Aiel: Thanks a lot for the review! You know how much I appreciate it.

Author's note: This chapter became much longer than I initially had planned. But as this is the last chapter in the first part of Underworld: Arcanum ("Seperation"), I thought I needed to create somewhat of a cliffhanger in the end.

A

"I know there exists good, and I know there exists evil. Unfortunately, evil deeds are inclined to be more influential than the good ones, whether it be mortal or immortal initiation. However, whereas mortals have their own less estimable actions, the secluded immortals' villainy is considerably worse. Contrary to humans, the immortals never reach agreement. Nor do they seem to want to. Of course, humans also have their flaws and discords, but the majority of the mortal race at least strives to attain harmony. Even though immortals—theoretically speaking—have the ability to obtain valuable knowledge and reason through their eternal lives, facts tell us otherwise; the forte turns to a flaw as egoism substitutes kindness. Without trouble, we find the Millennium War as an example, which is just one of many inescapable testimonies supporting my theory. The word 'extermination' tends to be the only thing glued to their minds. Why this irrational purpose?

"Although all facts largely contain an anomaly, this fact does not. If one believes that it dwells benignity within the immortals' world of arrogance and stubbornness, one has only scratched the surface. Behind their every apparently unselfish action, there lurks egocentricity. The lycanthropes, for example, discovered the genetic code from which their immortality initially originated—all on account of this Lucian and that Austrian scientist Singe. Using their knowledge to induct hybridization, the two saw a way to end the war. Superficially, this act easily resembles one of goodness, but in truth, this was an attempt on annihilating the enemy, a repelling try just like any other. Another thing that gives rise to contempt is the fact that the lycanthropes could actually have found the very key to ending the Millennium War. As could the firstborn, Demetrius, who was the first one to learn about the hybrid. If my son had not been murdered because of his studies in anno Domini 1098, I believe the milestone would have taken place much earlier. But like always, this would probably not have ended the war either; peace, it seems, has never been an option.

"During these last few moments that time has so kindly given me, I have come to discover that divinity follows the same pattern as the earthlings: It has its deeds and misdeeds. Whilst the birth of man was a sign of good will, the plague ravaging my village in the fifth century caused my reverence toward the gods to sink quickly. But then again, there was not much respect to lose. Nonetheless, I never understood why they let this calamity occur, and it is unlikely that I ever will.

"At small intervals, nightmares befall amid my dreams and memories … Nightmares horrifyingly reminiscent of the time of the great plague. I still recall the panic, the hopelessness, and the inane deaths—all of which happening at one time. And the suffering children … One little boy, I remember, stood in the middle of the rumpus, frantically shrieking as ashen bubonic swellings bulged in his bloodless face. Within seconds, the swellings had completely disfigured his adolescent visage, and the boy had subsequently tumbled to the mucky soil, never to rise up again. Another child—this one a girl—had been crying despairingly in her dead father's flaccid embrace, only to wait for her inevitable death. I offered my assistance to each and every dying soul I happened upon, but it proved to be insufficient. No matter how hard I tried, the number of casualties increased exponentially. But then something dawned upon me. The reason for this horrendous ordeal was beyond question: This was the gods' will. They wanted to take lives.

"And they wanted to give birth to immortality.

"But one thing in particular has troubled my head ever since the plague—one question that mingles inside me, but refuses to collect its complementary answer. Up to now, I still eagerly await the disclosure:

"Why was I the only one that survived?"

Night's opaque sky had willingly evaporated as the sun unhurriedly orbited toward the zenith. Concurrently, the sky turned from crimson, gained a tinge of orange, and then changed itself into an azure hue. The weathercast, however, had reported an approaching storm that would wash down the Hungarian capitol, most likely for more than just a day. Rolling toward the populace, dark and menacing clouds growled on the horizon. Right beneath, befogging the purview, a fusillade of rain raged down upon the surface of the Earth, predicating the weathercasters' foretelling.

A storm was brewing.

Routinely leaving their residences, the older denizens of Budapest were on their way to work, readily chipping in with additional income to their respective families, while most of the children prepared themselves for another boring (or exciting) day at school. The metro beneath the central Fernciek square teemed with activity as commuters stood clustered together, pushing and shoving, waiting impatiently for the commuter train to arrive. Announcing delays and such, a strident voice spoke through the speakers, which was mounted on the perforated tile walls. It was just another ordinary day for the incognizant humans. But for the immortals, however, this would be quite the exceptional day, differing from any other of endless conflict and distress.

Fixedly following the secluded aisles directly beneath the metro station, Selene heard the thundering and shrieking trains and the non-stop din coming from the crowded locale. She glanced up at the ceiling, as though her eyes could penetrate the great clump of concrete and watch the busy commuters from below. They seem to have recovered from the weaponed conflict that we caused barely a week ago, she conjectured. Sighing, the vampiress saw that she had most definitely not. Imagining the eye of the intense crossfire, Selene sensed, to her dismay, a ghastly picture evoking to life, imprinting into her memory: a combusting companion gasping in agony on the tiled floor. This was when Rigel … And even though we never found Nathaniel, the chances of him being alive have been deemed implausible long ago.

Regarded by many as the deadliest and most efficient vampire soldiers, the triplet had never joined a battle individually. Their minds serving as one, the three Death Dealers had not disagreed at any time during tides of combat. The tactics had remained the same, and each of them had their respective tasks to which they adhered. Rigel, with his seraphic countenance, had been the serene technician and the cunning spy. The oldest of the three, Nathaniel, had proved to be an effective guard, proficient considering surveillance. His task was to make sure no human intervention occurred during a mission. Selene's forte, however, was neither survey nor espionage. Having had Viktor himself as her personal tutor, the deadly serious vampiress was uniquely skilled in hand-to-hand combat as well as with firearms. Unhesitant by nature, she was always the first one to pull the trigger. If there was one vampire that had unsettled business with the lycans, it was most definitely Selene.

Or so they—and she—had been led to believe for a long time.

In spite of the trio's reputation, there were a couple of lycanthropes that had proven themselves even deadlier and more efficient. Now Selene was the only one of the three vampires who was still breathing. And whose fault is that? she asked herself, bitter and mournful. But the answer eluded her, much as it caused dismay.

Moving furtively about ten meters in front of Selene, Michael was searching every nook and cranny, all of which as obfuscate as the other. He had called the lycans' decomposed hideout to mind and realized that one could never be too careful. If Selene and he were to chance upon a pack of vicious lycans that were superior in number, the Grim Reaper would probably not hesitate to appear. Unless the lycans would've acted as strangely as the other three did—the ones that 'attacked' us in the safe house. Michael had not been a trifle convinced by the triplet's actions. Much as he was not an empiric, Michael still knew their behavior did not harmonize with a lycanthrope's general instincts. Lycans attack together, not individually, he reasoned with suspicion while scrutinizing yet another dark niche. Sure, those three had a purpose, but it was definitely not to kill us. However, brooding over this the entire day, Michael thought it better to discuss this with Selene some other time. Neither of them could afford an absence of mind if an ambush were to come about.

In spite of having the sight of a vampire and the lycanthrope's peerless sense of smell, Michael occasionally noticed deluding figures in the blackness. Their contours were reminiscent of either a vampire's slender figure or the brawny bulk of a lycan, both of which a potential danger to the haunted fugitives. He suspected these delusions were implications of the pain his head was presently enduring. Conjuring the memory of a werewolf sending him reeling head first into a rock-hard wall, Michael only felt the sting amplify. Maybe I'm suffering from a concussion? he wondered, anxious. It felt debilitating in the least. And just for the sake of vexing him even more, a bloody laceration had delved itself into his chest. He exhaled a deep sigh. I really need to get some rest.

Accustomed to the darkness, his eyes twitched as he peered through the latticework, which separated this hole from Lajos Street and daily life. Bright light shone through the rusty lattice and down upon the humanoid hybrid. Now and then, the illumination became partly blocked as human pedestrians crossed over the corroded grating.

Michael was curious of whether or not he missed the oblivion of being a human. His former life had been imbued by great risks, the greatest one probably the choice of moving to Hungary to spend his tedious days in the aseptic environs of Budapest's main hospital. After the deprivation of Samantha, his demised love, Michael had felt his vigor and interest in life decrease to a minimum. Now, at the least, having met Selene, his existence had finally begun to gain color anew. On the other hand, his new life, he had to admit, had both its upsides and downsides, but then again, as was the case with everything else.

Not having heard a single word from Selene in the past fifteen minutes, Michael glanced over his shoulder, wondering how she was doing. To his very uncomfortable surprise, however, she was not there. Poring desperately up and down the murky corridor, he perceived the apprehension shutting off all reason. "Selene!" he shouted forlornly, his call echoing against the slivered walls. Damn it! Where is she? Did anybody take her? He repeated his holler, "Selene!"

The ponderous weight on his shoulders lifted as he saw the vampiress round a corner. Looking irritated, she strode hurriedly to where Michael was standing, but was however careful to avoid the light from the sun. "Quiet!" she hissed silently. "Do you have some sort of a death wish?"

"No, I—"

"Hush!" she interrupted his excuse, placing a finger to his lips to accentuate her command. Cocking her head in various directions, she seemed to give full heed to her surroundings. "Did you hear that?" Her brown eyes exhibited worry.

Michael heard nothing. What was she talking—no, wait! He could vaguely but surely hear the sound of shallow water stirring! A stream of some sort could not be causing it, he deduced; the sonance was too unsteady for that. And besides: Michael had not noticed this conspicuous sound before, and nor had Selene apparently. It had just suddenly come along.

The signs were obvious: Someone was in close vicinity, and that someone was approaching.

"Shit! Someone's here," Michael sibilated, fleetly swerving his head so he could see if someone or something was sneaking up behind him. Nobody was there. Then where did the sound come from? The narrow corridor in which they stood rendered it difficult to perceive the origin.

Everything fell silent. Selene frowned, but still managed to uphold her attentiveness. "This cannot be good."

Knowing exactly what she thought, Michael simply had to agree. Silence did not necessarily mean the danger was over. Hell, it could signify otherwise.

A curt snort accompanied by the voice of a male verified their suspicion. "Well, I'll be damned. If it isn't Selene ..."

Both spun around and were met with a harsh light glaring at them.

Risking a few steps closer, Mason ceased his gait as Selene's au courant tone uttered her warning. "Don't move!" Because of the flashlight, her eyes contracted almost to a shut. Standing beside her, Selene's unfamiliar companion also appeared to have problems seeing.

Mason could not suppress a short chuckle. "The sewers seem to be crawling with familiarities. First Erika, now you." With a swing of his hand, he tossed the flashlight to the stranger, who, albeit unprepared, caught it resolutely. As he turned the flashlight toward Mason, the Death Dealer felt the cone of light shine upon him.

"Mason!" Selene recognized with eyes wide, sincerely perplexed from the looks of it.

The Death Dealer grinned with satisfaction. "See?" He exposed his empty hands. "No need for hostility." And that regarded himself, as well. There is no need to play tough, Mason conceived. Having known the virtuous and devoted Selene for many decades, he knew he had nothing to fear. Throughout their many years of companionship, the two had structured a solid bond of trust between themselves.

"Now," he said, preceding Selene's response. "Before you even start to test my trustfulness, I feel the need to say that I do believe you."

His tone was convincing. Uncertain as she was, Selene had trouble finding the correct reaction and reply to Mason's straightforwardness. It was a bit odd, but considering it more closely, the vampiress had to admit he had been wise when showing such behavior. The Elders knew what she and Michael would have done to him if his conduct had inferred a more antagonistic inclination. It could of course be the other way around, and that this was a deceptive trick, but Selene seriously doubted that. One of the most reasonable and trustworthy vampires she had ever known, Mason would at least hear her out before doing anything drastic. But even so, one thing seemed quite illogical to Selene. Why the hell was he here in the sewers? And why alone?

"Where are your inferiors?" she asked, unable to inhibit a trifle of suspicion in her tenor.

A slanted smile crossed the Death Dealer's face, something Selene interpreted to be a possible indication of bitterness. "They scattered when Marcus deemed it was time to dispose of those that did not concur on his actions."

She did not understand. "His actions?"

"To unify the Coven and the lycans."

Selene's eyes peeled open at the retort. What! She could not believe what she had heard. Had the Coven really begun negotiations and found a possible way to attain peace? Maybe Marcus already was conscious of Viktor's strong influence on the centurial war! Perhaps her and Michael's persuasion was not needed after all? Selene had become filled with exaltation, only to witness it diminish as swiftly as it had appeared. Vampires and lycans have joined together, she repeated to herself in order to become fully aware of this astonishing fact. But even so they wanted to kill Michael and me … Opal told us it was Marcus who had sent her. And it was probably he who dispatched those lycans, too.

"Look," Michael interjected and turned off the flashlight. "It may sound out of the question to you, but joining the lycans might not be a bad—"

Suddenly appearing from a dim corner and coming to stand beside Mason, a man, whom Selene was certain she never had seen before, interrupted Michael's speech. The stranger's locks—long, and brown and black in color—cooperated with the darkness of the tunnel, rendering the upper portion of his face concealed. Selene could notwithstanding discern that this was no vampire. With all their prominence, sharp jugal bones jutted out of the lean frame of his face, forming somewhat of a seraphic countenance. His lean facial features were a stark contrast to the rest of his physique, which was considerably brawny and athletic. Marking a dully gilded insignia fastened in a metal chain about the stranger's neck, she suddenly remembered Sonja's pendant, which was clinging to her own. Clutching it tightly, she continued to observe the stranger from a safe distance.

"I've sent two on patrol," the man informed, turned toward Mason. "Hopefully, the reconnaissance will establish our safety."

Mason showed his acknowledgement by nodding firmly. "Good."

Creeping up Selene's nostrils, a familiar scent, which priorly would have turned her into a state of alarm, gave now rise to a breathtaking perplexity instead. Slowly, she became aware of her discovery. Hold! This is not a human! It's—

"A lycan!" a flabbergasted Michael exclaimed, as if reading Selene's thoughts.

"What's wrong?" Mason smiled confidently. "Allying ourselves with the lycans is a good idea. You said so yourself, didn't you?"

Becoming graver in appearance, Michael turned silent.

For the first time since the fortuitous encounter, Mason had his eyes completely on Michael. "Now, who are you anyway?"

"First, tell us who that lycan is," Selene quickly threw in, taking a couple of steps toward the two, so she got their attention once again.

The unknown lycan locked eyes with the vampiress. "Stop conversing as though I lacked the intelligence to speak," he said, somewhat irritated. Bowing, he introduced himself: "I am Jakob Corvinus."

Michael recoiled as he heard the easily recognizable name. "Corvinus!" he whispered to himself.

"Then you must be a true-born!" Selene supplemented in awe.

He nodded. "Yes, of lycan descent."

Mason stepped out from the shadows. "As you may have already grasped, my group of Death Dealers and I didn't leave Ordoghaz because of the junction alone; it was merely the purpose of it. Marcus clearly never acted by way of peaceful intentions. He has turned the lycans' dispersal to his advantage.

"The lycans' discord happened exactly the same way as ours did. After both the lycans and we lost our respective leaders, disputes were unavoidable. Internal conflicts lead to sudden changes, and now they have turned the tide in this conflict entirely. Before we knew it, genetic dissimilarities seemed to matter no more. However, despite these new alliances, I believe contempt is still mingling among us participants, causing tendency to waver …"

All the impartations cascaded upon Selene, who now suddenly realized that her and Michael's solitude had not exactly been of great benefit to them. This surge of information reminded her of the aftermath of her turning in 1588—when Viktor had divulged the deepest of secrets to her. Having had great problems understanding the bizarreness at that time, Selene thought this apperception to be just as difficult to attain. All the antipathy that had abode between the two strains for centuries past was now cast aside as if never being of any importance.

Puzzled beyond salubrity, she was beginning to think that Mason's explanations only amplified her bewilderment. But even so, he had at the least clarified something. So that's how the lycans knew of our hideout, Selene perceived. Marcus's Death Dealers had most likely sent off a messenger before they attacked us that night. And knowing our approximate position, those lycans merely needed to sniff us out. A thing the lycanthropes were notoriously efficient at.

Michael, still fraught with doubt, held his distance. They did know of Marcus being a hybrid—the blending of the species … did they not? Or was that still as secluded from the public eye as his own secret was? From his wise of speaking, however, this Mason was clearly not showing much respect—so much was clear. But was that by reason of Marcus's intents, Michael wondered, or solely the Elder's transmutation? The latter was highly unlikely, but still that being the case, it was a possibility. And as long as such a chance existed, it meant that Michael could cause further impedimenta to Selene and him. And that's just what we need, isn't it? he thought sarcastically.

"But still, this lycan here …" Mason continued his explanation, treading backwardly to where Jakob stood and putting a hand on the werewolf's shoulder. "This one somehow … convinced me. And when the two of us reunite those that managed to elude Marcus, he and I will do our level best to sway them. Hopefully, finding our comrades won't be that much of an effort; my team and I had already suspected Marcus and the Coven of plotting to send us out on our ears—or, at worst, kill us. Therefore we thought it best to arrange a rendezvous in case our suspicions would prove right and an escape would be our only chance of survival. Three of my Death Dealers were unfortunately not at the mansion at that time, and so they never got the message … never knew of our suspicions, which in time, turned out to be true …" Mason sighed as he stared aimlessly at the cracked ground for a moment, but he managed to get back his senses.

"Only a couple of hours ago, I sent two of my most entrusted Death Dealers—Cain and Bryce—to lead the rendezvous, which are to be held inside one of the desolate buildings in northern Pest—the ones next to Szent István park. It will probably take about a day before they get back with the rest of the Death Dealers. But when they do, I have to say that I'm quite uncertain of how they will react to this little confederation of ours."

"I am sure they will understand," Jakob succored, "as my wolfen comrades seem to have."

Studying the humanoid lycan's crystal-blue orbs, Michael could not discern any hints of deceptiveness. This leader of the Death Dealers, this Mason, had not exactly fully expounded how that lycan had convinced him. But then; the hybrid himself fathomed, by some means, why Mason had not. Unable to define it, Michael realized there was something about this lycan—something he had not seen before—which exhibited that he could be trusted. Perhaps it was simply his lax composure, or his way of speaking. It was as though his entirety, despite scarcely showing a nonchalant tendency, was saturated with sincerity and beneficence. In addition, Jakob's second name had in some way remotely contributed to the convincement.

Corvinus.

But still … something was not quite right.

A time of silence made Mason change the subject. "So," he said gravely, inhaling a deep breath. "Where are you off to?"

Michael looked toward Selene, whose face, if eyes served, appeared almost to redden in shame because of her uncertainty. "Well, we haven't had much choice, really," she replied soberly. "We've been in hiding for almost a week, now, still actively searching for acceptance. Both lycans and Death Dealers have attempted to kill us, but so far, we've eluded them." Her brows knitted together, which Michael knew denoted trepidation. "But Marcus will never give up. I know. He won't stop before he achieves his retribution."

Cocking his head slightly, Mason queried, "And what's that?"

"The death of Michael and me," she retorted laconically.

Mason grazed his cheeks to and fro with a black-gloved hand, probably weighing Selene's statement in his mind. Michael did not know if Selene had rendered their chances any greater—or if she had lessened them. This Death Dealer had turned out to be a tough nut to crack, and so had Jakob Corvinus. But the humanoid hybrid relied on his lover, and in as much as she had not turned tail from this abrupt encounter, Michael surmised that peril was out of harm's way.

"Please, come with us," Mason requested, reaching out his hand and turning partly. "We'll take you to our hideout. I assure you that you have both Jakob's and my admittance."

"No, we can't," Michael said abruptly, noticing both Selene and Mason—even Jakob—become surprised by his sudden interjection. "If we go with you, Marcus won't hesitate to kill you, too."

Jakob shrugged callously. "It does not matter. Marcus's hesitation is nonextant either way. And moreover, I doubt that killing you two is his sole objective."

"Now, we insist that you come," Mason stated, smiling in his friendly manner. "Isolation has no purpose. Our views on this war seem to agree, and thus we should take sides in order to counteract Marcus's intentions. I guarantee that you can leave us at any time if you wish so. All I'm asking you is that you give yourselves the chance to live." He now turned fully around and began sauntering away from the site, quickly followed by Jakob. "And besides," the Death Dealer added, glancing over his shoulder. "Your so-called treachery intrigues me, Selene."

Locking eyes with each other, Michael and Selene exchanged deadly serious looks.

"To my great relief, clouds and mist have evaporated as bemusing thoughts now begin to converge into a gratifying coherence. The delirium is finally diminishing, and for that I am grateful. Through this immaterial dimension in which I have resided in utter seclusion for centuries, I have come to see that someone has requested my conclusive disposition.

"My finality.

"At first, I could not comprehend the confusing message. Consisting of chaotic thoughts and memories, it was quite the enigma. What was I supposed to do? What was expected from me? I began considering a bitter relinquishment, but the moment before my resignation was made real, the true essence of the message revealed itself forthwith. Never thinking such a plea existed, I was both terrified and astonished when this request entered my chains of memories—which the revised Apocrypha have named 'memories of blood' or simply 'blood memories'. A quite fitting name, I might add, and hence it is a pity that it is so unrenowned. Because, as widely known, the loss of blood implicates death. However, as ironical as it sounds, the gain of blood can also cause death. Many deaths—if destiny seeks it. Contrary to the former, the reason for this latter phenomenon is of the more implicit kind. Blood can breed menace, I assure you. And that I will demonstrate in good time.

"Ah, once again the continuum chisels in. Even though time has deprived me of milestones and other supplementary events of great importance, I now know our past regardless. And for that I have one person to thank. His secret studies, his eavesdropping, and his life in total have bestowed me with priceless lore. Experiencing nearly two millennia in a timeless fashion, I realize that fate is not mistaken: Immortality will never find its concurrence. Before the days of strife, there was a state of great promise between the two descendants, but when war commenced, it ravaged all hope. Hope which ever since has not experienced its rebirth. And as I watch the collection of horrible intentions perilously exceed my allowance, hope will still rest in its grave.

"Life and time is doubtless in need of my intervention. This cannot continue; this must end. And because time alone has failed to succeed, a stronger entity must be let loose. All I ask is that time is willing to cooperate … because yes, there exists a more stalwart force—a more justifying and fatal one. It is the power to create life, and the power to end life. Sent by and serving the very destiny, it patiently awaits its redemption. Fate no longer wants my chains of memories to last forever. In fact, if my interpretations are correct, then fate purposes to eradicate all eternality. The striving immortality is the very manifestation confirming its unquestionable need of oblivion.

"It is time for the Arcanum to see its break of day, come hell and high water. 'Digging into the past is forbidden for a reason.' I now fathom why this statement is so genuinely true. Thank you, Kraven; it appears you have misinterpreted the mecca of yore. Without knowing it, you have brought about the greatest and most decisive intrusion of all.

"And now that my Awakening is at hand, my chains of memories will finally be fractured, similar to the shatter of the chains that have kept me confined in this dismal grave for centuries."

10 hours later.

No longer in the capitol of England, Kraven and Rex had taken the first plane that was bound for Hungary. This little detour had cost Kraven his last savings; after all, it was not as though he was made of money. Or, rather, he may have been in his more sybaritic days, but now he was no richer than a pauper—a fact he profoundly abhorred. Accumulating the money for the London trip by exchanging his ornaments for hard cash, he was experiencing economical limits, which he could not tolerate much longer. This disgusting poverty would soon change. In good time, Rex and he would introduce a new player to these little games, which would be anything but a disadvantage to the two. And that good time is now, Kraven settled with confidence. All we need is to find that placard.

Brushing through tall and wet straws that reached up to their hips, Kraven and Rex were crossing a great marchland and approached the remnants of a preexisting hamlet, which was in the fifth century called Temesvár. After a sudden plague in the remote past, however, this little village had ever since lain in ruins. Human archeologists had investigated the desolate remainders long since, and Kraven remembered they actually had defined the plague as being redolent of the Black Death. But as opposed to the latter epidemic, this catastrophe had felt its boundaries reasonably fast, and thus the plague had fortunately been quite limited. Albeit glad because of the limitations, the human archeologists had nonetheless expressed sympathy toward the victims of this horrendous calamity.

But what about the one person who survived it? What then about your sympathies, humans? Kraven asked scornfully in his mind, snorting in disgust as Rex and he trudged through the last parts of the marchland and reached a plain of sere grass. Lambent stars dotted a pitch-dark sky, gleaming down on a vast plain on which vestiges from a previously active village lay scattered.

"I'm not sure if I'm gonna' like this," Rex said in a muttering manner. Two shovels were fastened on his sinewy back. "Do we really know how he'll react and what he'll do?"

Kraven squatted down on his knees and glanced at the open surroundings, as if looking for something. "Trust me, there is nothing to worry about," he said reassuringly and picked up a small rock. Holding it before his eyes, he began regarding it thoroughly. "When he awakens from his forced extrication, he will thank us for giving back his freedom." As he callously let the rock slip from his fingers and down to the withered soil, the ex-regent sniffed the air, sensing the fresh and provocative fragrance—cooled by the chilly night—fortifying him and polishing his ambition. We are surely getting closer …

Passing a big pile of stone blocks that once constituted a humble dwelling, Kraven and the thuggish ruffian noted in the mid of the wrecked hamlet a small structure, which had evidently refused to give way to the decay of time. Although it had escaped utter sundering, there was only the very fundament that stood its ground still. But the gray stone walls, cracked to the extreme, did not hinder Kraven's observing in any wise; the démodé architecture, formerly an attempt to diverge from the concurrent mode, had, if his memory served, never been used later on. Or Kraven, at the least, had not come upon similar compositions in present time. And he knew there was a reason for that, as well.

By reason of the unnamed calamity that killed nearly the entire populace of Temesvár, religions immediately thought the villagers' beliefs to be a sure defiance toward the true gods. The so-called fraudulent gods—whom these villagers worshiped—were said to be the many souls of the Devil. However, a mere postulate, this 'fact' should be taken with a grain of salt. Nonetheless, religion proclaimed that the prayers uttered from the inhabitants of Temesvár had sent the village into a most precarious position. And when the dwellers even devised a new type of architecture to express their worship toward their own gods, it was now beyond question; the villagers had dug their own graves. After which, the architecture, which previously pervaded Temesvár, had never been used by others, as they all had feared a destiny similar to these villagers.

"He's not here," Kraven said, informing the roughneck beside him. The ex-regent's black mane and dark shirt fluttered vividly as a current of air streamed playfully from the east. "The Apocrypha says he is 'sealed on the fringes of vast'." Now where the hell is that? he wondered, tightening his lips in aggravation. These damned 'fringes' cover an enormous area. And time is against us; we can't afford this minute scrutiny.

"Let's split up," Rex advised and commenced his slow roundtrip toward the northern parts of the open plain. "Then we'll use less time. Remember: We need to get back before sunrise."

Kraven needed not to be reminded of that fact; he knew this was literary like playing with fire. But there was no way he was going to die in such a degrading way. My coup d'état has yet to come to fruition, he thought with a glint in his eyes. If either he or Rex—or both—died this night, his ambitions would evaporate, too. … And that was not allowed to happen.

"Might as well get started …" he mumbled, swallowing his words intentionally. Much as he had been in a beggar's shoes for almost a week and a half, this new life would simply not gratify his desires and needs. God, he felt like a human! However, the ex-regent vowed that this pitiful life would soon come to an end.

Fleetly veering his head to his left and right by turns, Kraven combed every straw of grass, checked beneath every rock—both small and large. This search, however, seemed near to counterproductive as he felt like he was scrutinizing the same sear straw and the same rock over and over—an observance which really was anything but encouraging. This can't be right, he suspected, checking another piece of stone.

Nothing there.

He sighed profoundly and cursed under his breath. This was certainly not leading anywhere. Perhaps he had misconceived that paragraph in the Apocrypha? Or maybe the text was much more symbolic than he had initially assumed? Even so, it was too late to check on that now; the book that contained the most primeval of stories was safely stored within the unfrequented library of Ordoghaz, and if no radical changes had occurred since his exile, Viktor or Marcus—or whoever administered the mansion for the present—would undoubtedly see to it that Ordoghaz was being as strong and sure as Castle Corvinus itself. Due to the revelation of his and Lucian's secret conspiracy, the war was probably enduring an escalating intensity, as well—especially after Selene's hopeless infatuation with that Michael, a lycan, or whatever he had become. What had happened to that mutt anyway? Had he survived? Because of Viktor's most untimely appearance, Kraven had been compelled to leave the underworld, and hence the question remained unanswered to him.

Another rock.

Nothing.

"Shit!" the ex-regent exclaimed furiously, skying the piece of stone with his foot. Respiring heavily, he watched it tumble purposelessly away from him. A bead of sweat dribbled down his brow. Sensing it, he wiped it off with his sleeve. "This damned story! It's probably no more than a second-rate—"

"Hey! Kraven!" Rex shouted from afar. "I found something here!"

Glancing up from the ground and peering toward the distant sound, Kraven saw the vampire thug wave his hand, beckoning for him to come over. "What is it?" the ex-regent responded, exclaiming.

"It's that sign you were talking about! You know, the letter 'A'!"

Alleviationgushed out of Kraven in torrents as Rex bestowed him with this superlatively thrilling information. Finally! he thought vigorously. Smirking in a cunning manner, he began to walk over to where Rex had discovered their goal for tonight. It was quite the long way, but just then, a gust of wind surged past him and readily incited the ex-regent's gait toward the thug. Someone or something wished for this discovery to take place.

"Nicely done, my friend!" Kraven cried loudly. "Just start digging!"

Just start digging …

What botheration that damned Mason had proven to be! Who really wanted to obey such ridiculous commands? And even to think of defying Lord Marcus! Once devoted to the Coven, this undertaking 'leader' of the Death Dealers had now become corrupt, depraved, and most important of all, a betrayer! His behavior and actions were exceeding every possible boundary of morality, and for that he would be condemned to a most unpleasing sunbath! Yes, Lord Marcus would see to that.

Descending a beauteously embellished case of stairs, still remembering the looks of relief from all the vampire aristocrats as he had entered the main hall, Cain was on his way down to the Chamber of Elders. Two Death Dealers, a couple of meters in front of him, conducted the ebon vampire through the great complex of Ordoghaz. It was not needed, however; Cain knew the mansion exceedingly well. But throughout the years, this guidance had become more of a customary act of showing respect toward their guests rather than a mere necessity. In any case, Cain did not have anything against this solemnity—especially not after that ingenious act of his. He reached a state of ecstasy just thinking about it.

The disappearance could not have been performed any better! he thought gleefully. The congregation, the lycan intervention—everything! He had played his part very well. Having put on an authentic masque, he had acted as though being utterly dumbfounded by the lycans' intrusion. But in spite of appearance, Cain had always known they would appear; after all, this was an essential part of his very evanescence. And it had worked perfectly well. The last thing the treacherous clique of Death Dealers had seen was his lone confrontation with a lethal pack of lycans in a narrow hallway. No one could in reality survive an assailment of such power. And for as much as they would never see him again, they would presuppose he was dead. Something he certainly was not. He had never been this alive before!

Now, as he trod downward toward the heart of the mansion, Cain could simply not wait to impart the vital information. He knew everything—the traitors' feeble and pathetic hideout, their junction with that trifling pack of lycanthropes, what Lord Marcus needed to do in order to gain the most efficient preemptive strike. Yes, absolutely everything! And this information, when told to his Lord, would most definitely give rise to their victory.

"He is waiting," one of the Death Dealers said as the two vampiric soldiers of war stepped to their respective sides of a double door. The portal was plainly a peerless exemplar of the elegant Baroque architecture. Studying the dark, symmetrical patterns and the intricate door handles that formed two vicious snakes, Cain fathomed this was Ordoghaz's very core. His Lord—standing by behind these doors—was presumably already aware of his coming and anticipated fresh knowledge of the war. And as the double doors slowly glided open, Cain was confident of fulfilling his Lord's expectations. Exceedingly confident, he thought and stepped inside.

Still as dark as the underworld, the sky had yet to become illumed by the igneous sun, and Kraven was sincerely pleased with that. The soil had been surprisingly easy to dig up, and accompanied with Rex's muscles, the excavation had nearly taken no time, much to his relief.

2:43 P.M., Kraven saw as he peeked at his wristwatch. Concurrently, he noticed, to his disgust, blotches of dirt smeared all over his shirt. It was not the most expensive garment, but regardless of that, Kraven still detested being unclean. And even worse: This hard work had drenched his face and apparels with sticky perspiration. He felt the disgusting sensation of wet cloth glued to his body. This was certainly not in accordance with a vampire's elegance and grace—an accordance that he at all times used to maintain. Seldom did he deplete himself of his strength, but as a great turning point was just around the corner, Kraven could tolerate a few humilities. Much as it was contrary to his epicurean way of living, it seemed he needed to undergo degradation before he could exult in glory. And as he was nearing the end of all humiliation and neglect, the thought of knowing that everything would soon change soothed his soul and urged him onward.

Shining with excitement, Kraven's eyes were clamped upon the very ambition that he had strived so hard to realize. Lips parted and fangs were bared as he beamed an expansive smirk at Rex. "Here he is! The one that will stem the tide of disgrace!"

Rex's blunt expression evinced uncertainness, but that was in no way going to stop Kraven's exaltation. He will understand when he sees the implications of my plan with his own eyes, Kraven thought, determined. And when he is convinced, he will comply with my every action. His orbs gained a tint of azure as tension grew inside him. Sticky and wet tufts of black hair adhered to his glinting forehead, and together with an extreme visage of triumph, they made him look like a complete lunatic.

Now! he thought zealously, threw away his spade, and leapt into the one and a half meter deep pit, which the two vampires had created in barely half an hour. It is time that you awake!

The Apocrypha was right; a great myth proved to be real! The moment he had waited for so long! It was now! Now! Nothing could prevent him! This was his day—his victory, not anyone else's! Poverty and chagrin would crumble, whereas wealth and power would advance! And the first implication of his ascendance, he vowed, would without doubt be the demise of Selene and that pestering Michael. And after that, it would be Viktor's turn.

With eyes wide, Kraven stared at an imposing coffin, which lay partially covered in dirt. Hammered in the lid was a stone placard into which a decorative A was engraved. He shivered with joy as he took notice of the purposeful letter, and he realized he could not wait any longer.

"Rex! Get down here!" he demanded, the smirk still etching his face.

Obeying instantly, the vampiric thug jumped down to the bottom of the cavity. His eyes were contracted, which Kraven recalled from their earlier relationship to be a sign of befuddlement. Don't worry, my friend. This will surely enlighten you.

"Now, help me with this," the ex-regent requested and pointed at the lid. "We must see about his condition."

Nodding, Rex walked over to one side of the coffin, while Kraven, squatting down, prepared to lift the other. A lot of muscular power was required to remove this lid, and Kraven realized he was now relieved to see that Rex stood by him. Without him, his scheme would be an impossible one. Thank the gods that I didn't blow my physical strength out of proportion! he thought.

"Okay … One, two, three—lift!" Kraven said laboriously as he used the last remnants of energy he had left to lift the heavy chunk. He regarded Rex while they slowly carried the heavy stone cover over to the side. Annoyingly enough, the crude ruffian's expression—free of contortions—did not give away a hint of strain. His own, he imagined, was probably distorted past recognition. No ordinary human could have lifted a cover of this ponderous weight, so how in the Elders' name was it brought here in the first place? Pondering the confusing question, Kraven gnashed his teeth as he bit the bullet as best he could. Only one foot away now …

With some help from gravity, the lid dug itself into the earth, implicating a loud clump. Instantly, Kraven gasped for fresh air as his lungs ached for their precious fuel. Damnation, this was not what I had in mind! Wheezing, he studied Rex, who trudged over to the coffin to see what the container had enclosed for centuries. Just one single drop of sweat trickled down the thug's tanned temples. This brute's life among the dumpsters in London had seemingly conserved his burly physique. Although evidently more able-bodied than a mere human, Kraven had nonetheless lost a lot of his physical strength by reason of his own daily self-indulgences, which were not exactly imbued with strenuous work such as this. He vaguely reviewed the days of his life as a Death Dealer. Snorting with a smug look on his mucky face, the ex-regent was glad he chose a different route of ascending, as that one had been too lengthy and tedious. Muscular power was Kraven's forte no longer; cunningness was. And the establishment of that fact was right before him! Here—in this coffin …

"Kraven, there's somethin' you need to see here …" Rex said, his voice still lacking certitude.

Kraven's azure eyes gazed at the ruffian with interest. This isn't like Rex, he discerned, perplexed. What of that confidence you showed me back in England? What have happened?

Having undone a black woolen wrapping, which presumptively had coated the interior of the sarcophagus, Rex laid his worried eyes on what was revealed.

Could it be? Kraven wondered, perceiving tension still growing. Sluggishly, he trod over to Rex and the coffin. Was this his moment of triumph? The moment when this intolerable demotion would finally end?

Slowly but surely, as Kraven approached with an eagle eye, the interior revealed itself. Within the sarcophagus, a gray-bearded man rested silently. Semi-long silvery thatches of hair, befitting a regal goatee in the same color, covered his scalp and most of his ears. Pure, white cloth—untainted by the dirt in which he had resided—sanctified the recumbent man, who was still reposing peacefully in his tomb. His arms, reclining on his chest, clung to an ivory tablet into which was inscribed the repetitive A, and below, it said:

Cruento corpus delicti.

"Blood the body," Kraven translated ecstatically. This is just like an Awakening! he penetrated, becoming more and more enlightened with each passing second. This visage had been exactly similar to the depictions in the Apocrypha. Or … maybe not exactly. Kraven had to concede that something struck him as quite odd. Following an ordinary Awakening—such as the Awakenings of the Covenant—was the sight of utter emaciation and putrefaction. Usually, hibernating vampires both smelled and had the look of death. And in theory, they were dead. But contrary to mortals, vampires could be awoken. Even though their extreme leanness made as if the slightest touch could diffuse them to ashen remnants, the awoken vampires would eventually reconstruct their former strength and become the strong immortals they once were. However, as it was known through reason, their diluted state, which usually subsisted for two days, rendered them extremely vulnerable. But this man, lying tranquilly in the coffin in front of Kraven, was not the slightest macerated, nor did his being display any weakness. In fact, Kraven noticed with astonishment, the man's white features nearly flared with divinity and authority. From the looks of it, the whole fifteen centuries of hibernation had done absolutely nothing to his countenance and body.

"Why the hell's he in this perfect condition?" Rex inquired, his bewilderment causing a dawning aggravation. He, too, had apparently noticed the queer sight. "The guy's supposed to look dead!" he bellowed, repeatedly pointing at the unconscious man with both his hands. "Now he looks like a freakin' Sleeping Beauty! What does those damned books tell you about this, Kraven?"

"Relax!" the ex-regent snapped and raised a flat hand to forestall additional complaints. "The Apocrypha never mentioned this phenomenon, but what's it to you? As long as he can rise anew and pose the threat that we require, this inexplicable paradox should mean nothing to me—nor to you!"

A deep frown had long since wrenched Rex's Caucasian features. His body stirred scarcely, showing that he was uncertain of what to do. Kraven guessed that great predicaments mingled inside the thug's head right now, but the ex-regent decided not to give away any compassion. This was Rex's choice alone.

"So," Kraven continued, hearing the thunder bawling fiercely in the distance. "Are you in, or are you out?" A couple of glacial-blue eyes glared at the thug, who returned the relentless stare. Thunder roared and lightning emitted brief flashes as the two vampires were locking horns.

A prolonged growl greeted Kraven, who wondered where it came from—the menacing overcast or Rex's throat? He suddenly realized this conflict in which he participated could result in a most inopportune death. His death. There was no way his strength surpassed Rex's, so if a fight were to occur, the thug's victory would be a mere matter of course. Nonetheless, Kraven vowed that he would unleash one hell of a climax before his fall.

But to his surprise and relief, Rex took a step backward and leveled an indicative hand at the coffin. "Okay," he said grimly. "Do it."

Still shocked by the unpredictable outcome that had come like a bombshell, Kraven bide his time, but eventually nodded in comprehension. Then, slowly striding over to where the coffin and the hibernating man lay secluded, he pulled up the sleeves of his black shirt, disclosing his bare hands. Hesitating slightly, he sensed Rex's cold and adamant stare gazing at him. But not two seconds later, he managed to regain his composure. Pull yourself together! he scolded himself. This needs to be done. And whatever happens to the others, you for one know your future regardless. Your future is sealed—finalized!

Raising his right arm to his mouth, Kraven let his fangs dig deeply into his own flesh. The taste of his own blood, making his mouth water, awoke the vampire inside him. He stared at his severe wound and the crimson blood that gushed out of it. Placing his injured hand right above the man's mouth, he used the other hand to part the dormant jaws. Spewing blood drooped from Kraven's gash until gravity finally managed to yank it into the stranger's mouth. While the blood dribbled, Kraven spotted four elongated fangs, which clearly exceeded the conventional length of human teeth. He grinned craftily at the sight.

The trifle of hesitation that had hindered him not long ago quickly evaporated, and now sureness had substituted. This is meant to happen! he thought deliriously, looking up at the night sky. My deepest of desires are about to become realized!

Just then, clawed fingers of behemothic strength, surpassing the swiftness of lightning, crushed Kraven's dreams as they violently clutched about his jugular. Gritting his teeth in agony, the ex-regent caught hold of the hand that threatened to squeeze the life out of him. He desperately tried to release himself from the tight grip, but he was unable to compete against the unbending force of the Arcanum. Glancing downward while the anguish intensified inside of him, Kraven watched in horror at a face that was completely calm, with the exception of two all-consuming eyes—jet-black—that nearly pierced his soul.

"Kraven!" Rex shouted behind him. Picking up the shovel next to himself, he ran over to the coffin, and with all his preternatural power, the thug cocked the tool before swinging it at the enemy.

The bash did not precede the crazed stranger's agility, however. Impeding the assailment by grabbing the hilt of the spade, the man released the deathly grip around Kraven's neck and instead began focusing on Rex, who could do nothing.

Coughing loudly, Kraven could scantily witness the horrendous sight of cold blood spurting in every direction, followed by Rex's gory carcass as it toppled to the muddy ground with a thud.

W—what on Earth …? Kraven thought, aghast. His mind was not yet aware of his companion's abrupt decease. Looking up in horrification, he saw the imposing man who was eyeing him in a pitiless manner. God, his aspects were even more imperious than Lord Viktor's!

With a steady gait, the menacing man approached Kraven, who instinctively began to back away. "No, don't! I promise!" the ex-regent croaked in panic. "I promise I won't stop your cause!"

Thunderbolts ravaged about the cavity as the rain started cascading upon everyone and everything in the vicinity—including the ivory tablet, which lay completely abandoned in the soil. Wet dirt and fresh blood covered the Latin writings, rendering them undecipherable, but nothing could preclude the elaborate A—thoroughly engraved into the off-white—from exposing itself to the oblivious world.

Hours had passed as the group of four immortals—Selene, Michael, Mason, and Jakob—descended deeper into the tunnels beneath the capitol of Hungary, stillen routeto the hideout. Once secret storage rooms for the Russians, these places had been forgotten after the Soviet suppression. Old supplies, abandoned when Budapest got back its independence, lay scattered all over, something the small denizens living in the sewers seemed to appreciate greatly; incessant peeps and chirps sounded everywhere, but as the four moved through the passageways, Selene could not find a single one of those pesky, little rats.

Deciding to neglect the vexing brats, she found herself considering the lycan—Jakob—who was trudging beside her. His appearance was as nonchalant as it had been ever since Michael and she had happened upon him. In point of fact, as unpleasant as it was, neither Mason nor Jakob had said much since the encounter. And Michael was also being unusually silent.

Selene sighed. I guess I'm the one that has to break the ice. Once again, she took notice of the pendant that clung to Jakob's neck. Now that she was considerably closer than last time, she could read the single letter closed in by the round, dull metal piece. Although the query was beyond all reason, Selene could not resist asking it:

"You knew Amelia?"

Startled at her sudden question, Jakob cocked his eyebrows in surprise. "Amelia?"

"The dead Elder."

The lycan, seemingly disliking eye contact, turned his head and looked ahead of himself again. "I have heard her name plenty, and I know whom she was, but I have not seen her in person, no." He brushed away the locks from his face. "Now why do you ask such a question?"

Adrenaline pumping inside her, Selene realized this was the very first conversation she had had with a lycan—ever. Of course, she had pried out information of lycan subjects of interrogation, and she had talked to Michael before, as well. But notwithstanding, this was a bit different. Having nearly bumped into him during one of her numerous hunting missions, Selene had met Michael when he still had been a human. Trust had grown between them before the American was hurled into the clandestine strife.

"Well, your medallion," she nodded indicatively toward Jakob's chest. "It says A."

Grabbing the insignia, the lycan looked at it attentively. "Oh, that. It is not an abbreviation for Amelia, if that was what you were thinking."

"Then what does it mean?"

"It is simply the initial of my father's first name."

"And who's your father?" Selene, asking all these questions, felt almost like one of those annoying human reporters, who simply would not back off. But leaving that aside, she still somehow knew that this knowledge would be of great importance to her.

Jakob, falling silent, appeared to hesitate a bit, but he finally brought forth the hair-raising words:

"Alexander Corvinus."

Author's note: Well then, it seems that the origin itself never really died (I wonder, did anyone get that before I revealed it?). Hopefully, everyone understood this little cliffhanger—for both your and my own sake. Anyway, this was the last chapter of Seperation, the first part of a total of three. Now, a three-sided war will continue to rage on in the second part, Unification, which will then be followed by the part that will bring everything to a conclusion, namely Devastation. I don't know when I will be starting on the second part, but I believe it won't take that much time. But before I begin on the next, though, I'll check on the chapters that I've already written—just for the purpose of revising some parts. Nonetheless, I hope the promise of future plot twists tempts you to continue reading my story. And if you, for some weird reason, actually want more of this, then please say so in a review. I promise you, it will unquestionably incite me to write more—and faster.