Consciousness returned to Alexandrov with the painful slowness of thawing ice. His senses stirred gradually, each one awakening with a quiet ache that reminded him of how long he had been absent from the world. Cold earth cradled his face, damp and soft beneath his cheek. The scent of decaying leaves surrounded him—earthy, pungent, and deeply grounding—a stark contrast to the sterile void of his long sleep.
The chill pierced him deeply, settling into his bones with an eerie familiarity. Yet it wasn't unwelcome. It felt like the touch of a memory, a whisper from a life long gone by before.
His eyes, gray-blue like the storm-washed sea at twilight, opened slowly. Blurred green shapes resolved into a canopy of dense foliage above. Ancient trees arched overhead, their twisted branches veiled in thick mist, like skeletal fingers reaching through fog. He lay among fallen leaves, damp soil clinging to skin that felt foreign—smooth, cool, and strangely embellished.
A faint tingling across his skin drew his hand to his face. There, his fingertips traced small, embedded diamonds, cool and gleaming. They were no decoration. They pulsed faintly, synchronized with the slow, deliberate rhythm of his undead heart. Each glint of light told a story—of opulence, of ancient bloodlines, of a world where beauty masked power.
The forest around him breathed. Towering trunks stood like sentinels, draped in moss, their leafy canopy filtering the sunlight into a soft, green glow. The air was heavy with moisture, carrying not just the scent of earth, but a whisper of something floral—light, sweet, and oddly familiar. A memory tugged at him, just out of reach.
As his senses sharpened, he felt the life around him. The flutter of small creatures in the underbrush. The hum of insects. The distant trickle of water. He could taste the minerals in the air, the faint metallic hint of his own blood.
Pushing himself upright, Alexandrov moved slowly, with the caution of someone rediscovering the world. His body, honed through centuries, was powerful but stiff. Muscles rippled beneath pale, flawless skin. Every motion felt deliberate, like a dance he was relearning after too long.
Nearby, a stream glimmered through the trees. He moved toward it, crouched at the bank, and dipped his hands into the icy flow. The water stung with a cold but it revived him. He drank deeply, then paused, staring at his reflection.
A man stared back—striking, ageless, unearthly. High cheekbones, pale skin glistening with embedded jewels, and those eyes: ancient, knowing, and quietly haunted. He barely recognized himself.
Then it came—a scent. Lavender, soft and calming. And cherries, ripe and sweet. The blend was irresistible, like a memory given form. He rose, drawn by instinct more than thought. It tugged at something inside him—a longing he hadn't felt in lifetimes.
He moved through the forest like a shadow, silent and smooth. Each step brought the scent closer, wrapping around him like silk. His heartbeat quickened, an ancient rhythm reawakened. His mind whispered a name.
And then he saw her.
She stood in a clearing bathed in light. Blonde hair shimmered in the sun, cascading down her back like spun gold. Her eyes, blue-green and vivid, locked with his. She was poised, still, as though she had always belonged to this forest.
The scent intensified.
Everything else vanished—the mist, the silence, the centuries. All that remained was her.
Alexandrov knew without question. She was the one. The reason for his return. The bond they shared defied logic, it defied time. She wasn't just a stranger. She was the missing part of him. His soulmate.
And no matter what the cost, he would find her again.
He would find Amalia.