Episode 115 - Aurelius
When they were still entering the warehouse — the echo of their own footsteps bouncing off the metal and concrete walls, multiplying like sound-shadows — Titus barely turned his head.
"Take me to the clinic."
He didn't say it loudly. He didn't need to.
Jean Delacroix — the leader of the four bodyguards — tilted his head slightly, a dry, precise gesture.
"Yes, sir."
And he began to guide them.
Titus moved forward without adding another word. Sara and Walter followed, adjusting their pace. Behind them, the other three bodyguards closed the formation, watching every shadow, every movement that didn't fit in that makeshift world.
As they approached, the air changed.
It grew denser. More humid. As if the place were exhaling the breath of those barely returning from the other shore.
A mixed smell — disinfectant, dried blood, bodies fighting to keep going — filled every corner.
They entered.
The clinic wasn't elegant. It wasn't even pretty. But it was functional. Improvised medical and biothermal equipment was installed in strategic corners. Monitors blinked, IV bags hung from makeshift hooks, tools aligned with a precision that tried to impose order on recent chaos.
Beds.
Many beds.
Too many.
Men. Women. Children. Elders.
Some bandaged. Others barely covered with blankets that weren't enough for the cold. Some with eyes open, present. Others trapped in a heavy sleep, suspended between life and something darker.
Two long rows of beds stretched along both sides, leaving a narrow aisle in the middle, barely an arm's width.
Titus walked down that aisle.
Slowly.
Each step sounded louder than it should.
As if the whole place had held its breath.
Eyes began to turn toward him.
One by one.
Without hurry.
Silent. Expectant. As if they knew — or sensed — who he was before he himself fully accepted it.
And then…
A voice.
Broken.
From the far end.
"My… king…"
The sound cut through the air like glass shattering on the floor.
It wasn't loud.
But it pierced everything.
Titus stopped dead.
His body tensed. Shoulders, jaw, fingers.
He didn't like it.
None of it.
He felt something squeeze his chest from the inside. Discomfort. Rejection. An almost physical sensation — a spasm — of wanting to step back, of not accepting what he had just heard.
But he didn't step back.
Now, all eyes were on him.
The figure who had spoken began to move among the beds.
A thin shadow. Unsteady. A skeleton wrapped in skin.
He advanced with clumsy, dragging steps, as if every movement were a battle against his own body.
Until he reached him.
And fell.
To his knees.
The dry thud against the floor resonated like a deep heartbeat.
"My king…" his voice trembled, breaking like old fabric — "thank you… thank you for saving us…"
The words dissolved into tears.
"Thank you for saving us…"
He lowered his head.
"I am… I am your humble slave from now on…"
Titus reacted as if someone had stuck a needle into him.
"No."
He moved fast. He bent down and lifted him with both hands, urgently, as if the mere sight of him like that was unbearable.
"No."
His voice came out firmer. More real. More him.
"There are no slaves here."
He held him. He forced him to stand, though the old man's body barely responded, trembling like a branch about to break.
"Here… we are all equal."
And then he saw him clearly.
Up close.
He was pure bone.
Skin stuck to skeleton, as if life had abandoned him decades ago and only the memory of what he'd been remained. Sunken cheeks. Large eyes, bright… but broken. Cracked glass.
A long beard, unkempt, falling in irregular clumps.
His hair…
White.
Not just white.
White as snow.
But not clean, freshly fallen snow. It was a dulled white, worn, as if the years and pain had stolen its shine. Almost silver. Almost unreal.
His body trembled in Titus's hands.
Not from cold.
From exhaustion.
From having survived when he no longer should have.
Titus held him more carefully. He guided him back to the bed with short, slow steps. He helped him sit on the edge.
And he sat down beside him.
At his level.
No distance. No hierarchy. As if they were just two ordinary people in a world that had beaten them both.
Around them…
No one breathed the same.
The duchess's guards, pale, motionless, couldn't believe what they were seeing. They had seen many things. But not that.
The other wounded watched in silence, with a mix of disbelief and something else… something that was beginning to resemble hope. That strange creature that slips through the cracks when one no longer expects anything.
The medical staff had stopped moving. A nurse frozen mid-fold of a gauze. A doctor with a stethoscope in his hand, not raising it to his ears.
No one interrupted.
No one spoke.
The whole place was trapped in that moment.
Titus looked at him.
Up close. Without looking away. With a calmness that wasn't cold, but warm, like a hand on a shoulder.
"What's your name?"
The question came out soft.
Human.
As if everything else — the title, the power, the weight they wanted to place on his shoulders — didn't matter in that instant.
Only him.
Only the man trembling before him.
And the name he still remembered.
Titus didn't look away from the old man.
He was right in front of him. Close enough to see the tremor in his eyelids with each breath, the way the air struggled to get in… and came out worse.
"Your name… old man?"
Low voice. Controlled. Neither hard nor soft.
The old man swallowed. His dry lips moved with effort.
"Aurelios…"
The name came out cracked.
But not weak.
Like something that refused to die.
Titus nodded once.
"Nice to meet you, Aurelios."
He extended his hand.
"My name is Titus."
The old man hesitated.
A second.
His fingers trembled as they rose—bone wrapped in skin, nothing more.
But he responded.
He took the hand.
Around them, silence.
Not normal silence.
The kind that presses against the ears.
All eyes fixed.
No one understood what they were seeing.
No one had seen this before.
From one of the beds, a wolf spoke. Voice hoarse, barely holding together.
"How… did you end up here…?"
Aurelios closed his eyes.
For a moment.
As if he had to cross years… just to answer.
"Sicily…"
The word carried weight.
"I belonged to a clan in Sicily."
Pause.
"I was an alpha."
Something shifted in the room.
An invisible murmur.
"My own people betrayed me."
His fingers tightened over the sheet.
"They attacked me."
"And sent me here."
Another breath.
"They said I was a traitor… to our kind."
Titus watched him without blinking.
"Which clan?"
Aurelios lifted his gaze.
Old eyes.
But not empty.
"Have you heard of the Sicilian mafia?"
Titus frowned slightly.
"That's a myth."
"No."
Immediate. Firm.
"It's real."
Silence.
"And they are all werewolves."
The words fell heavy.
Like stone.
Italy. Bloodlines. Power hidden in plain sight.
Titus didn't speak for a moment.
He processed.
Then—
"So you've seen a lot."
Pause.
"You've lived enough."
He stepped back.
And without warning—
He dropped to one knee.
The sound hit the ground hard.
Echoed.
Sara reacted a second later. She bowed.
Walter followed.
Behind them, the bodyguards lowered their heads. One by one.
The duchess's guards hesitated.
Then did the same.
The entire room bent.
Aurelios' eyes widened.
He couldn't understand.
His breathing broke.
"No… no…" he tried to move, panic rising— "my king, no…"
He tried to kneel.
To return it.
But Titus raised a hand.
Stopped him.
Not above him.
Looking at him.
Equal.
"No."
Firm.
"Stand up."
Pause.
"But not as a slave."
His eyes hardened.
"Stand up as what you always were."
Silence.
"An alpha."
It wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
It was command.
It was truth.
Aurelios trembled.
His hands gripped the edge of the bed.
Muscles that had forgotten…
remembered.
Slowly—
He stood.
His back straightened.
His neck lifted.
And for a second—
He wasn't a broken man.
He was something buried.
Something returning.
His eyes swept the room.
And people felt it.
The shift.
The air tightened.
"Rise…" he said, voice stronger than his body allowed.
Titus stood.
Looked at him.
"They are part of my court."
He gestured.
"Viscount Walter."
Walter stepped forward, a restrained grin pulling at his mouth.
"I'm the viscount."
He extended his hand.
Proud.
Aurelios took it.
Then Titus motioned to Sara.
"Viscountess Sara."
Sara didn't smile.
"I'm Sara."
She shook his hand. Clean. Precise.
No excess.
Titus turned back to Aurelios.
"From now on…"
Pause.
"You will guide us."
"Teach us."
"Show us the way of the wolf."
His voice lowered.
Closer.
"We are new."
"We don't know enough."
"And we need someone like you."
Pause.
"Someone who carries what you carry."
"Experience."
"Wisdom."
"History."
Silence filled the room again.
"You will be our advisor."
The words didn't echo.
They settled.
And in that moment—
The man who had arrived as bone and ruin…
stood again with purpose.
And everyone there knew it.
The Room of Decisions
They headed to a secluded room inside the warehouse.
It wasn't a formal office. It was a space they had taken over and hastily transformed into a conference room. But it had presence. A long table dominated the center, dark, made of heavy wood, with faint marks that spoke of another life. Ten chairs on each side. One at each end. Too many for the three of them… but necessary for what was to come.
The light fell from above, white, cold. But the place didn't feel empty. It felt contained. As if the walls absorbed every word, every silence.
They entered.
The lead bodyguard remained inside, standing, motionless. The other three closed the door and took positions outside.
Titus moved first. He didn't sit at the head. He chose one of the long sides.
Walter dropped into a nearby chair, relaxed, but with bright eyes.
Sara sat across from him. Straight. Perfect.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The echo of the clinic — the groans, the smell of blood and disinfectant — still clung to the back of their necks.
Titus rested his forearms on the table. He looked at both of them.
"What do you think?"
Sara breathed. Her fingers intertwined on the wood.
"I'm happy…" — pause — "but not calm."
She lifted her gaze. Her dark eyes measured invisible distances.
"Too many people. Too fast. I don't know if we can sustain it."
Her voice didn't tremble. But underneath, something moved. Something she herself didn't let out.
Walter let out a small laugh. Dry. Confident.
"I do."
He leaned forward, pulled out the blueprints, spread them on the table like a treasure map.
"Look at this."
His eyes burned.
"I've already started moving everything. In a couple of months…" — he tapped the paper with his fingers — "this will be ready."
He leaned back, smiling.
"Our headquarters."
Titus looked at him. Long. In silence.
And then…
He approached.
Gave him a brief kiss on the forehead.
A small gesture. Almost automatic. But loaded with a gratitude he didn't know how to say with words.
"My God, Walter…"
Walter smiled more. He didn't need more.
"You're going to love it. I've thought of everything."
The atmosphere softened. A little. Just a little.
Titus returned to his place. He looked at both of them. And something in his expression changed. He became naked. More human. More exposed.
"Thank you."
Pause.
"For staying."
His eyes dropped for a second. Then rose again.
"For not leaving me alone in this."
The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was dense. Like a thick liquid filling every corner.
Titus stood up. He walked to Walter. And hugged him.
Hard. Sincere. Without reservation.
Walter responded the same. No jokes. No words. Just arms tightening, bodies acknowledging each other.
Then Titus pulled back.
And walked to Sara.
He hugged her.
Sara didn't move immediately. Her body adjusted to his with millimeter precision. Without awkwardness. Without hesitation. As if she had rehearsed that gesture a thousand times in her head.
Her hands found Titus's. She took them.
His skin was warm. Hers, softer. Warmer.
Sara slowly raised one of her hands. She brought it to her lips.
The contact was light. Warm. Moist.
It wasn't just a gesture of respect.
There was something more. Something deeper. Something that had been growing in the shadows for weeks.
Then she stepped closer. Closed her eyes. And kissed him.
On the lips.
It wasn't a rushed kiss. Nor aggressive. It was contained. Measured. But loaded — loaded with everything she never said aloud.
Sara's lips were soft. There was a faint sweet taste, almost imperceptible. But it was there. Like a promise that didn't dare name itself.
Time didn't stop… but it slowed down. Every fraction of a second stretched, became elastic.
For Titus, it was strange. Not uncomfortable. But not simple either. He felt the warmth. The closeness. The intention. It wasn't just affection. It was loyalty. It was decision. It was surrender… but not submissive. Conscious. Electric.
Inside, Sara was a contained volcano. Every millimeter of her lips against his was both calculation and surrender at the same time. She wasn't kissing on impulse. She was kissing out of conviction. She was marking territory. Not over Titus — over the void between them. Over the line no one dared cross. She crossed it. And she did so with a sweetness that was, at its core, a silent declaration of war against anyone else who might want to occupy that place.
When they separated, Sara didn't lower her gaze. She didn't blush. She didn't hesitate.
"Yes, my lord…"
Her voice was low. Steady. But with a cold edge beneath.
"I will be with you…"
Pause.
"For better or for worse."
Her fingers released Titus's slowly, one by one, as if each separation were a small farewell.
"Let's go."
And in that instant…
What existed between them ceased to be just an alliance.
It became something darker. Deeper. More dangerous.
Because Sara hadn't kissed a king.
She had kissed a man she intended to possess — to protect him, to destroy him, to keep anyone else from doing it.
And that, more than any oath, was the true sanction.