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| Daimon Thursday, Tertium 25th, 1332 (AG)—Aegisguard, Dor-Sanguis, The Caederian Temple |

It was cold. Silence ensnared the darkness that Daimon opened his eyes to find himself in. And something was wrong. Everything felt wrong. His body ached as if fire was burning through his veins, and he felt...empty. Alone. Like a huge part of him had been pried from his very soul, torn away so reluctantly that he still felt the gaping wounds left by his beast's claws.

His attempts to move filled the silence with the sound of scraping metal, the sound reverberating off nearby walls. And that smell—a conflicting mixture of demons, lycans, vampires...and humans. While he was glad that at least two of his senses still worked, the fact that he couldn't feel his wolf made him panic. If it weren't for the chains that were clearly wrapped around him not burning or melting his skin, he'd assume that his wolf was silent because of silver or vendite. But whatever metal was binding him wasn't something he knew the sensation of.

He turned his head left and right, hoping to find something in the dark, a small flicker of light or any evidence at all of where he was. And when that failed, he tried focusing on locating Jackson, but his mate's aura was too far out of reach—whatever was binding him, keeping him lying on his back taking deep, panicked breaths refused to let him use any ethos at all.

So he went with his last option. "Jackson?!" he called out.

There was no reply. Not a verbal one.

His own body responded to his call with a stabbing pain in his gut. Twisting, churning, rumbling. He was suddenly hungry, starving. His panic and confusion were abruptly replaced by a deep, desperate hunger, but it wasn't for what he usually ate. He wasn't craving caribou or deer or hares.

He wanted blood.

Blood?

No...he didn't want blood.

Wolf walkers never craved blood—the only time they did was on their first ever shift, the night when it was determined whether they became a wolf walker or a werewolf. But Daimon had first shifted over a decade ago; he couldn't be going through it again.

Unless...this was some sort of dream. A memory. Was he in a coma again? Or...was he dead? He remembered what happened at the lab...with Tokala, with Jackson. Had the phantom's bite killed him? Was this what awaited wolf walkers after death? Chained down in darkness, awaiting their fate. Would he join his ancestors, or...no. What if the phantom's bite had turned him? What if these chains were keeping him trapped inside the undead monster that now controlled his body?

He tried pulling free, but no amount of strength weakened his shackles. The metal ensnared him like bitter, jagged snakes, reminding him with each tug and writhe that he wasn't going anywhere. There was no fighting this.

But then he heard something.

A shuffle.

A voice.

The collision of something heavy hitting a hard floor.

And a new smell. Pharmaceuticals clashing with a sweet cologne.

Someone was nearby.

"Hello?!" he demanded, turning his head left and right again.

More voices.

He couldn't decipher any words that he understood, nor did he recognize any person, but he could determine that there were six men and three women. Who were they, where were they, and what did they want with him?

A door creaked open, but no light flooded into the place where Daimon lay.

And when silence ensnared him once more, the desperation for blood struck him like a bullet. His racing heart thumped so hard that his chest hurt; his body trembled, and he writhed violently in an attempt to escape as the hunger quickly intensified. It urged him to break free, it demanded that he found what it wanted—it insisted so ferociously that it convinced Daimon to gnaw at his own limbs like a trapped fox. And if he could reach his limbs, he might very well start chewing.

The distorted, echoing voice of a man snatched his attention. Daimon couldn't understand him, but that didn't matter. Someone was there, and he sorely hoped that meant he wasn't dead...or worse.

"Jackson?" the Alpha asked, looking around as best he could.

A distorted response followed.

Before Daimon could try to respond, something cold and sharp cut deep into his arm. He gritted his teeth, attempting to pull his arm away, and then a freezing rush electrified through him, flooding his shivering body. The strange feeling aggravated him, and anger just as intense as his desire for blood erupted inside him. He wanted to lunge, he wanted to grab and slash and gnaw and devour.

He wanted to kill.

He wanted to...tear.

He wanted...to...find Jackson.

The bitterness spreading through his veins withered, his cold body began warming, and his trembles and shakes calmed. And so did his thoughts. His desires. The desperate hunger was gone, the craving of violence departed, and he was left once again with worry and confusion.

And the darkness...it ever so slowly lightened.

As soon as he could see, Daimon frantically searched around him. The walls were white, black windows clung to the left and right, and a huge, round light filled with bulbs hovered above where the Alpha lay.

"Daimon?" came one of the male voices.

Relieved to hear actual words, Daimon turned his head towards the voice, and he set his eyes on Doctor Sinclair.

In his hand, the blonde doctor held an empty syringe, and beside him, lain out on a metal tray were several other syringes, all filled with a strange purple liquid; black streaks slithered around inside like ethos inside a crystal.

"Nod if you can understand me," Sinclair said.

Daimon wanted to nod, but his small window of relief was over. The anger returned, the hunger grasped him, and as the primal need for blood ensnared every inch of his being, he began writhing around again.

"Candidate one, unsuccessful," the doctor said.

The sound of a pen scratching against paper scraped at Daimon's eardrums. He gritted his teeth and tugged on his restraints, but when the darkness suddenly stole his vision once more, panic burst through his fury.

But again, what he now knew was a cold needle cut into his skin, and the cold rush surged through him, lifting the darkness and his frustration in a matter of moments.

"Can you understand me?" Doctor Sinclair asked him.

This time, it was pain that kept the Alpha from responding. Burning agony raged through his body, forcing him to cry out as he thrashed and convulsed. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and when crimson stole his vision, frantic, desperate voices echoed around him.

Another needle pierced his skin.

His thumping heart calmed, the burning coursing through him yielded, and when he granted his sight, he saw two other doctors standing beside Sinclair. They all looked horrified, and when Daimon managed to look down at what he could see of himself, he saw all the black blood staining his skin.

"Candidate two, unsuccessful. Note, serum rapidly progressed deterioration. Able to reverse effects with Emundo A," Doctor Sinclair said.

Daimon had no idea what they were doing to him, and he couldn't ask. When he tried to speak, he spat blood from his mouth, startling the surrounding doctors.

"Administering candidate three," Sinclair said.

The Alpha watched as Sinclair eased another needle into his arm, injecting the purple-black concoction into his body. He expected fire, pain, or devastating urges, but as he felt the coldness spread through him, he felt...lightheaded. Weightless. Euphoric. It was like he'd rolled around in aurora fern and glaciervine.

As his body relaxed, a relieved sigh calmed Daimon's racing heart and frantic breaths. His senses started coming back to him; he could hear Idina, Caedis, and the Zenith's voices coming through the black window on the right. And he could feel Jackson—finally. His mate wasn't very far away at all and knowing that filled him with eagerness to get to him. But whatever Sinclair had injected him with also kept him very still. He couldn't turn his head, and he failed to move his limbs.

"Daimon?" Doctor Sinclair asked, looking down at him.

He stared up into the man's blue eyes.

"Can you understand me? Blink twice if you can."

His eyelids seemed to be the only thing that listened to his command. Daimon blinked twice as the doctor ordered, and when a relieved expression replaced Sinclair's concerned one, the Alpha wondered if he'd finally get some answers.

But knowing where he was and what Sinclair was doing to him wasn't his biggest concern. Inside, he still felt empty, alone, and abandoned.

His wolf....

It was gone.

His heart raced frantically and so abruptly that it hurt. Panic devoured Daimon with one gulp, plunging him into despair.

"You're okay," Doctor Sinclair insisted as one of the other doctors placed his hands on the Alpha's shoulders. "Candidate three, successful," he then said, looking to his left. And when he looked down at Daimon again, he adorned an assuring expression. "We reversed the Forsaken transformation. Your body has been under a lot of stress, so you need to remain calm so that you can recover."

Calm? How the fuck was he supposed to be calm when the part of him that made him who he was was gone?! He gritted his teeth, and he tried to speak, but only struggled grunts came from his mouth.

"Can we get some dimittus over here?" Sinclair called.

A few moments later, a nurse handed him a syringe filled with something beige.

Sinclair injected it, and in a matter of seconds, Daimon found it much easier to breathe, and he could finally speak words.

"W-what...the hell are you doing to me?" the Alpha growled.

"You were bitten by the phantom," Doctor Sinclair told him.

Daimon frowned. "You...found the cure?"

"Not exactly, no. After the phantom bit you, Jackson attempted to save you by giving you his blood and venom. When a demon gives those two things to a human, the humans become Neophytes—human-turned demons. But when a demon attempts this on another Caeleste, the victim becomes a Forsaken, a mindless, ghoul-like monster that lives only to destroy and kill everything and everyone in its path. I managed to reverse the Forsaken transformation using the traces of demon blood in your body."

"Where's my wolf?!" Daimon demanded, panic breaking through the euphoria. "Why can't I feel my—"

"Calm," Sinclair insisted. "Everything's going to be fine. Now that the transformation has stopped, and once your body is well-rested enough to go through it, Caedis will remove the Forsaken blood and ethos from your system."

"My wolf," he huffed.

"After Caedis has removed the Forsaken blood and ethos, which is supressing your wolf, your proselytus will be able to heal, and your wolf will return," the doctor explained calmly. "Do you understand?"

"How long?" Daimon questioned impatiently, frustration accompanying his worry.

"You need at least a few hours' rest, and then Caedis will get to work. After he's done, I can't imagine your wolf waking more than a day to leave its dormancy."

Daimon exhaled deeply and glared up at the ceiling.

"There is another matter that needs to be discussed," Sinclair then said. "Jackson turning you into a Forsaken saved you from the cadejo virus, and we need to work out and understand why. We're going to need samples of your blood and ethos—"

"When do I get out of here?" the Alpha interjected. He could feel Jackson nearby, and he wanted to go to him.

"Once Caedis has finished the cleansing process. After that, though, expect to have a guard or two around at all times. We don't want to risk the cadejo virus suddenly deciding to turn you."

Daimon frowned. "I'm still infected? I thought you said—"

"Not infected, just...carrying," the doctor said, looking a little unsure.

That made Daimon feel sick, and horror struck him when he realized— "If it was Jackson who stopped me from turning, then wouldn't removing his blood and ethos from me let the virus continue spreading?"

Sinclair sighed deeply. "We were going to get to that, yes. At the moment, the virus is latent. We're not sure whether it will stay that way once we remove the Forsaken blood and ethos, so you're going to have to decide if you want to take the risk. We can either go ahead with removing the blood and ethos and hope that the cadejo virus doesn't reactivate, or we can leave you as you are. The Forsaken blood and ethos won't turn you, but it will keep suppressing your wolf. You'd basically be human."

The idea of being human made Daimon want to throw up. He'd rather die a wolf than live as one of them. "I'll take the risk," he grunted.

"Are you certain? If the virus reactivates, there won't be anything we can do. We don't yet have a cure. I'd recommend the latter; at least that way, you'll be alive and well when we have a vaccine."

Daimon tried to shake his head, but it barely moved.

Doctor Sinclair sighed. "I think that you should at least discuss this with your mate first, and your pack. You need to rest for a few hours, so that's plenty of time."

He wanted to insist. His wolf was his soul, his very being—it was him. He wouldn't live without it. He couldn't. But as much as he hated to admit it, Sinclair was right. He had to consider Jackson, and he had to consider his pack. Rushing into a decision that might turn him into a cadejo without them even knowing would be selfish and despicable of him.

And he thought about it for a moment. If it came to it...would he live his life as a powerless human for Jackson's sake? Could he live useless and weak if the man he loved asked him to?

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