The halls of Blackridge Academy whispered secrets.
Under the veil of midnight, the school transformed. Shadows thickened, stretching across the marble like spilled ink, and the chandeliers above flickered as if hesitant to stay lit. Alexandrov moved soundlessly through the corridors, his coat brushing against the stone like a trailing specter.
In his hand, a folded note.
The paper was smooth, but his fingers clenched it tightly as though afraid it might disappear. The handwriting was delicate, barely a whisper of ink. No signature. Just a single sentence.
"Below the library. Where the dust remembers."
And the scent — unmistakable.
Lilacs.
Amalia.
The one person still felt real in a world quickly slipping into lies and betrayal.
He reached the grand double doors of the library and pushed them open. They groaned like ancient bones. Inside, everything was still. Books lined the walls like silent judges, their titles faded with time. The moonlight filtered through the high windows, casting lattice shadows over the floors.
Alexandrov exhaled through his nose, eyes scanning every detail. Nothing here was by chance. Every book, every shelf, every stone had watched over generations of secrets.
He walked to the hearth — cold, blackened, unused.
Yet the breeze whispered again. Cool. Slightly damp. Carrying the scent of stone and forgotten time.
He knelt, brushing a hand along the mantle, and found a groove between the bricks. Old mechanisms groaned as he pressed inward. With a low rumble, part of the wall retracted, revealing a narrow stairwell descending into pitch-black darkness.
Below the library…
His breath slowed.
Alexandrov stepped into the dark.
The air was thick. Heavy. Time hung here like cobwebs. As he descended, the temperature dropped sharply. No light penetrated these depths. Only his enhanced vision allowed him to see.
Walls carved with glyphs lined the stairwell. Some vampires some older. Older than even the council dared to speak of.
He reached the bottom.
A stone corridor led to a vast chamber, circular, with crumbling columns and a cracked altar at its center. Chains, rusted with age, hung from hooks embedded in the platform.
The scent of blood lived here. Not fresh. Ancient. Dried. Distant echoes of sacrifice.
He stepped inside.
Silence.
Then—
Snap.
Movement.
The sound was small, but his instincts roared. He spun, eyes glowing crimson, just in time to duck beneath a slashing claw. A figure lunged at him — furred, snarling, eyes yellow with fury.
A werewolf.
Young. Sloppy. No finesse. A scout, probably no older than sixteen.
He moved to intercept, grabbing the beast mid-air and slamming it to the ground. The floor cracked beneath the impact. Another wolf came from the left — faster. Smarter.
Claws raked across Alexandrov's back.
He winced. Blood soaked through his shirt, but the pain grounded him. Centered him.
The third wolf hesitated at the edge of the shadows, assessing.
So they weren't just here for a fight. They were watching.
Studying me?
"This is what they sent?" Alexandrov muttered. "Children?"
The first wolf recovered, growled, and charged again. Alexandrov sidestepped, grabbed its arm mid-strike, and twisted. Bones snapped. The wolf shrieked.
He shoved it away, fangs glinting.
"Tell your master to stop wasting my time."
The second wolf lunged again. Faster this time. But Alexandrov had already anticipated. He met the beast mid-leap and drove it backward into a stone pillar. Dust exploded from the impact.
A growl built in Alexandrov's throat — not of rage, but something deeper. Older.
His aura pulsed, dark and suffocating. The entire chamber responded, groaning like it recognized him.
The third wolf whimpered, backing away. Its fur bristled. It looked ready to bolt.
Then, Alexandrov spoke.
"I was trying to be merciful."
His fangs extended. His pupils narrowed. The red in his eyes brightened to a savage glow.
"But you've made me remember."
Flash.
A memory struck him.
Blood. Fire. The halls of his old home burning. Screams. His kin slaughtered. Charlotte's voice, whispering promises — false ones — just before she vanished with the witches.
He blinked, rage swelling.
The wolves came again, desperate and wild. Alexandrov exploded into motion. His fists blurred. Bones crunched. A jaw dislocated. One wolf yelped as Alexandrov flipped it across the chamber, slamming it into a wall with a thunderous crack.
He panted. Not from exhaustion, but from restraint.
He stood over the final wolf, shaking, blood dripping from his fingers. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Kill them.
The voice inside hissed. Old. Primal. The Firstblood in his veins calling for dominion.
But something else fought it.
Another voice. Softer.
Don't lose yourself, Alex…
Amalia.
Her scent was still in the note. Still in the folds of his coat. It wrapped around him like a tether.
He stood motionless.
Three werewolves lay broken around him — battered, bloodied, but alive.
He could end them. Leave a warning. Paint the stone red.
But he didn't.
He turned.
That's when he saw it.
Burned into the far wall, above the altar. Words written in scorched black ash:
"Even gods bleed, Alex.— C."
Charlotte.
His jaw was clenched. The chamber seemed to tilt. His vision narrowed to that single message.
She had been here.
She knew.
This place wasn't random. It was sacred. Forgotten to most vampires — but not to her. She had come here, marked it with her poison, and mocked him in the same breath.
Rage surged again.
But beneath it… grief.
They'd shared centuries. Secrets. Love, or so he'd thought. She'd kissed him in firelight. Held him in the ruins. Lied to him with eyes wide and honest.
Now, she left ash in her wake.
He stared at the message, heart pounding.
"Even gods bleed."
"Then let them drown in it," he whispered.
His voice didn't echo. It simply settled, heavy in the room, as if the chamber accepted the oath.
He turned to leave — but stopped.
A mark on the altar caught his eye. Carved freshly. Not vampire script.
Witch sigils.
And beneath them… wolf claw marks.
His expression darkened.
They're working together.
Charlotte. The wolves. The witches. This wasn't just a betrayal. It was a coalition. And he was the war they were preparing for.
As he walked up the stairs, one thought echoed louder than the rest:
They think I've bled already. Let's show them what it means when I stop holding back.