the wind filled the silence. Then, his voice broke through, low and careful, as if he were speaking more to himself than to her.

"You know ; this house wasn't meant for this," he said, his eyes flicking toward the bare stone walls. "I bought it last year;thinking... maybe one day it would be where I'd settle. Greece, Malta... I wasn't sure which, but I imagined something quiet, by the sea; a place I could bring my wife, when that day came."

Morgau tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly, unsure whether to scoff or simply listen. He glanced at her then; his mouth quirking faintly but without humor.

"My mother still talks about it; keeps looking for someone she thinks would suit me. I never had the heart to tell her I don't see it that way. Not anymore, but I kept this place anyway; it felt like .........some kind of insurance, apromise I never cashed in."

He turned back to the window, his shoulders taut, the firelight cutting across the scar beneath his eye.

For a brief second Morgau felt the weight of his words;like he wasn't speaking of a house or a wife at all, but of choices buried under years of service, choices that had slipped through his hands before he could claim them.

Neither of them pursued the subject further; she only nodded faintly, curling back into herself, her mind adrift.

The next morning sun slanted in through the wide windows, spilling a pale gold across the kitchen table. Raphael had set down a plate of bread, honey, and fried eggs with an almost deliberate care, as if a simple breakfast could keep the world from crashing in. He was at the sink, running a razor down the line of his jaw, the mirror propped against a glass. Morgau sat cross-legged in her chair, chin in hand, staring at the tall glass of milk he'd poured beside her plate.

'Not the white toxic liquid.'

Her lip curled faintly. "I hate milk," she muttered.

Raphael rinsed the blade and glanced at her reflection in the glass. "Don't knock it. I drank it every day growing up." He lifted the glass, took a gulp as if to prove his point. "Still do."

She squinted at him,  letting her eyes travel upward at the long lines of his frame; really was absurdly tall, a presence that swallowed the kitchen whole. "Yeah," she said dryly, "I can see that."

He gave a quiet chuckle, brushing foam from his chin. When he finally set the razor down, his jaw was bare, the thick beard gone. Morgau blinked at the change ; it made him look younger, sharper somehow, but she wasn't about to hand him the compliment.

"Well," she said, cracking honey across her bread, "Congratulations. Now you'll never get a wife; that beard was doing all the work. You've shaved off the only good thing you had going."

Raphael leaned on the counter, amused.

"Maybe that's the idea. Less recognizable this way; the Interpol are watching everywhere we go. A beard makes me stand out; without it, I could walk past half the agents in Europe."

Her smirk thinned back into silence as she chewed, her eyes had already drifted past him, somewhere inside herself; the weight of her thoughts pressed in, uninvited. 

'Can she trust him? Is he another cage, just in different clothes? A bridge to Dahl, or just another hand pushing her closer?'

He caught it ; the change in her gaze, the way her fork slowed. "What's wrong?" His voice was soft, steady; not pushing, but not letting her hide.

She flicked her eyes up at him, sharp as ever.

"You've gone quiet," he said, setting down his glass. "What's eating you?"

She flashed him the faintest smirk, sharp as a blade. "What's eating me? This food is too healthy; you're trying to kill me slowly."

He huffed, not buying the dodge, but let her humor hang between them. Still, the silence folded back in, and eventually his tone shifted softer. 

"You're thinking about your sister?"

The question stopped her fork mid-air;it pulled her eyes up for real, an icy-blue spark against his calm green .

Morgau looked at him hard, then away, out the window. "Maybe."

He continued, lighter now, trying to take the edge off.

"Let's guess her age by now......you said previously she could be around my age,right?"

"No, I said less, Maybe a year or two younger?" She said with a challanging tone;a wry half-smile tugging at her lips.

Raphael tilted his head,  "Do I look  that old?"

"Depends. "She murmured, looking away.

"How many years would you give me?"

She studied him — the lines around his eyes, the broadness of his shoulders, the boyishness that still clung to his face now without the beard. "Twenty-five."

He grinned, shaking his head. "Not yet. I've still got a few days before that one catches me."

For a moment, the air lightened, a fragile pause in the storm, but it didn't last. Raphael leaned in, tone lowering.

"Listen... about your father; maybe we go to him first. If he's lying, I'll know. People say I'm good at convincing ; good at pulling the truth out."

Morgau's jaw tightened. "He always said she was dead. Repressing every memory, blocking any attempt or  thought of seeking her; you think suddenly he'll pour his heart out over dinner? No; he won't."

"You don't have to worry about that," Raphael said. His voice carried the quiet confidence of a man used to moving pieces on a board. "I've dealt with worse than a stubborn father. The question is..." He leaned forward just slightly, holding her gaze. "Are you in?"

Her fork tapped against the plate, doubt and Dahl's words tangled at the back of her mind. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford; not even here.

"I'll think about it," she said at last, pushing her chair back.

Without another word, she crossed to the balcony. The air outside was crisp, and the tiled floor still cool under her bare feet. A ginger kitten nosed at the potted plants by the railing. Morgau crouched, scooping it into her arms. It purred; pressing its head beneath her chin. She let her fingers stroke absentmindedly over its fur, eyes fixed out at the pale horizon.

Behind her, she could feel Raphael's presence even without looking ; solid, steady, waiting for an answer she wasn't ready to give.

The breakfast slowed into silence.

Behind her, Raphael sighed, gathering plates. The clink of dishes ran in rhythm with the churn of her thoughts. She turned put the kitten down , slipped inside to the kitchen,  and picked at her plate, lips pressed into a thin line; thoughts running places her tongue didn't dare name aloud.

Raphael had caught the shift ;of course he had.

Morgau leaned against the edge of the table, watching Raphael cleaning the dishes. He spoke almost casually; as if testing the weight of his own words.

"If your sister is out there, I'd wager she's younger than twenty-five."

The words slid past her ears like something offhand, yet they struck deep. She stilled, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. 'Younger than twenty-five'. How could he be certain?

Her pulse quickened, though her face remained unreadable; a suspicion stirred ; 'had he met her? Seen a file? Heard a whisper from someone who knew more than he let on?'

For the first time, Morgau questioned whether Raphael was giving her truths or feeding her just enough to see if she'd bite.

"Strange guess," she said evenly, though her mind was anything but calm. 

'Is he hiding something? Or does he know her already?'

A click ,suddenlly

A shadow slipped through the balcony door,

soundless, knife-quickl; walked in. Not in stealth, not in shadow ; just walked in, like he belonged there.

By the time she registered the movement, he was already inside. Brown hair messy, scar glinting under the eye, a stranger she recognized from whispers and dossiers.

Kurtis Trent.

And just like that, the fragile quiet broke apart.

Raphael stiffened. "You shouldn't be here."

"Neither should you," Kurtis said flatly. His eyes darted to Morgau, standing between the two men.

"Do you have any idea what are you doing?! That Interpol's deal you made. You broke it; you think they'll just let that slide?"

Raphael's jaw tightened. "They lied to me; Sveta, Esteban, all of them. They're not after justice; they're playing their own game."

"And you're not?" Kurtis snapped. "You don't get it, Marcherelli. Running off with her isn't noble; it's reckless. You're making yourself, and her, bait."

"How you could be sure the Interpol want good for her?"

"Trust me it's better than getting involved with someone like her father. You don't know what kind of person he is, his own people exiled him."

Raphael's body tensed, his jaw set as Morgau's aura flared with unease.

"She only wants to see her sister."

The words hung there, fragile; almost pleading.

Kurtis's face hardened, his gaze shifted to the Albino girl wrestling with her bolted Spear Axe in her pocket, but he stopped cold. 

Morgau had stirred only, her eyes fluttering half-open; watching while her body trumbled.

He strode to her side. For a moment, his tone softened, though the words were blades. "If you really care about her," he said without looking at Raphael, "stay away from her."

Raphael moved fast, catching his shoulder, dragging him back. "Who is her? The woman with dreamcatcher in Zurich institute? The one you've been keeping me away from?" His voice lowered; a hiss. "Who's giving you orders, Renner?"

Kurtis's fist answered first;crashing into Raphael's jaw. Raphael reeled but didn't fall, striking back with a desperate; furious swing. The clash was brief, brutal, two predators colliding in too small a cage.

Breathless, Kurtis broke , shoving him back. His voice was raw now, cracking under its own weight. "You want to know who's giving me orders? Fine. It's your father, jerk!"

The words detonated inside Raphael's skull.

Kurtis pressed on, relentless. "He's working with Dahl, with Gunderson.In fact Dahl was pissed off by someone to the point he's willing to drag a little girl in his payback ! Zurich, Matera ; the Munstrum killing you've been chasing? All his!! excuted by your beloved daddy! And if you still didn't hear; he already killed 12 others during the last six days you were hiding which makes is a total of 37 just in October."

His eyes flicked again toward Morgau."All because of her; all to draw her in. I'm sure this numbers means something to Vasiley!"Then darting to Raphael  "And he wanted you out of the picture from the start ,His son ."

Raphael lunged, fist connecting with Kurtis's abdomen. The sound cracked like breaking stone.

But the damage was already done. Not to Kurtis; to him. The revelation sat like acid in his gut, burning; corroding everything he thought he knew.

At the door, Kurtis paused; bruised but unbowed. "I won't hesitate killing both of ,if you cross the line!It's going to get ugly from here, Marcherelli."

Then he was gone.

Silence.

Raphael stood there, chest heaving, mind unraveling. Morgau shifted quietly.

He turned ;her eyes met his for one fragile second, a storm of fear and defiance in them. Then she slipped past him; silent as a shadow, out into the night.

Later, when Raphael finally gave in to sleep in the chair by the door, Morgau lay restless on the couch, eyes wide open in the dark. The fire had died down to embers. She slipped silently to her feet, every movement practiced; deliberate.

"I have to go.... I need to prove my father wrong. This is my war only , I chose it ;no one should take part in it but me.Dahl already gave me his signal, it's now or never."

Her hand lingered a moment on the latch of the door;hesitation, or perhaps a faint pang of guilt, but then it was gone. She drew her hood over her pale hair and stepped into the cold night, the sound of the door closing swallowed by the wind.

Raphael stirred faintly in his chair but did not wake; the hush empty house seemed to sigh as if it already knew it was losing her.

By the time the dawn came in,the sheets on the Sofa looked empty. Morgau's bag was gone.

For a moment he didn't move;just stared at the hollow where she had been; his stomach sank. He knew ; the weight of his own failures pressing him down, realizing too late:

She was gone. Straight toward Dahl. Straight into the fire.

Then his phone rang; the sound cleaved through the silence like a blade. He snatched it up.

"Raphael!" Alain's voice, urgent, almost out of breath. "She's here. Janice......the Escort woman ;she's been calling at you house for days, she......... I was passing by you house to water the damn cactus before they form a union and.........."

The phone jolted as if wrestled from Alain's hands.

"Officer , listen to me," Janice's voice cut through, sharp, relentless. "Clair I ssosux, the Albino girl; has been lured to Cádiz. "

"To late........" He murmured.

"Dahl's Gala;' Silver and Gold'. Every vulture creep in the world will be there."

"Gala??"

 "Yes.....I don't know what that Monster wants, but he's planning something that includes her as a center of attention for his guests."

Raphael froze, bile rising in his throat.

"I am going to Cadiz; I baught three invitations .Luckly I preserved my good reputation with Vera. You need to meet me there," Janice pressed. "We don't have time to debate; if you still care about saving her then join me."

"Of course I do , but .......you don't have to come."

" I do feel resposible ; my escort buisness is what made contact with man like Dahl accessible...... ...convenient .Besides; some of my girls are there."

"Fair enough. I'll be there by tommorrow." Raphael said.

"Alright.....I'll take your guy with me." She replayed galancing at Alain who was avoiding her gaze.

"Sure."

Then the line clicked dead.

One nights later – Cádiz:

The car hummed along the coastal road, the Atlantic gleaming black beneath the moon. Morgau sat rigid in the backseat, her hands folded over the small harmonica in her lap. Her reflection in the tinted glass stared back at her; pale and uncertain.

Samael....

Her chest tightened at the thought of her sister; hope and dread tangled together.Dahl had promised her a reunion; he had promised that tonight history would change for both of them , but each mile closer twisted her stomach tighter.

When the car pulled up to the Palacio, she was whisked through gilded corridors, past mirrored walls and silent guards. A woman with sharp eyes and a too-knowing smile stepped out from the shadows.

"Vera," Morgau whispered, recognition jolting her.

Janice's ex; Once a friend, now a knife.

Vera leaned in, her perfume like poisoned honey. "You're even prettier than I remembered. Dahl's been waiting."

And with that, she delivered Morgau to the beast.

Two days passed in a haze of silk gowns, polished nails, and rehearsals. They scrubbed her, groomed her, dressed her in white and gold. Dahl himself came, speaking with measured gravity.

A servant trailed behind him, bearing a gown;silver and black, its fabric laced with spangles that caught the light like fractured sun-threads.

"This is Samael 's gown," he said, his voice flat, almost ritualistic.

Her heart hammered; she wanted to believe, she needed to.

"You will sing for us; a song from your past. Your voice will open the ceremony. And then... you will see her; your sister. I await her reply, just as I once awaited yours. Do this, and you both will be together and free."

Morgau clutched the harmonica at the final word.

'Free.'

A promise she knew was false;yet she no longer cared. It was still better than her father's suffocating lies; truth was worth the risk.

The Palacio glittered like a temple; gold floodlights bathed its white stone façade, turning every arch into a gate of fire. Inside; Dahl's masquerade unfolded in decadent waves: chandeliers blazing, violins weeping, jewels dripping from gowns and cuffs. It was less a gala than a kingdom in bloom.

At its heart stood William Dahl, gaunt and severe, his eyes like chips of obsidian as he welcomed his guests.

Rozic was first; his skeletal frame wrapped in a black coat, his left eye covered under a velvety eyepatch; he was the kind of man whose smile never reached his eyes. Boaz arrived moments later, lean, restless, still radiating the chill of her laboratories. Müller followed, stiff, calculating, sipping champagne as if it were data to be analyzed.

And then Roth vogel swept in. Dahl clasped his hand, forcing civility.

"Roth Vogel .what a surprise;I did not expect you.," Dahl said with brittle cordiality.

Roth smirked, eyes glinting behind his mask. "Luther forced me, said He'll do something with his Violon." he said, jerking his chin toward Rozic. "He seem  to enjoy your theatrics more than I do."

Rozic's dry laugh crumbling like old bones.

"Where is Gunderson?" Dahl asked.

Müller and Boaz traded a glance.

"Gotland," Müller said. "With Miester Eckhardt."

The name spread a ripple of unease through the circle.

Roth leaned close, voice pitched low. "And what of your little... disagreement with Karel?"

Dahl's jaw tightened; he forced a smile. "Your partner is... annoying. That is all."

But his eyes betrayed the storm; Karel had crossed him. Karel's secret was now in his pocket. And tonight, Dahl intended to use it.

The hall brimmed with the world's elite;ministers, scientists, oligarchs,Occultists, Alchemists and the faceless masks of the Cabal. The showroom glowed with strange treasures;artifacts pulled from deserts, skeletons reconstructed from lost ages, gemstones carved like hearts. And among them,living exhibits;Girls with vacant eyes and exposed bodies, displayed like diamonds.

Rozic lingered by the living exhibit, his eyes drifting over the women displayed like rare artifacts. Their features were impossibly diverse; skin tones and bone structures from every corner of the world, and beyond. Some bore traits too strange, too refined collar bones, as if carved from forgotten bloodlines;or engineered in hidden laboratories. A few carried subtle irregularities: eyes flecked with unnatural colors, movements a little too precise, as though nature had been forced to bend.

He raised a hand and slowly drew his fingers through the air, almost as if testing their presence, their ' humanity'. A murmur escaped his lips, low and sardonic: "Fortunate Eckhardt isn't here to see this..."

From behind, Roth's dry voice cut in. "This is you either shading Eckhardt or Boaz."

As if summoned, Boaz joined them; her sharp gaze flicking to the display. Roth gestured with his glass. "Tell me; are these women yields of some of your experiments, Boaz?"

She gave a half-smirk, half-eye-roll, a gesture balanced on the edge of disdain and amusement. "C'mon! Who do you take me for?"

Her tone left him stranded between irony and truth, unable to decide. Then she added with casual venom: "I'm more into Phernology,Roth. Muller is the one intersted in Eugenic; he would be so interested to see this."

The three of them glanced around almost at once,but Muller was no longer there; he had slipped away into the curtains and shadows behind the gala's glittering façade, then Rozic joined him later with his Violon set in his gaunt hands.

The palace was glowing with chandeliers and chandeliers reflected in marble; an illusion of order masking the rot underneath. Gowns swept the floor, champagne glittered in crystal flutes, and the gala buzzed with conversations about art, power, and money and even dark magic. None of it mattered to Raphael, Alain, and Janice as they threaded through the crowd in borrowed suits and dresses, their eyes not on the spectacle but on the shadows.

Raphael adjusted the cuff of his Blazer ;his h hidden deep pistol in his pocket. Just another wolf in silk among sheep in pearls; he thought. Beside him, Alain played his role perfectly, the officer's military posture softened into that of a dignitary,taking a glass of champaign. Janice; draped in a sleek red gown that made her look like she belonged here more than anyone, was the one who truly sold their disguise. Her lips curved into a bored smile that any wealthy socialite might wear, but her eyes were scanning, always scanning.

Above them, crawling along the ornate rafters, shadows moved ; the Craws ,Vittorio agency legion. The Cabal's mercenaries disguised as stagehands and technicians, securing exits, planting devices. They blended in just as seamlessly as the guests, but Raphael noticed the rhythm of their movement; the way their hands rested near weapons hidden beneath jackets.

They split off from the crowd when the music swelled, slipping behind velvet curtains into the back corridors of the palace. The air there was cooler, the walls bare stone compared to the gilded ballroom. The muffled sound of an orchestra carried through the walls as they pressed deeper.

Janice was in the lead when her heel clicked on the polished floor and she stumbled ; catching herself with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes flicked up, and she froze.

'Nadia....??!' She hissed to herself.

Then she slowed when she caught sight of them backstage. Two of her girls, arm in arm with Müller, or rather on top of him;one tugging his tie like a leash, the other steering him by his belly as if he were livestock.

The man wheezed, cheeks slick with sweat, his sausage fingers fluttering over their hips whenever he dared. "Three... ah; two times the usual rate! For a proper... arrangement, yes?" His voice cracked halfway through, like a schoolboy caught stealing.

The girls only laughed, tossing him back and forth between them like a beach ball. One leaned in close; whispering something wicked in his ear, before slapping his wandering hand away with a smile. The other pinched his cheek until he squealed, then shoved him forward again.

Janice almost gagged. An Elite dignitary reduced to a slobbering fool, tricked into thinking he was the predator when he was clearly the prey. Her girls weren't his victims; they were leading the dance, and he was too drunk on the fantasy to see it.

"Christ," Janice muttered, disgust flickering across her face as she turned away. "Even vermin know when they're being played."

She continued her way to see others of her girls, some of them were the other two left ;the tall one and youngest.

They stood against the wall in their silken dresses, heads lowered, hands folded in front of them like ornaments on display. And beside them ;Vera her former friend. Now the greedy Dahl handler now leaned lazily against the wall; watching the preparations with a predator's calm. Her sharp gaze slid toward Janice as if she sensed her presence, though she was partly hidden in the corridor's shadow.

Janice's mask almost cracked. 

'My girls.'

She forced herself to breathe, forced her expression to stay smooth. If Vera recognized her here, the whole infiltration would burn.

"Stage grooming's almost done," Vera muttered to another handler, not noticing her yet. "The  SILVER girl is being finished now; seven minutes and she's on."

The lights dimmed to a warmer glow as Dahl stepped forward on Stage, his presence drawing silence like gravity. He raised his glass, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a man addressing both his peers and his pawns.

"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed patrons of empire... tonight you stand not as guests, but as witnesses. Witnesses to a truth whispered for centuries in the dark, while the world above squabbled over scraps; this world we inherited is no stage of peace, no matter how many marble statues or treaties pretend otherwise. It is, and always has been, an estate of shadow. An eternal war waged beneath history's surface ;Darkness against light, the Cabal against the Lux Veritatis. And tonight... you stand on the winning side."

A ripple of approval passed through the hall. Dahl let it stretch, then smiled faintly.

"Our triumphs did not spring from thin air. They were forged by hands of genius and conviction. Take the Black Alchemist; Eckhardt , torn from his prison not by fate, but by a blessed turn of fire and iron. A Nazi bombardment in the rubble of The Dutchland frontiers, if you can believe it, cracked open his tomb. History itself bent to serve him. Yet, without the foresight of one man ; Mathias Vasiley , it would never have been possible."

His tone turned silken, his words deliberate.

"And Mathias' legacy, ah... it did not end there. ladies and gentlemen. Not once did the devil slip through our fingers ,but thrice  . And some call me a cynic for believing in blessings; He blessed this new age with ' Two'  more boons, two children, three keys of blood, each a thorn or a flame in the hands of destiny. What a devilish trick of providence."

The crowd chuckled uneasily. Dahl gave them a drier smile, voice lowering to a conspiratorial drawl.

"And speaking of providence; there are men who call themselves builders of worlds my friends... in spite of his absence today;we must all acknowledge our fine business partner; Joachim Karel. Renowned, resourceful, rich beyond measure ; though between us," He stopped talking for a second", but I own more than your ledgers could ever tally. Forgive me. And I didn't need a single shareholders' meeting to take it. At least his partner has the decency to put his name on the blood he spends."

Laughter broke out across the hall; sharp and indulgent. Dahl raised a hand mockingly in apology. 

A pause; then, deliberately, "No offense, Vogel.I wouldn't dream of undercutting your excellent accounts.""

Roth, seated among the glittering guests beside Boaz, raised his glass with a chuckle, playing the line with easy bravado. The crowd laughed with him, the tension breaking in a burst of brittle mirth.

The moment softened the tension like a well-timed punchline.

Then Dahl's expression shifted, a subtle tremor in his bravado, his voice slipping into something almost vulnerable. "Of course, I must confess... someone very dear to me wished to be here tonight. To dazzle this gathering with her irresistible presence. But alas... the world cannot cage her. She is lost to her obsessions; chasing relics and artifacts across the earth. Still, what a woman..." His eyes gleamed, the confession landing with the intoxication of a man utterly, hopelessly enthralled.

The audience murmured, half-smiling, uncertain if they had just glimpsed the tyrant's heart. In the background, Raphael threaded through the crowd with a Bruschetta in his fingers he took from the buffet, using each bite as cover while he slipped closer to the stage.

And now, for the reason you are all truly here. You came to sip champagne, to prattle about portfolios, to pretend you are not part of the world we shape. But the curtain is about to rise; and with it, a Vasiley daughter; she is not the shadow you read about in dossiers or the whisper you dismissed in smoky corridors. No. She is flesh, blood, and design under the Silver moon. The world will change tonight, because behind these Golden  curtains stands her sister... and when their bloodlines join upon the stage, even the Black Alchemist will stir."

Dahl lifted his arms, his voice climbing again. " The moment you have awaited has arrived. One of the daughters of Vasiley, whose existence will redraw the map of power. I give you... Morgau!"

The curtains began to stir, a breath of tension falling over the crowd. In the shadows high above, Kurtis Trent stood watch, the Craw mercenaries flanking him, his gray eyes fixed on the stage like the last sentinel of the his bloodline.

Meanwhile ,in the backsatge ;Janice's hand tightened around the clutch bag concealing her weapon; a tiny pocket pistol her father gited to her nine years ago and a peper spary she had in case of an daily assult. She could hear Raphael's breath behind her as he just arrive with Alain ; he'd caught the name. Silver girl.

The handlers moved, ushering Janice's two girls away toward another hall. Vera turned her back to them, barking an order into his radio. For one moment, the path was clear.

Janice's hand brushed Raphael's arm. Her voice was low, trembling with restraint: "She's already on stage; we're too late for the room."

Alain whispered back, steady and sharp: "Then we move to the stage itself; cut her free in plain sight if we have to."

Janice's eyes lingered on her girls as they disappeared into the labyrinth; ashard of guilt cut through her poise, but she swallowed it. There was no time to save them all, not yet.

The trio pressed forward, following the sounds of the orchestra swelling toward its crescendo ;and the first appearance of Morgau.

The velvet curtains trembled with the weight of a hundred whispers. From the shadows behind the palace's stage;Raphael felt his pulse pound against the starched collar of his disguise. The gala floor shimmered beyond;crystal chandeliers raining light down on the crowd, all heads craning toward the stage.

Morgau stepped into view.

She emerged slowly, as if drawn out by unseen threads, pale beneath the spotlight, the faint sheen of powder on her cheeks catching the glare. Her snowflake earrings shimmered under the moonlight, gleaming like a fate defiance itself. For a moment the hall hushed; the crowd was caught between fascination and unease. Fake Snow from the open arches drifted inward, settling briefly on her shoulders before melting against her warmth.

Raphael froze. He had seen that look before; those eyes, the fragile strength pressed beneath layers of performance. She was only a girl, trapped in someone else's spectacle.

And then; movement.

From the corner of his vision, a slender figure slipped into place just beyond the stage golden curtains that Dahl reffered to.

A woman, posture precise, her expression unreadable. 

Sveta.

Raphael's breath caught in his throat. Not Samael.

Her.

His brain couldn't process what's going on;

'Is Sveta the hidden Vasiley child?". 

He doesn't know that , neither he will anytime soon.But what he does know is 'that B*****' is no good.

He knew instantly what it meant; why she had come; what she was about to do.

"No..." he murmured, his jaw tightening.

He pushed forward; but steel intercepted him.

Esteban.

The old friend, now stranger, slid neatly into his path; blocking his way with a half-smile that carried no warmth. The glint of a weapon peeked beneath his jacket, but it was his presence,unyielding, deliberate; that caged Raphael in place.

"You're not going anywhere, Rapha," Esteban said softly, his voice almost drowned by the thunder of applause as Morgau reached the center of the stage.

He pointed at Vera having a device in her hand that seemed to be a dynamite remote.

Raphael's hand twitched toward his sidearm, but the weight of the moment pressed harder than the gunmetal. Behind Esteban, beyond the curtains, Sveta lingered in the half-light;watching, calculating, her figure blending into the folds of velvet. Hidden, waiting.

And Raphael knew-too late;that she had chosen her moment

The music hushed.

Morgau stepped onto the middle of the stage, her dress a shimmer of light. Silence fell as she raised the harmonica to her lips, the first trembling notes pierced the air, then her voice rose; clear, haunting, siren-sweet.

A song she once sang with Sameal, every syllable a prayer across the void.

When the last note faded, the Announcing voice of Dahl echoed through the walls,  curtain behind her trembled; the room seemed to hold its breath.

And then;

The curtain lifted.

But it was not The Golden Girl.

It was Sveta; gun in hand, mask torn away, her eyes blazing.

And in the wings, Vera's thumb twitched closer to the trigger.

End of Chapter 9.

To be continued..................................................

One more chapter left+ Prologue.

Morgau dairy:

"They dress the night in silver and gold, but all I see is red. They think the music hides the knives, the laughter buries the lies. But I know;this is where everything ends… or begins."

Chapter 8 : “Ashes of trust.”

"When loyalty fractures and secrets surface, even salvation can turn into betrayal."

Location: Switzerland:Alps/Col de Resia - France:Nice .

Time: October 28 th -November 12 th 1997.

FILE REF: A08 – Informant Contact :Sveta-Esteban Galvano

Switzerland/Alp montains -October 28th /Dawn 06:30 a.m:

The  jet Interpol air blades carved through the thin Alpine air, scattering snow into swirling halos. Inside; Raphael sat stiff-backed, eyes locked on the jagged horizon. Esteban lounged opposite him, though the faint tension in his jaw betrayed the act. Six Interpol men flanked them, rifles cradled, helmets reflecting the dim red cabin lights.

Raphael checked his phone again,one message glowed on the cracked screen.

"Bertolis cancelled their adventure. She's here; don't waste time.'" V.R.

'Renner'

The damn mercenary always knew more than he said, but Raphael had learned not to question his leads. He folded the phone shut; pushed it back into his coat, and let the weight of the mission settle like the mountain mist: 

Secure the girl. 

Avoid  bloodshed.

Meanwhile:

Far below, Vittorio Marcherelli stood before his men in a windswept clearing carved into the forest. Mask on, voice like steel dragged over gravel.

"She's running away and  injured; this time the Bertolis came prepared for her; but she still dangerous," he said, the Craws circled around him, bristling with weapons. "Split into three units. No mistakes this time."

Kurtis stood apart, coat collar high, silent. His Chirugai lay hidden at his hip ; unseen, but heavy with expectation.

Vittorio's gaze cut toward him. "Renner; you'll lead east flank." Kurtis inclined his head but said nothing .

His real plan was already clear in his mind.

When the groups dispersed into the snow-dark woods, he thumbed the Chirugai free; just enough to feel the resonance hum in his palm. The relic vibrated faintly, pulled toward the last trace of Morgau's grasp.

It was in her grasp before, tried to bend it to her will, and  the relic remembers. It always returns to its last master. Unless... he let it go.

And tonight, he would.

After following the long run that the Chirugai sliced the air through, and follow the blood trail.

He found her .

How lucky; as he hoped.

But she was waiting ; crouched within the hollow ruin of a half-buried chapel, snow drifting in through broken arches. Her white hair framed her face in wild strands, her eyes like glass when the light struck. In her hands, the weapon she had taken from the stronghold; a two-bladed spear-axe, wicked as death itself.

"Salutes!Brother," she spat, voice ragged with fury.

"Chimoya," he said evenly. "You need to stop running."

She spun the axe, blades whistling. "You need to stop lying.....And that; is not even my real name."

The first strike came fast ; the axe carving arcs through stone, shattering old pews. Kurtis dodged, rolled, drew his knives. Sparks erupted as steel met steel, he moved defensively, always careful, every block meant to redirect rather than wound. But Morgau pressed, relentless; rage fueling precision.

"Where is she!!!!" she screamed, blow after blow. "Where did your Damn family hid her!"

Kurtis locked her weapon against his forearm, teeth bared. "cease this foolishness, you'll drag everyone into danger."

Her scream cut the night. "I don't care! I would've killed you if you weren't so important ."

Her eyes flared, transparent like living crystal, hair lifting with invisible force. The axe blades shimmered as if charged with her will, and for a heartbeat Kurtis felt the weight of her power crush against his defenses. He was stronger, but she had the fury.

And still... he pitied her.

During that fight:

Snow exploded around them as boots hit the ground, the helicopter rose back into the storm while Raphael and his unit advanced into the tree line. Gunfire cracked almost immediately ; Craws descending from the dark like predators.

"Cover!" Esteban barked, dragging one Interpol man down behind a ridge. The second went down in a scream; cut by a burst of automatic fire,and the others spead like spilled water over a suface.

Raphael returned fire, advancing, his blood pounded with singular focus; get through, find her.

Then the woods fell strangely silent.

A figure stepped out ; masked, tall, carrying only his fists.

"Out of my way," Raphael growled, raising his rifle.

The man tilted his head with a grin. "You're the one on the way."

Raphael fired ;the stranger closed the distance in a blur, striking the rifle aside, slamming a fist into his ribs. They grappled hard, Raphael throwing trained strikes, but the masked man read every move before it landed. Counter, parry, strike. it was like fighting a mirror; one that had practiced his rhythm a thousand times longer.

Raphael's jaw cracked under a blow, blood in his mouth. He swung wild, desperate, but was floored by a brutal kick.

The masked man stood over him, breath even. For a moment, Raphael thought he saw hesitation; Familiarity, then a sharp jab to the temple sent the world reeling.

When he blinked awake, the man was gone.

4 Minutes later

He forced himself forward through the trees, staggering on adrenaline, until the ruins came into view; the scene unfolded in chaos:

Morgau, limping, her leg twisted by a Craw's boot.

Kurtis, chest heaving, blades ready but slowing.

Vittorio striding forward, seizing Morgau by the hair.

"This is not golden... and looks younger then the description." Vittorio hissed, studying her eyes.

Raphael didn't think; he charged.

The clash was vicious, Raphael's fists and blade slamming against the masked commander. Esteban joined, dragging Craws away from the girl; covering them with gunfire.

But Morgau, in desperation, had seized the Chirugai from Kurtis's belt with a quick move. She flung it ; wild, uncontrolled.

The relic sliced through the air, grazing Vittorio ,but cutting deep into Raphael's Arm. His cry echoed through the ruins as blood poured.

And then ; it circled back as  it supposed to like a Boomerang Straight into Morgau's midsection.

She gasped, fell to her knees; the axe clattering from her grasp.

Raphael stumbled toward her, clutching his wound. "No... no, no! stay with me................."

Her body sagged in his arms, blood soaking the snow. 

Esteban's voice shouted somewhere behind him: "She's gone, Raphael, she's dead!"

Kurtis took advantage of the chaos and snapped back the Chirugai to his had behind his back.

Vittorio's hand twitched ;a signal. The Craws withdrew into the shadows, dragging their dead, Kurtis vanishing with them .

And Raphael was left kneeling in the snow, he felt world collapsing.

Until...

A cough; wet, broken.

Morgau's eyes flickered open, blood staining her lips.

And then headlights, shouts, boots ; Sveta emerging with fresh agents, crates of supplies, a savior's timing.

"Get her up! Hurry!" she barked, her face unreadable.

Raphael's hands shook as they lifted Morgau onto a stretcher, the snow painted red where she'd lain

They took her straight to the nearest hospital. She was suspended between life and death; her body unresponsive, her breath shallow, machines keeping the rhythm steady where her heart could not. 

For fourteen long days she lingered in that silence. Everyday, Raphael came to stand at her bedside, his wound was treated it wasn't too far bad from hers knowing he was cut by and ancient artifect named after the concet of' Surgery' ,but his body managed to recover quickly than hers,meanwhile he spent the days watching the stillness of her face, wondering if she even will open her eyes again.

Once the fourteenth day ended, Sveta announced her decision: Morgau would be moved to Paris, by Interpol custody, even if she had not yet opened her eyes. It was "protocol," she said;better oversight, tighter control.

"Besides .....her tools aren't useable;at all." Esteban added while holding Morgau satchel and the bolted axe.

Raphael snapped; his objection was not calm, not diplomatic, his voice cut through the hospital corridor, raw and heated.

"Paris?" he said, nearly spitting the word. "Are you out of your mind?! That will kill her. She needs proper care  ; not politics, not your handlers waiting to tear her apart." His tone cut through the air, unflinching. 

For a moment it seemed he might draw on Sveta herself if pressed.

"Take it easy, man." Esteban tried to calm him.

"In Nice the health care system is better and more serious about peopel's life." Raphael said it with a lower tone this time.

Sveta measured him with that flat, unreadable stare of hers; silence stretched until it felt like the walls themselves were listening. 

Finally, she exhaled slowly and gave a single, reluctant nod.

"Fine.......She'll be taken to Nice."

France- Nice- November 10th :

Raphael didn't wait for more. He arranged everything with a confidence born not of rank but of roots. Nice was his ground ; the streets and wards remembered him, and when he carried Morgau in, doors opened without questions. Doctors who knew his family name bent rules, staff whispered respect. His indulgence there was not authority, but something deeper; woven into the city itself. And under his watch, her life steadied.

When Morgau finally stirred, it was in that quiet hospital room by the coast, the muted hum of machines giving way to the sound of her breathing on her own. She blinked against the pale light, disoriented couldn't move but alive.

The next day ,she opened her eyes full to a haze of white light and antiseptic air. The first faces she saw were strangers ; Sveta, arms folded and eyes sharp, and Esteban, hovering at the foot of the bed with cautious relief.

Her hands tightened on the sheets, body coiling like a cornered animal. "Where am I?" she rasped, her voice still raw. "Safe," Sveta said flatly. "You're in Nice. Alive, thanks to him." She inclined her head toward the door.

Raphael stepped in, silent, carrying a tray. The smell of broth followed him.

Morgau's eyes widened in recognition ; memory flashing back to the snow, the masked men, the chaos, him.

He was already at her side after he entered, he approached the bed. He stopped a pace away, he didn't speak immediately;he let her eyes find him, let her register that she had survived. Only then did his expression soften ; the sharp lines of battle giving way to something unguarded.

She flinched when the  chair pulled close; He sat and leaned forward, hands clasped, as if bracing himself, his tone gentle. "You don't need to fight here. Just... eat. Rest."

That night, outside the hospital as she was about to leave, Sveta stopped at the car door. She instructed Raphael to hand Morgau over to the agents within five days, adding quiet directions on how to conclude his service contract. Raphael listened in silence, offering no reply.

Then suddenly

"Sveta....can I ask you something?" he said in a serious tone.

Sveta looked at him, knowing he was about to ask the very question she dreaded during her time with him.

"Why this girl and not the other trafficked girls?"This was the question Louis Bouchard dared him to ask .

A fleeting smirk curved at the corner of her mouth, followed by a steady look into his eyes.

" You already saw with your own eyes what this girl is capable of.....I think that witness is  enough of an answer."

She climbed into the car, closed the door, then lowered the window.

"Your mission with the Interpol is  done here, and you did well. Just wait for our signal so you can get your paycheck.....and who knows ,I may work with you again."

The car took off and Left Raphael behind with more question than answers.

For days later, Morgau's eyes tracked him warily, suspicion never leaving. She let Sveta and Esteban linger, but whenever Raphael came near, her body stiffened, the walls went up.

And yet, he stayed.

Oneday ,he sat at her side; holding a spoon steady when her hands trembled, Morgau reluctant but too weak to resist.

Some evenings he tried coaxing her out of bed, supporting her steps down the ward's quiet corridor, his hand firm on her shoulder when she staggered.

At a market by the promenade, he held out a yellow, black, and beige jacket. She shook her head, defiant, lips pressed tight. He didn't push, just draped it over a chair. Hours later, she slipped it on silently when the night grew cold.

Little by little, resistance softened into silence, silence into glances, glances into trust.

In the last afternoon, while the sun slanted through the blinds, Raphael asked softly:

"What's your real name?"

She hesitated, studying him, as though giving it away might cost her everything. Finally:

"Morgau.... Vasiley."

He reached out, his hand waiting for grab. "Raphael."

Apause, she didn't move; only her gaze laced with a silent scorn. "I know."

He pulled his hand back with a clumsy chuckel.

"Ha ha ha! .....you heard the nurses calling my name."

her lips curved in a faint, almost mocking smirk.

They shared the silence until she broke it with a whisper. "I'm sorry..... About your arm; the Chirugai."

He smiled, light but genuine, shaking his head. " This arm had worse, trust me."

Esteban suddenly came with the nurse and brought dinner with him. After the check, Esteban ate at the table besides the bed;while Raphael sat beside Morgau and assissted her.

Later on he leaned back in the chair, eyes tracing the ceiling as though the past was written there. "My odds growing up here were worse than hers," he said, nodding vaguely toward Sveta's absence. 

"But sometimes, I remember the good days; my father teaching me how to ride a bike, the wind down the hills, the feeling that, just for a while, things were normal."

"I thought you were Born In Paris.....I do remember when you came to live in Amalfi with your parents....." Esteban said as he collected the take away boxes.

"Yes, I do remember that too, you weren't too friendly, and Greta was  so into me back then....."

"Wait.........Really? you didn't tell me that.....I'll ask her when I returne to Italy Tomorrow."

"Yes , you do that and message me what she said later." Raphael said with a smirk ,messing out with his friend.

Morgau listened to their discussion, unreadable. Then, at length, she murmured: "I can't recall much of my childhood either. What I do... it's fragments, shadows."

They stopped their banter and listened.

She finally spoke, her voice thin, almost breaking. "I ran away from home,I always do . But this time was different; I went to look for her, for my sister, my older sister. I thought if I could find her, maybe... maybe everything would make sense again. But when I went back to him for support, my father... he disclaimed me; told me she was dead, years gone. He said I was wasting myself chasing a ghost no one else believed in."

Her eyes glistened as she looked away. "Everyone thought I was mad. And then... then there was him. That Heistrrum jerk; always talking in riddles, acting like he knew better, I didn't dare to confront his father, but when I did claimed the same old th......"

"Because it's  the truth," Esteban cut in suddenly, his voice sharp from the corner of the room; he stepped forward, gaze fixed on her, something grim flickering behind his eyes. "And that's what your father said when he came looking for you ten months ago; you should have gone back, you only made it worse for yourself; look at you now."

Morgau's lips parted, startled. She wanted to push further, to demand more, but Esteban turned from her with a cold shake of his head. "Rest. You've said enough."

He left without waiting for an answer, the door clicked shut behind him; his footsteps fading quickly down the hall.

Raphael exhaled, a muscle tightening in his jaw. He glanced at Morgau, who had sunk deeper into her pillow, pale and exhausted, and smoothed the blanket over her with a tenderness that belied the storm brewing in his chest.

Meanwhile, down the corridor; Esteban's stride didn't falter. He pulled out his phone, thumbed a number he had kept close, and waited until the line picked up,his voice was low, conspiratorial. "Raphael is getting too close; he's putting pieces together. You were right;he must be stopped."

The line clicked, and Esteban pocketed the phone, his expression unreadable as he disappeared into the hospital's long hallways.

Back in Morgau's room

From his pocket, Raphael pulled out a crumpled paper plane. He unfolded it carefully, laying it on the blanket. "You met Janice," he said.

Morgau's eyes sharpened. "You... you know her?"

He nodded. "I heard you were looking for someone. Is it... her name written here? you sister?"

He turned the plane, revealing the word: 'Samael.'

Her lips parted, but no words came at first. She bit them, fear flashing through her expression. Fear of judgment; fear he would twist this against her.

But Raphael's gaze was steady, patient.

Finally, she whispered: "Yes, that's her name; Samael. We grew up together for a while. She played with me, brushed my hair, my stepmother would tell us stories... warriors, princesses, lullabies. She had unearthly golden hair..... I still have something of hers."

She reached into her satchel in the drawer; pulling out a small harmonica, turning it over in her hand, she added softly: "I want to see her again, to give this back. But, father could be right... why didn't she ever come looking for me?"

Raphael didn't answer. Instead, he asked:

 "Who's William Dahl?"

Her face tightened. For a long moment, he thought she wouldn't reply.  Then, in a whisper: "He knows where Samael is. He said... he'll help me find her; in November."

Raphael's mind snapped back to Sveta ; her cold insistence that everything must end before mid-November, her claim of ignorance about Dahl, the lies unspooled before him. Something was coming; something she hadn't told him.

But he said nothing.

His earpiece buzzed. Sveta's voice crackled through: "Raphael. It's time; bring her in, Interpol is waiting."

He tore it out, staring at the device for a beat, then tossed it into the garbage.

Turning to Morgau, he met her eyes; firm but not unkind.

"Let's go find your sister."

Morgau froze; shock, disbelief, then something breaking loose inside her.

"You... believe me?" she whispered.

Raphael allowed a ghost of a smile curling at the the corner of his lips.

"Men like Dahl won't declare something unless they know it's true."

Then she finally accept his hand of help and decides to fully trust him.

End of chapter 8

To be continued..................................................

Morgau Vasiley dairy:

"They think they can chain me, bury me, break me… but I’ve lived in cages before. The only thing I fear is silence; the day I’ll never hear her voice again."

Chapter 7 : “Paper cut.”

"The past wears a mask,and it hits harder than the truth."

Location: Switzerland:Zurich/ forensic Institute.Alps montains/Col de Resia

Time: October 20 th -October 28th 1997.

FILE REF: A07 – Informant Contact :Marie Corneil-

Vittorio Marcherelli/Gunderson Agencey: The Craws UNIT.

Kurtis Trent POV

Zurich -October 20th /Dawn 04: 20 a.m:

The first light leaks through the blinds of a rented flat.

Kurtis sits at the table, He's alone, turning the Chirugai over in his hands, feeling its balance, remembering the way Morgau held his father's inheritance pretending like she was born with it.

He pictures her; young, furious, clutching something she doesn't understand.

If she's out there in the next  seven days, and the Craws get to her first;  things will be incertain, it's unpredictable what her Father Mathias Vasiley can do. his mind replaying fragments of Raphael's overheard conversation with Esteban.

Too many hands reaching for things that should have stayed buried.

The Bertoli excavations.

 Gunderson.

Lux Veritatis. 

William Dahl ..................................and Samael.

That name ;Raphael still believe it's too good to be true.But he still can't afford knowing that it actually is, and belongs to someone who still a part of this world.

And Morgau... reckless but not stupid. She hadn't stolen his father's Chirugai for the thrill ; she wanted answers, she wanted someone to come, she wanted Samael.

Kurtis's jaw tightens.

She doesn't know that particular person with that name isn't a happy ending ;it's a fuse waiting to be lit.

But a certain feeling never left him. A presence moving unseen, tugging at the strings, forcing him into a game he hadn't agreed to play. 

'Morgau was the lure, the distraction;but for whose hand?'

Kurtis's instincts told him the truth was close, maybe closer than he wanted. If it was the Cabal behind it, then the very ground that held them together for centuries was already splitting apart. If it wasn't, then someone else was circling with the same goal as his;someone bold enough to turn the Cabal's own tools against them.

The thought burned at him, made him want to tear it all open and find the answer now. But he couldn't; not yet. A single wrong step, a single crack in the mask, could bring the whole weight of it crashing down;and Samael

Or he should say 'Cadol' would be the one crushed under it.

So he swallowed the resentment, smothered the fire. He would bide his time, even if it meant playing along with a script he despised. For now, he had no choice, the mistake wouldn't just be his; it would be hers.

By mid-morning, he walks the narrow park near the forensic institute; hands in his coat pockets.

 She's already there. 

Blonde hair bent over a pathology textbook; brown eyes flick up once, no more.

Not coincidence;not chance. Cadol always knew when he was nearby; Always played her part. He usually leave an Origami paper plane for her to find ; folded sharp, impossible to miss.

Today he simply leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, watching her reflection in the glass across the path. She sat apart, stiff with practiced indifference.

Her hair caught the light like gold thread, otherwise she was just another student hurrying through classes, nothing to mark her.

But their eyes met ; once ,and the weight of years between them burned louder than words.

The next day they met again.

Two strangers sitting far apart; he on a weathered bench facing the duck pond, she leaning against the low brick wall by the path.

No one would mistake them for friends or family; that was the point.

"How's class?" he asked, eyes on the pigeons.

"Cold.......smells like formaldehyde." Her tone was flat, but he heard the weight under it;the same weight she'd carried since childhood.

Small exchanges;safe ones. Every syllable wrapped in silence, as if one wrong word would snap the thread. When they parted, they did so like strangers; passing in opposite directions, reflections brushing against the same glass pane before breaking away.

That night, in his flat, Kurtis read a coded letter from Marie. Her words were clean; military in their precision: 

'Keep her safe. Keep her ignorant.'

Even from western Ireland, she made him feel cornered, thirteen again, expected to obey.

'Don't fail like your father did.'

"He didn't fail........I just wanted to run away."

He rubbed his eyes; legion training had taught him how to stay awake for days, but not how to silence memory; not how to silence demons; they came anyway.

The last day, again; he was walking the narrow park near the forensic institute, thought he could take a look at her for the last time before the mission. hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. She was already there.

Brown eyes that flicked toward him only once. A silver dreamcatcher earring swayed against her left cheekbone; the rest of her looked as if she belonged to the crowd of quiet students hurrying between lectures.

Then her  eyes fell forward as she bent over a textnote,doodling something with a pencil between her fingers. 

They sat far apart again; him on a weathered bench facing the duck pond, her leaning against the low brick wall by the path. 

Neither of them noticed the two men cutting through the park path ;one tall, dark-haired, carrying himself with the faint arrogance of someone used to command; the other easy in movement, a half-smile playing at his mouth. the tall one slowed just enough to glance between the him on the bench and the Cadol by the wall. No words, but something in the air between them made him file it away.

A long silent minute stretched between them, long enough for the wind to stir the leaves at their feet.

"Why are we doing this?" she asked suddenly. "Why can't we just talk like normal people?"

His throat tightened; he gave her the only answer he'd ever given, the one that was never enough.

"I wish I could give you a proper explanation ;one I even understood myself back then. But I can't afford it if they know we're family."

"Who's 'they?' "

He didn't answer. Instead:

"I think you should get a partner," he said at last; voice low.

She huffed almost a chuckel.

"You think that would work......................"

"If you find someone that cares about more than I do." He said coldly" then you'll get to talk to them like you wish; won't be alone."

Silence.

She looked down, twisting the paper plane carried in her hands. "Maybe."

He left before she could say more; left because if he stayed, he might break.

What he didn't notice was Raphael Marcherelli in the distance, pausing mid-step with Morlock beside him, eyes narrowing on the strange, wordless space between the two.

Kurtis didn't care; couldn't care. Orders said one thing, instincts another.

And deep down, he knew ; when the time came, he wouldn't obey Vittorio, nor Gunderson.

He would obey Marie.

He would protect Cadol.

And if that meant redirecting the Craws, and throwing Raphael headfirst into a storm he couldn't yet name ;so be it. 

Four nights of the same rhythm: October 24th

A cabin in the Alps; Snow tapping the glass.

Chirugai balanced across his knees, its warmth hum like a pulse.

The Craws drank downstairs, sharpening their knives. Kurtis sat alone , hearing Morgau's voice in his memory:

"Samael is alive, and I know that!"

Not because she was wrong.

But because she sounded too much like himself.

Thinking of her , Cadol, Raphael.

Muttering into the dark: If I can't keep her from them, I'll keep the Knife from everyone.

But the Alps pressed on him. Vittorio's debriefings, the Craws whispering in corners, Gunderson's invisible hand on every lever, orders dressed up as strategies; always the same weight.

Nights were worse.

Konstantin's Heisstum voice returned in dreams: 

'Again. Again. Again.'

Sixteen years old, walking away from His father. Away from training, from inheritance, from destiny. Straight into the Legion,straight into hell,that's when the curse began ; He some night see shadows crawling on his chest, demons whispering his name, the price of refusing to be a weapon.

At one point, Kurtis recalled how Cadol never pushed back, never questioned, only followed. The same quiet obedience he'd carried when he was younger, bending under his father's word without daring to resist. It struck him then that she wasn't different from him at all; just re-shaped by the same hand. Their father had made her this way, as he had once made him.

Now Vittorio Marcherelli gave him that same gaze, cold, unreadable. Another father who would never be satisfied.

The fourth morning; snow flurries.

The Craws gathered in a chalet-turned-safehouse at the foot of the Alps. Kurtis arrived last, stepping into a haze of sweat, gun oil, and damp wool. Masked men checked rifles and blades.

Vittorio stood apart ; taller, heavier, the kind of man who commanded without raising his voice. His eyes lingered on Kurtis a moment too long before turning back to the plan. 

"Primary objective: secure the location of the Lux.V depot. Secondary: if the girl shows, we take her alive."

A ripple of unease at the girl. Kurtis kept his face still, mind already moving.

That night, in his cabin, snow clawed at the window.

He hid the Chirugai in his belt, whispering:

'  I must do it right this time;hunt down the real demons .'

Engines roared in the courtyard, trucks loaded, rifles clipped. 

Kurtis adjusted his coat, Hid and locked the Chirugai in place, and followed them into the snow. Not to obey.

But to betray.

End of Chapter 7

To be Continued ...........................................

Kurtis journal:

“Every shadow I bury claws back to the surface. I tell myself I’m in control, but it’s there,always;scratching under my skin. And tonight, I felt it again.”

Chapter 8 is coming later . Chap 7 and 8 are supposed to be one unite. so back to back post.

Can you guess which song inspired this chapter?

I mean it's obvious x)

Chapter 6 : “Monsoon”

"Some names are best left unspoken;unless you’re ready to bleed for the answer."

Location:Milan/ Piazza Duca d'Aosta- Matera/ Switzerland: forensic Institute.

Time: October 21th -October 25th 1997.

FILE REF: A06 – Informant Contact : Sveta -Esteban Galvano-Professor Christoph Morclock -Vence Renner

Matera -October 21th /Dawn 05: 50 a.m:

The ruin stretched silent under the gray sky, half-buried scaffolding creaking as the wind pressed through the makeshift beams. Raphael stepped over torn canvas and crushed equipment, the excavation tents ripped like paper by something far more deliberate than chance.

 Not a soul remained; the archaeologists had scattered, fleeing in a hurry that left meals half-eaten and notebooks fluttering across the ground.

With him and Esteban , the interpole agents that Sveta sent for support. They stayed at the back roaming in the place;checking and talking with the tourists and the archeologist.

Esteban crouched near a broken lamp, his hand brushing across the trampled dirt.

 “They weren’t exaggerating. She was here………….Meirda!!” His tone carried a mix of awe and unease.

“What kind of girl does this? Why not take what you want and just run away .”

Raphael didn’t answer right away,he walked past the shattered survey tools, tracing the arc of footprints through the dust. She hadn’t just passed through;she had searched. Every torn case, every smashed crate, every scattered parchment hinted at purpose;she wanted something, and she had no patience for those who got in her way.

He narrowed his eyes toward the central pit, where a rope ladder dangled limp into shadow. 

The ruins loomed behind them, the tents shredded, papers scattered and half-buried in the dirt. Esteban was still crouched by a broken lantern, shaking his head.

“You’re quiet,” he said, glancing at Raphael. “You’ve been staring at those claw-marks on the crates for ten minutes. 

He then straightened, brushing dirt from his palm. “So what’s in your head? 

Raphael’s gaze lingered on the broken descent into the earth,he breathed out slowly, then turned away. 

“I’ll tell you when I’m certain .”

Esteban frowned, ready to push,but the earpiece crackled;a familiar silk-lined voice bled into his ear.

It  slid through static, clipped and steady. “Any signs about her??”

“Not yet. “ Raphael replied . “But Esteban’s source was right;Dahl’s funding an excavation related to the Bertoli’s. They are crawling all over it. Lux Veritatis relics, by the look of it, their next treasure hunt would be the Alps.”

“And if Dahl’s after her as I’m thinking;she’ll go there.” He hesitated, eyes narrowing as one of the Archeologists drifted too close to the light. “And Sveta? Feels like more eyes than theirs. Eyes that don’t belong.”

“You’re starting to sound like you believe me,” she answered, dry.

Raphael let out a humorless chuckle. “eight days chasing a ghost will do that.”

“You saw something, didn’t you, Marcherelli?” Sveta’s words hummed; soft now, almost coaxing. “Something your little Milan friend didn’t notice.”

He turned slightly, away from Esteban. “…Maybe.”

“That’s what I like about you,” she purred. “You see things. But….” her pause sharpened, “.....be careful not to see too much. Sometimes chaos is just chaos; a frightened girl lashing out. Don’t weave meaning into every broken tent pole.”

Raphael’s jaw tightened. “I belong to an Anti-terrorist squad , we don’t believe in chaos without a reason.”

“You’re warning the wrong one” He murmured under his nose.

Sveta laughed quietly, as if indulging a stubborn child. “And that’s why you’re good at this RAPHAEL.”    This time she referred to him by name.

“.But remember ; theory can become obsession. And obsession blinds; you’re hunting answers, but what if you’re only chasing shadows?”

Her words slowed long after the line went silent. Raphael lit a cigarette, gaze fixed on the torn canvas fluttering in the wind. Shadows;maybe, but he knew in his bones that the girl hadn’t done this out of panic. No ; she wanted them to see it.

He cut the line, signaling to Esteban and the Interpol men Sveta had saddled them with;hours of tunnels, stairs, fragments of rumor.And now, at last, the air itself felt different. Not hope, not relief. Something heavier, sharper; a chase that was about to stop being abstract.

Three days later:

Four murders in Italy.; three in Matera. one in Milan. And today, two in Switzerland. Coincidence? Esteban never thought so.

“If you ask me,” he’d muttered that morning, buttering toast with more force than necessary, “it’s her; your white-haired girl. Fits the pattern, no?”

Raphael had only stared at him.

“What? You think I don’t see it? First Italy, now Switzerland; where Gunderson is supposed to be chilling out. The Monstrum isn’t some ghost story, maybe it’s about her.”

Before Raphael could answer, the café radio spat static and headlines: another Monstrum killing, this one in Zurich. The case files reopened.

Esteban had smirked, tapping his knife on the plate. “See? Told you.”

Raphael set down his cup and rose. “I’m going there, you don’t have to follow.”

Esteban only grinned. “Oh, please. You’d trip over yourself without me.”

1 Day later in Zurich- Morning 07:35 a.m:

The wind rose before the sky broke,clouds gathered low and heavy, swallowing the last pale edge of winter light. Dust chased itself through the alleys in restless spirals, scraping against stone, rattling shutters, filling the city’s lungs with grit. It was the season’s turning; when the earth no longer knew whether to cling to the fever of summer or surrender to the silence  of Autumn.

The storm that came with it was not rain but unrest. The sky folded into ash, the air tore itself apart, the ground trembled as if remembering some older curse. The city breathed it like a fever dream; none escaped its pressure.

Raphael stepped out from  the taxi, Esteban just behind him. The forensic institute loomed ahead ; all glass and clean lines, its modern façade doing little to hide the tension inside.

 News of a fresh Monstrum killing had reached them the night before, and Sveta’s voice over the earpiece this morning had been unusually brisk.

 “Check the scene, talk to the head of the Inspection Department; Pr. Morlock. And Raphael…..” 

A pause long enough to feel intentional, “Let’s end all of this before November days starts counting down .”

‘A deadline?’

The idea of finding a wanted girl itself was suffocation,he felt that the Interpol were tightening the noose around him.

As the pair arrived the smell of bleach and steel clung to the halls of Zurich’s Forensic Institute, the kind of cold that settled under your nails. Raphael walked beside Esteban, their boots dull against the polished floor.

They’d arrived on the tail of a Monstrum killing ; brutal, quick, and in the middle of a place built for examining the dead, not joining them.

Raphael had always hated the quiet that followed an unsolved crime; it clung to him now as he and Esteban walked the halls of the Zurich Forensic Institute. The morgue smelled faintly of bleach and something metallic ; a tang he associated more with battlefield than laboratory.

The Monstrum had struck here.

Crime scene techs worked quietly around the blood-spattered workbench. A sheeted shape lay on the floor, Raphael didn’t bother asking to see it .

Inside, the corridors hummed with quiet urgency; uniformed officers trading clipped phrases, forensic techs moving deliberately with gloves and trays, the faint chemical bite of disinfectant in the air. The crime scene was sealed behind glass, outlines on the floor, shadows where blood had been

Esteban’s eyebrow lifted. “Maybe she indeed is the Monstrum.”

Raphael gave him a look ; sharp, deliberate , but whatever answer he had was cut short by a voice behind them.

“No,” A man said, stepping into view, hands in his coat pockets. “It’s not her.”

He was there, in the chaos of broken glass and bloodstains, Professor Christoph Morlock ; gray-haired, sharp-eyed, carrying the weary authority of a man who had seen too much.

"But, The Monstrum killings aren’t random either," he told them.

Morlock guided them through the corridors, speaking of patterns, of rituals, of similarities to the Monstrum’s old spree. He told them of the  five years Monstrum programme,and how it’s promised solving the unsolvable.

Across the hall, a man’s shoulder stumbled and  pushed Esteban on the way in, tall and hurried. Raphael barely registered his face ; until a different kind of stillness caught him, he felt he knew him.

Minutes later they were in his office at the institute. 

Morlock was talking.

“Lars  Guillaume .Mirpoix ;perhaps you’ve heard of him? Belgian inspector, solved more than ninety serial killer cases ; is dedicating five years of his life to this investigation. He believes the killer isn’t just human."

Esteban whistled low.

Then Morlock shows them the newspaper that has the investigation program details.

“He’s working with the Bureau of extraordinary criminals affairs?! it’s located in Paris, isn’t that right Rafa??”

But the French officer seemed so fazed to hear what his partner said.Morlock noticed that but carried on his idea to distract him.

“ That’s why he'll welcome any collabs, I’ll link you to him if you  are intr……”

Without warning, Raphael asked, “You ever heard the name Samael? Girl or boy?”

Something  flicker of something crossing Morlock’s face ; recognition, discomfort.

Then he dismissed it flatly. 

"Irrelevant."

Esteban laughed under his breath. “Told you ; fairy tale.”

Yet Raphael felt the air shift, he didn’t press ; not here, not now, not after that murder.

Morlock was already rising, signaling the end of the meeting. 

They left the office, walking the corridor until they stopped near a kiosk. 

Watching the passing people in the corridors, Raphael froze suddenly. Someone was passing by in a rush,brushing past them. A blonde girl with a folder tucked under her arm,brown eyes; color of autumn maples were focused ahead, a single dreamcatcher earring swaying. Something about her slowed him ;she moved quickly, as if afraid to be noticed, as if the air pressed in tighter.

For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Something in her face ; pulchritudinous, delicate and fierce at once ,rooted him to the spot.

Esteban caught his stare. "Really? I thought you’re not into blondes," he teased.

But  Raphael didn’t answer. 

He barely heard him. The girl unfolded a small paper plane in her hands that she found on the floor on a corner as she walked away. Something about that simple gesture unsettled him more than the murder scene had.

The thought stayed with him long enough that when he circled back later, she was outside ; he saw her from a corridor’s window ,sitting apart,avoiding the glances around her, deflecting attention, it seemed like  the world had drawn an invisible border around her.

Later that afternoon, as students streamed out of the institute, Raphael lingered; his gaze kept drifting back to the blonde girl, watching her from a distance. She looked ordinary enough;yet far too alone for someone looking  like her. He felt the urge to approach, to break the wall and the distance between them, but something about her seemed untouchable, almost otherworldly.

 She was sitting across that border again, equally distant,but  was a man Raphael recognized immediately;  Renner. They were back to back ,they couldn’t  even look at each other.;they didn’t speak like lovers, they didn’t touch. But there was gravity between them, a silence that told volumes; something in the air between them was wrong. Whatever they were, they weren’t strangers.

Before he could step closer, a shadow fell over him. Morlock ,he appeared at his side

“Have some time for a coffee Mr……?”

“Uh! ….Raphael; Raphael Marcherilli.”

Hearing the full name ;Morlock observed his features for a moment , as if he recognized the last name, or heard it somewhere.Then Raphael cut him off:

“Sure , I’d love to.” He said nicely.

Morlock nodded  and walked him through the road leading the way.

Raphael followed him to a quiet café near the tram line. Over the rim of his cup, Morlock said quietly:

"So are in a search for the Vasiley girl."

"Yea.I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her."

" I fear that a conflict may occur if anything happened to her." He said in mocking tone.

"and by anything you mean trafficked?" Raphael asked.

"I don't know,but her father isn't the easy type either. He may declare a war for his family,or go as far sacrificing one to protect the other."

"Interesting...."Raphael murmured rubbing his neglected chin.

They went silent for a moment, each one of them sipping his coffee then Morlock spoke.

“Samael’s alive. She’s a girl ;it is said she has golden hair, golden eyes. Changed her name, and I heard she grew up in Mexico.” 

“Where is she now?” Raphael asked.

“Not sure, but there’s this man whom I think can tell you more about her.”

Raphael blinked, demanding  more elaboration.

“A priest from Ireland ; they call him Father Patrick. He possesses a humble but valuable knowledge concerning occults , if I may say.”

Raphael felt intrigued .

“Occults? ... .Like the Lux Veritatis?”

Morlock took his phone , observed the screen before it fainted to black then exhaled.

“………..there’s an issue .” 

“I doubt you’ll find him soon, he’s not back for months. I don’t think there’s anyone who knows where he is right now .I tried contacting his church yesterday ;they said he didn’t say where he went.”

Raphael calculated the days. Still no hint of November’s weight.

“If you are lucky they may call back later….I’ll let you know if there’s anything.”

Raphael nodded with an appreciation smile

“Merci.”

Morlock leaned back. “Careful around your friend.”

 “Esteban?” Raphael asked, frowning.

 Morlock’s gaze lingered a moment too long. “He looks… fishy to me.”

Then he stood, left enough coins to cover his coffee, and walked out.

The next morning.

She was there again;standing by her bike, tucking her hair behind one ear as she bent to unlock the chain. Sunlight made her face unbearable to look at, too striking, too… ‘different.’

Raphael stepped off the curb, drawn without thinking.

And someone slid in front of him, smooth as a shadow.

Vence Renner ,not discreet this time.

"Captain," He greeted, as if he’d been expecting him; his eyes were unreadable.

Raphael narrowed his own. "Of course you’d  be here."

Then Raphael drifted his gaze to the girl getting on her bike.

“And I suppose you got information about everyone in the Forensic institute as well.”He said pointing at the girl.

Renner smirked faintly, voice carrying a teasing lilt. 

" Her? No chance man she’s in love."   

Joke or truth, Raphael couldn’t tell.

"That’s not what I asked."

The smirk deepened, sharpening into something crueler. "If you’d come just a month earlier… Who knows? Maybe you could’ve had her." He let it hang there .

Heat flared in Raphael’s chest; his fists curled before he forced them loose.

But the man’s tone shifted suddenly, as if bored with the game. "You’re not here for girls, are you? Did  my message get to you? Your little girl caused a great mess in Matera. Everyone is talking about her now , she became ‘A thief to some’. Others whisper ‘Monstrum’."

Raphael’s eyes locked onto his. "What do you think of this?"

A shrug, a flick of indifference. "It’s a game.”

“So Dahl is the one behind the murders?” Raphael said impatiently .

“Bingo!!”

Behind them, the clink of a chain ;Raphael turned, but the girl was already gone, pedaling into the blur of the city. When he looked back, Renner was walking away too.

“Be seeing you, Captain!” He waved from the back. “ Don't get struck by the Monstrum before the fun part.”

He said waving as he kept walking ,leaving only questions in his wake.

Later, in the quiet of his hotel room, Raphael unfolded the crumpled paper Janice had pressed into his hand back in Paris. A child’s drawing, uneven lines of sun and moon hovering over two stick figures. One crowned with a ring of gold, the other weighed down with black scribbles for hair.

He stared at it, motionless. ‘Samael.’ Was the name meant as a a kid imaginary friend? A real friend? Or just the echo of a child’s inner thoughts? 

He didn’t believe in imagination without roots.

At midnight, the earpiece on his nightstand blinked once. He slid it in, and Sveta’s voice spilled into the darkness, low and deliberate.

“Raphael,” she said ,again ; not lieutenant , not agent, but his name. And it felt strange.

 “I have confirmation. The girl is moving toward a Lux Veritatis hold in the Alps as you thought. You’ll intercept her before anyone gets to her, four new agents are already being routed to support you. With luck, all this ends before November comes.”

Her tone shifted, velvet-soft at the edges, almost playful. “Do this right, and maybe we can mend our rough beginning; I think I’d enjoy working more closely with you.”

Raphael sat there, elbows pressed to his knees, the drawing limp in his hand; her voice still lingered in the room, caught between promise and threat. He wasn’t sure which side of Sveta he had just heard.

“Dahl is the one committing the Monstrum murders” He said with certainty.Out of nowhere

Sveta didn’t comment, she chose to be silent to let him speak his mind.

“My idea from the ruins in Matera………… is that the girl is trying to get Dahl by ravaging the place,and…..”

“And the ‘Monstrum’ murders is the ‘I heard you ‘ response.”

Raphael stuttered “Y….yes…..”

A breath of silence.

“Listen, Raphael…..Whatever is going on between them isn’t our concern;nor yours. Alright? In this moment you understand how dangerous she is; don’t lose focus on your current goal now that we know where she is.” She said, “Which is bringing her to us.”

“Sure.” He said flatly.

The radiator hummed. Outside, a tram bell clanged hollow against the winter air.

The line with Sveta had gone silent long ago, but her voice lingered like smoke in Raphael’s head. A theory; that’s all he had, and already someone was trying to strip it from him before it could take shape. He leaned against the edge of the hotel desk, staring through the half-open blinds at the Zurich lights flickering in the distance.

It could have been minutes;iIt could have been an hour. He didn’t check the time, the room was heavy with that quiet, post-conversation tension ;when words had been spoken but not resolved..

The bathroom door clicked open. Esteban emerged, toweling his hair, relaxed in a way Raphael couldn’t ever seem to be.

“Managed to get her number?” Esteban asked, tossing the towel onto a chair. “Or at least invite her for coffee?”

Raphael looked up from the blinds, expression unreadable. 

“I wish,” he said sarcastically.

Esteban chuckled, padding across the room. “Well, I get it now. After looking at her twice, I understand why you’re into her. If she wasn’t that short…” He grinned. “I would’ve taken her myself.”

Raphael exhaled sharply, more a scoff than a laugh. “Feel bad for Greta.”

That name landed like a rock in water. Esteban’s grin faltered; he opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, perhaps to explain. “That’s…….listen, Greta ,doesn’t have to kno……..”

A knock cut him off. Firm, deliberate; not the kind you mistake for housekeeping.

Both men exchanged a glance. Esteban’s towel slipped from his hand,Raphael straightened, already knowing what that sound meant: their quiet was over. The agents had arrived.

By morning, he and Esteban were back in motion. Esteban shoved his hands deep into his coat, eyes flicking toward the square they’d left behind and Raphael was already out in the hotel Lobby.

Elsewhere, in an office far from the bright streets of Zurich, Vittorio Marcherelli set down a phone and drew a long breath.

The office was dim, the walls lined with maps and dossiers. Gunderson’s voice crackled through the phone, cold and metallic. Orders were simple: capture the Vasiley girl ,Golden haired.

Vittorio listened, mask resting on the desk before him.

When the call ended, he summoned Kurtis into the room. The young man stood at attention, distant from the Craws unit as always: his silence sharp as a blade.

 He requested details about his report on the encounter with the Vasiley girl on Matera. Then, after the soldier left, Vittorio’s hand lingered on the photograph he kept locked in a drawer; a boy, maybe twelve, dark-eyed, fierce even then. Raphael. Vittorio remembered watching from the shadows, unseen, as his son walked home from school. He had wanted to step forward, to speak, but he hadn’t;not then,not ever.

"Raphael," he murmured, almost as if tasting the name. His son;a son he had watched once from afar, but never claimed. A son who now hunted shadows without knowing how much of his bloodline already tangled in them.

Memory cut sharper than any blade.

Flashback – Years Ago:

The rain had come heavy that evening in Nice. He’d stood across the narrow street, just far enough to watch without being noticed.

A boy ; tall for his age, hair damp, hands shoved in the pockets of a worn jacket ; passed under the flickering streetlight. He didn’t walk home,he walked away from it; toward the darker parts of the city.

The man stayed in the shadows. No call,no wave;just silent, clenched observation until the boy turned a corner and vanished.

"Forgive me…." he murmured, pulling the cloack over his face. "One day, you’ll understand why I left you to the fire."

 Present day:

Now, the boy was a man;a man chasing shadows Vittorio himself had helped cast.

"You’ll forgive me someday," he whispered.

And the mask of command slid back into his face.

The Alps mission awaited.

End of Chapter 6

To be continued..............................

Raphael.M Vocal memo:

“Samael. A name that carried the weight of gold and the sting of a blade… and now it was in my hands, whether I wanted it or not.”