As Skiller walked through the corridors of the Ghali castle, an incoming call on his phone brought him to an abrupt halt. An unknown number flashed on the screen.
"Who the hell…?" he muttered before answering.
"Aisha has been arrested." The voice on the other end was cold and calculated.
Skiller's jaw tightened.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Attempted murder. She's in custody." There was a pause, then, with a tone bordering on mockery, they added, "Seems someone is playing with your friend's fate."
Skiller hung up abruptly, his mind racing.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city, Sanathiel stopped his motorcycle in front of a crumbling building. He had followed Aisha's trail, but something felt off. Dimitri was waiting at the entrance, leaning against a wall with a cynical smile.
"Don't bother, White Wolf. Aisha is no longer your problem."
Sanathiel approached, jaw clenched.
"Who has her?"
"The same people who set traps for wolves." Dimitri shrugged. "But what are you going to do? Rush in to rescue her like a hero? Or admit that fate has already been written?"
Sanathiel felt the rage boil within him.
"I don't have time for your damn riddles."
Dimitri let out a dry laugh.
"Oh, but you do. Unless you want your little Aisha to end up like Rasen..."
The name hit Sanathiel like a gunshot.
"What does Rasen have to do with this?"
"Nothing." Dimitri tossed him a sealed envelope. "Or everything. Find out."
Sanathiel caught it and eyed him warily. Without another word, he turned and walked away, feeling the weight of the truth begin to crush him.
In another corner of the city, Rasen felt a sharp pang in his chest.A distant echo.A whisper of Aisha in his mind.The pain was real.
Cristal found him trembling, hands clutched to his chest as if something were trying to tear him apart from within.
"Rasen, tell me what's happening."
But he couldn't answer.Because deep inside, he knew—Aisha was in danger.
Elsewhere, the main hall of the Thirteen was cloaked in the shadows of a sunset that cast the room in a canvas of tension and uncertainty. The golden twilight lit the stern faces of the leaders present.
The walls were damp, and each droplet falling from the ceiling echoed like cruel ticks of a clock. The air reeked of mold and something metallic—likely dried blood. Aisha tried to move, but the chains bit into her skin. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She couldn't afford to falter now. Not when she knew Sanathiel was looking for her. "I have to endure."
So in the center of the hall, Aisha, back straight and gaze defiant, faced a trial that would decide her fate. The fresh wounds and Daesa's memory weighed heavily on her, but she let none of it shake her resolve.
The community leader, his voice dripping with disdain, broke the silence:
"How does it feel, being the cyst we were never able to cut out?"
Aisha didn't reply. Instead, a flash of defiance lit her eyes before a blindfold was tied around them and she was escorted out of the chamber. They took her to a room where the icy air seemed to freeze time. Seated on a metal chair, the handcuffs locked around her wrists, the cold steel biting into her flesh. In the gloom, a voice whispered:
"How shall we proceed with her, Master?"
The murmurs filled the room like invisible venom. At last, a firm voice declared:
"Let us torture the woman."
The butcher entered, his mere presence filling the cell. A burly man, his face crisscrossed with scars like war trophies. His crooked smile revealed yellowing teeth.
"Ready to sing, little bird?" he growled, drawing a long knife that gleamed under the dim light.
Aisha didn't look away, even though fear churned in her stomach. She wouldn't give him the pleasure of seeing her afraid.
"Sing?" she spat, voice steady. "You'll have to cage me first."
The butcher let out a dry laugh, though his eyes seethed with menace. He leaned in, almost whispering:
"That can be arranged."
The knife sliced through the outer layer of her arm like paper. Aisha clenched her teeth, stifling a scream that lodged in her throat. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. The pain was a fire burning from within, but she clung to one thought: Sanathiel. He would come. He had to come.
"You're tougher than you look," the butcher mocked, wiping the blood with a filthy rag before tossing it to the floor, letting the iron scent fill the room.
"And you're more pathetic than I expected," Aisha shot back with a blood-tinged smile.
"You bitch!" the butcher roared. "Do you know what I've lost because of you? My wife, my place in this community..."
A stern voice interrupted:
"Enough, sir. This room will be reviewed shortly."
"You'll regret this, you whore!" the man barked, retreating with a sneer.
Days of unrelenting darkness and pain passed. Aisha, wrists bound, pretended to be unconscious whenever her captors approached. At last, they removed the blindfold. The light blinded her momentarily before her gaze settled on the man before her. He wore surgical gloves, his hands stained with dried blood.
"Your teeth look fine…" the butcher muttered coldly, inspecting a tray of deadly instruments. He leaned closer, brushing her hair like a sadistic lover.
Aisha knew she couldn't die here. While the butcher admired her teeth, she worked silently to loosen the ropes. When he leaned in close enough, she whispered:
"Let me tell you a secret, butcher."
Intrigued, the man leaned in further—and that was when Aisha struck. She bit down with all her might, ripping off his earlobe. His screams filled the chamber. In the chaos, Aisha seized the knife lodged in her thigh and cut the ropes binding her hands.
With blood on her lips, she spat out the piece of flesh and shouted, voice blazing with defiance:
"I, Aisha, will not bow to anyone!"
The butcher, enraged, tried to stomp her, but Aisha dodged in time. Her knees bled, but she stood her ground. Before he could attack again, a voice rang out:
"Enough."
The butcher froze, his face draining of color. Dimitri Snova entered the room with deadly calm. His eyes—two bottomless wells—settled first on the butcher, then on Aisha.
"So you're the infamous Aisha," Dimitri said, his tone dripping with sarcasm and contempt. "The one who thinks she can defy the community?"
His steps echoed in the corridor, firm and ceremonial. When he entered, the butcher stepped back and lowered his gaze. Aisha looked up, forcing herself to meet the gaze of the man who had just arrived.
Dimitri wasn't in a hurry. His sharp face was adorned with a smile that never reached his eyes.
"This is the best you can do?" he said to the butcher, gesturing toward Aisha. "Looks like our guest still has the strength to smile."
"She's... difficult to break," the butcher admitted, swallowing hard.
Dimitri leaned toward Aisha, studying her like a curiosity in a shop.
"Interesting. Perhaps you and I can have a bit more fun. Tie her up again."
Once Dimitri and the butcher left, silence fell over the cell once more. Aisha took a deep breath, ignoring the sting of her wounds. Her body was near its limit, but her mind kept fighting. When a guard roughly lifted her and placed her back in the chair, blindfolding her once more, she finally gave in to sleep.
"They won't have me," she whispered to herself, eyes closing. Her voice was weak, but filled with conviction.
The image of Sanathiel appeared in her mind, bringing with it a spark of hope. She had to resist. For him. For herself. For everything still worth fighting for.
Meanwhile, at the Ghali castle, Daesa had remained unconscious for five days. Tension clung to every corner of the place. Skiller, heir to the Ghali, walked with calculated calm, but the weight of responsibility pressed on him like a boulder.
Darío stormed into the room, his fury palpable.
"How did you let this happen?" he roared, facing Skiller.
Skiller didn't flinch. His voice, low but firm, sliced through the tension.
"You only deserve to see her from afar, Darío. As a brother, you failed to protect her."
The words hit Darío like a hammer. His face twisted with rage.
"You heartless bastard!" he shouted, turning to his guards. "Get him out of here!"
But Skiller, unfazed, pulled out a document. "Read it," he said calmly.
With trembling hands, Darío read it—and recognized Daesa's signature at the bottom. The document didn't lie: Skiller was Daesa's lawful husband.
"How long has this been true?" Darío asked, barely containing his fury.
Skiller, aware of the storm brewing, replied, "She had her reasons, Darío. But Daesa was never prepared for betrayal. It was Lionel who led her to this."
Darío closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to stay composed. "If I've been a neglectful brother, then you must be a model husband. Find Aisha and make her pay for what she's done to Daesa."
Skiller met his gaze, voice calm but with a silent edge of challenge.
"No, Darío. If you need someone to blame, take it out on me. But Aisha is family."
Darío's fury reignited. He grabbed Skiller by the collar, fists clenched, his eyes blazing.
"You're insane if you think I'll sit back and watch my sister suffer! Damn you!" he shouted, shaking him slightly. "Act like the husband you're supposed to be and make Aisha pay."
Skiller didn't look away. His words, cold and sharp, cut like a blade:
"You and I both know how capable Daesa is. Even as my wife—and your sister—when Lionel is involved, nothing ends well."
Darío furrowed his brow, digesting those words. A glimmer of suspicion and dread crossed his face. Letting go of Skiller, he slammed his fist against the door and muttered darkly:
"How did they get in contact again, if Lionel swore never to go near her?" He closed his eyes, his voice turning grave, burdened with pain and frustration. "This is a damn disgrace, Skiller. We're talking about my sister."
The head physician interrupted, asking both men to stay strong, as Daesa's condition had not improved. Skiller, his face contorted with sorrow, entered the room where she lay connected to a ventilator. He stopped by her bedside, eyes falling on a photo of Daesa and Lionel. With trembling hands, he tore the picture to shreds—erasing any trace of the man who had brought her such pain.