The Vampire Council did not knock.
They descended.
At dawn, the school bell did not ring. Instead, the sky turned gray as a fleet of black carriages—horse-drawn despite the century—arrived in eerie silence. Crows flew in neat spirals above them. The air warped.
Inside the headmistress's office, Alexandrov stood tall, hands behind his back, flanked by Lady Sylvane and James Hapsburg.
Across from them sat three robed figures cloaked in red waxed velvet—The Crimson Tribunal, rarely awakened, and never for "teenage love."
Except this wasn't just love.
"You bonded," the middle figure said. No name. No face. Just a flat, ancient voice like wind through a crypt. "Without our sanction."
Alexandrov's jaw clenched. "It wasn't deliberate."
"It never is," the left one rasped.
"But her line is forbidden," the right one said. "Cursed. You knew this."
"I protected her."
"You've endangered us all."
James stepped forward. "He saved her. From a rogue werewolf attack and a spell that would've—"
"You will speak when addressed, child."
A whip of pressure silenced the room. The candles went out. The walls wept red.
Alexandrov's mind burned with one thought: They're afraid of her.
They weren't angry about a romance.
They were terrified that the Soulbinder's line was awakening. That Amalia's blood would unlock the Ash Gate—a dimensional tear sealed in the 1600s after a war no one survived.
"Bring the girl," said the center judge.
Alexandrov's fangs ached.
"No."
The ground shook.
"Then we strip your title. Your legacy. Your claim to the heir seat."
Sylvane gasped. James swore under his breath.
But Alexandrov didn't move.
He looked them in the eye and said:
"Then do it."
Amalia didn't sleep after the vision.
She wandered the school in a haze, whispering Latin under her breath, avoiding mirrors that flickered and refused to reflect her.
Her skin felt like it didn't fit.
Her veins were warm. Like something was moving inside them.
When she passed the school chapel, the doors flew open.
Inside, an altar stone cracked.
Blood seeped through the floorboards.
She dropped to her knees, gripping her head. "Not now. Please—not yet!"
But her words were smoke. And her shadow on the floor? It wasn't hers.
It was taller, and its eyes glowed red.
James found Alexandrov outside the Tribunal chamber, pacing, hands bloody from punching a stone column.
"They're going to come for her."
"I know."
"They'll mark her for purification."
"I said I know."
James exhaled. "Then we run. We get her out. Burn the records. Call in our debts."
Alexandrov shook his head. "No. That's what Charlotte wants."
James froze. "Wait... You think Charlotte triggered the bond?"
Alexandrov looked up, and for the first time since they were children, he looked afraid.
"I think Charlotte knew what Amalia was before I did. I think she's been using Bruno. And I think… whatever she summoned? It's feeding off Amalia now."
James cursed. "That's why she hasn't slept. Her aura's off."
"She's unraveling," Alexandrov whispered. "And if I leave her now... the curse wins."
Charlotte Gunner stepped onto sacred ground without flinching.
She entered the student catacombs under the west wing, where student ashes were kept in crystal urns. She trailed her fingers along the names—names she'd offered.
"Winter. Hapsburg. Gunner. Zoltar. So many precious, ancient families."
A smile curled on her lips.
She stopped in front of a black urn marked:
Ysolde Winter – Sealed by Blood Oath
Charlotte placed her palm on it.
Her magic pulsed red.
"I unbind you," she whispered.
The urn cracked.
And deep below the catacombs, a pair of long-dead eyes opened.
Amalia was in the shower, scalding water running over her shaking form, when her mark activated.
A ring of crimson light flared around her heart, revealing the ancient sigil beneath her collarbone.
Runes she'd never learned. But she knew what they said:
"Bearer of the Gate. Binder of Lost Things. Daughter of Ruin."
A voice echoed in her skull.
Not Alexandrov's.
Not hers.
"Blood remembers, child. And blood returns."
Suddenly, her mirror shattered.
And in its broken shards, Charlotte's face smiled back.
The next scene: a blur of violence.
James and Alexandrov barreled down the hallway, responding to Amalia's scream. They found her curled in the center of a broken room, walls scorched, windows exploded outward. Her eyes were white-hot, crackling with magic.
The bed floated off the ground.
Her breath came out in gusts that shook the floorboards.
"Amalia!" Alexandrov called, stepping through the burning debris. "It's me."
Her gaze snapped to him. She looked feral.
"I can't stop it," she sobbed. "She's in my head."
James raised a protection ward. "She's being possessed. We need a binding circle!"
"No!" Alexandrov shouted. "She's not a monster."
But Amalia screamed—and the sound split the hallway open.
Crimson sigils burned into the floor.
Ash drifted upward.
And behind her, for just a second, a second form flickered. A woman in white. Eyes of fire. Voice of hell.
"The Gate is open."
Then she collapsed.
They brought her to the chapel.
Wrapped her in runes. Sang the old songs to calm her magic.
She slept.
But when she finally opened her eyes, Alexandrov was there.
Alone.
Guarding her like a knight of old.
She reached for him, voice raw. "Did I hurt anyone?"
"No," he lied. "You scared them. But no one hurt you back."
She looked away. "They will."
"I won't let them."
"You'll have to choose me over the Council."
"I already did."
Her eyes filled.
"And if I become her?"
He took her face in both hands. "Then I'll follow you into the abyss."
She kissed him.
Not sweet.
Not soft.
But like someone who knew the clock was ticking.
And maybe the next time she opened her eyes, she wouldn't be the one inside them.