The hallway was too quiet.
Alexandrov stood in the center of it, surrounded by polished linoleum tiles and flickering fluorescent lights, yet he couldn't shake the sense that something was wrong. The school was always noisy between classes—laughter, footsteps, slamming lockers—but now, silence stretched like a noose. He could hear the hum of the lights, the faint buzzing in his ears from heightened senses, and... something else.
Blood.
Not the overwhelming, iron-rich scent of a slaughter—but fresh. Subtle. Barely a whisper on the air. But to him, it might have been a flare lit in the darkness.
His steps were slow and calculated. He followed the faint scent past a row of lockers, his hand brushing one of the dented doors. The metallic chill of it bit into his fingers like a warning.
And then he saw it.
A smudge. No bigger than a fingerprint. Blood streaked across the edge of locker #308. It looked like someone had wiped it away in a hurry, leaving a faint crimson trail that led toward the science wing.
"Third time this week," came a voice behind him.
Alexandrov didn't flinch. He knew that voice—James Hapsburg, ever-loyal, ever-watchful. James stood with his hands tucked into his blazer pockets, his tie half-loose like always, but his eyes were razor-sharp.
"It's escalating," James said quietly, nodding toward the smear. "You think it's Charlotte again?"
"No," Alexandrov murmured, his voice cold and distant. "This isn't her style. She wouldn't be careless."
He meant it. Charlotte, for all her secrets and lies, was meticulous. She wouldn't leave blood out in the open. But that begged the question—who did?
Before James could respond, a voice rang out behind them.
"Mr. Blackthorn. Mr. Hapsburg. Out of class again?"
Both boys turned simultaneously. Mrs. Jennifer Decker stood at the end of the hallway, arms folded over her chest. Her cardigan was a soft shade of lavender, her lips twisted into a pleasant, too-pleasant smile.
Alexandrov stiffened.
There it was again. That smell—wet fur, pine needles, and rotting breath beneath layers of synthetic perfume. A werewolf. Masked, cloaked in glamor, but to him? She was transparent.
"We were just... investigating something strange," James offered, slipping into his usual charm. "Smelled like a gas leak."
Mrs. Decker arched a brow. "How... civic-minded of you." Her eyes moved to Alexandrov. "And what about you? No cryptic poem to recite today? Or are you saving your dramatics for Ms. Winter?"
Alexandrov said nothing. He didn't rise to bait. He simply narrowed his eyes and turned slightly, his senses prickling.
Behind Mrs. Decker, the door to Classroom 2B opened.
And Amalia Winter stepped out.
Alexandrov's chest tightened involuntarily.
She wasn't looking at him—her eyes were downcast, expression unreadable—but in her hands, she clutched something. A delicate square of white linen, embroidered with pale blue flowers.
And soaked through with blood.
A drop fell from its corner and hit the floor with an audible plip.
Mrs. Decker turned just in time to see it.
"My dear, what happened?" she asked, moving toward Amalia in a flash too fast for a regular teacher. She took her gently by the arm, her voice now laced with that sugary concern. "Are you hurt?"
"No," Amalia whispered, her voice small. "It's not mine."
Alexandrov's eyes sharpened. He stepped forward. "Whose is it, then?"
Amalia finally looked up at him. And in her gaze—deep and cool and ancient—he saw something that twisted his gut.
Fear.
And behind that, trust. She was hiding something. But she wanted him to know it.
"There was a fight," she said softly. "Bruno Murray. He attacked one of the junior students. I tried to stop it, but when I got there... it was already over."
Alexandrov clenched his jaw. Bruno again.
"That mutt is out of control," James muttered, stepping closer. "Why isn't anyone reporting him?"
"Because someone," Alexandrov said, his eyes cutting to Mrs. Decker, "is covering for him."
Mrs. Decker's smile didn't falter. "That's a dangerous accusation, Mr. Blackthorn. You really should be more careful what you say."
"I don't deal in caution," he said, stepping between her and Amalia. "I deal in truth."
The tension between them thickened like fog. Mrs. Decker's eyes darkened for just a second—then lightened again, like a mask slipping back into place.
"Very well. You boys need to be somewhere else." She turned on her heel. "Ms. Winter, come with me. I'll take you to the nurse."
But Amalia didn't move.
She took a shaky step backward, placing herself closer to Alexandrov. Her eyes flicked to him again—then downward, subtly, like she was guiding him. Her hand—the one that held the bloody handkerchief—tightened ever so slightly.
She was trying to pass it to him.
He understood instantly.
In one smooth motion, Alexandrov reached out and caught her wrist. Gently. Almost imperceptibly. The handkerchief slipped into his palm, hidden now between their hands as if it were just a brief touch.
A spark passed between them. Electricity. Not the kind that crackles on skin—but the kind that binds souls.
Amalia looked up at him again, and this time, her voice barely moved. Just a breath.
"Please," she whispered. "Don't let him hurt anyone else."
And then she turned, obediently following Mrs. Decker down the hall.
The classroom was empty when Alexandrov entered five minutes later.
James closed the door behind him, locking it with a soft click. Alexandrov unfurled the handkerchief on the teacher's desk, eyes narrowing at the bloodstains.
Not random.
A symbol had been scratched into the fabric. Faint, etched with something sharp. A rune—old, predating even his bloodline.
He didn't recognize it.
But it pulsed with something dark.
"See this?" James said, leaning over. "This isn't just a fight. This is a message. Someone's marking territory."
"Not someone," Alexandrov said darkly. "Something."
James's expression darkened. "You think Bruno's being controlled?"
"Maybe. Or maybe he's part of something bigger." Alexandrov folded the handkerchief again, eyes fixed on it like it might whisper a secret. "Either way, this changes everything."
There was a long silence.
Then James said, "You know she's trying to trust you, right? Amalia. That girl's got eyes like a haunted house, but when she looks at you, it's like she's found a candle."
Alexandrov didn't reply.
But inside, something old and buried stirred. Something that had been cold for centuries… warming.
He hated it.
Because the last time he let someone in, he was betrayed.
And now he was caught in the middle of something ancient and dangerous—again.
He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
He'd protect Amalia.
But first, he'd need to find out what that rune meant.
And why the smell of blood kept following him.