The forest breathed like a living creature.
Thick fog curled low to the ground, pulsing with an unnatural rhythm—like the beat of a heart that had no right to keep beating.
In the middle of a salt circle, Charlotte Gunner knelt with her arms spread wide, eyes rolled back in her head, lips whispering ancient syllables that didn't belong to any living language.
"Venari... Zintharos... Del'morai..."
Each word sparked like fire in the air, curling through the night in smoking tendrils. Her blood, drawn carefully with a silver knife, dripped into a hollowed skull nestled among bones and ash. The rune beneath her feet glowed red-hot.
From the shadows, a wolf watched her. Yellow eyes gleaming.
Not Bruno. Something older.
Charlotte didn't flinch.
"I offer him," she whispered. "Body, mind... and heart."
The wind shifted.
And something smiled in the dark.
Across town, Bruno Murray jolted awake in the infirmary with a snarl, drenched in cold sweat.
His eyes glowed faintly gold.
"I saw her," he rasped. "In the forest. She called my name."
Nurse Sutherland—a vampire in disguise, retired from council duty—sighed and turned off the blood-monitor. "You've been asleep for 18 hours. You're lucky Alexandrov didn't kill you."
Bruno blinked. "Alexandrov..." The name rang like a curse in his throat.
The last thing he remembered was rage.
Not his own.
Something had taken over.
And now his mind was... fractured. Splintered. Leaking memories that didn't belong to him.
He sat up slowly. "Where's Amalia?"
"Resting," Sutherland said. "She's under protection now. Not yours."
His jaw clenched. "You're making a mistake."
"No," she said firmly. "You already did."
Meanwhile, Amalia Winter was in the library basement.
Officially, it was sealed off for maintenance.
Unofficially? It was the only place that still held traces of the old academy—the one from two centuries ago, when it had been a noble house for supernatural diplomacy.
And buried beneath dust and cobwebs, Amalia had found a ledger. Bound in skin. Locked with bone.
But the lock had opened for her.
Inside, the first page bore the Winter family crest.
She flipped carefully—name after name. Generations of her bloodline. But the name that made her stomach drop?
Lady Ysolde Winter. 1799. Human-turned. Cursed Soulbinder. Witch of the Blood Veil.
Her ancestor.
A forbidden blood-witch.
And next to it, scrawled in jagged red ink:
"Banished by the Vampire Council. Cursed to carry ruin in her line. Last known descendant: Amalia Winter."
Alexandrov stood alone in the Stone Garden—an abandoned courtyard behind the school chapel, where centuries of old council executions had left the ground barren.
He could feel the weight of it.
History.
Judgment.
Blood.
He watched his breath fog in the air. Even though it wasn't cold.
A sign.
The curse was waking.
"I should've seen it," he muttered.
James had tried to warn him. Lady Sylvane had ordered him not to get attached.
But Amalia wasn't just a girl anymore.
She was a keystone in a prophecy that predated even his bloodline.
And she didn't know it.
Or worse... she did.
A flutter of wings broke the silence—crows scattered from the trees. Alexandrov turned sharply.
Lady Sylvane stepped out from the shadows in full council regalia—obsidian dress, crimson gloves, her silver cane tapping the stone.
"You've lost control," she said, not unkindly. "And that makes you vulnerable."
Alexandrov narrowed his eyes. "I still have control over what matters."
"Do you?" she said. "Your heartbeat tells me otherwise. So does your scent when you're near her."
He didn't answer.
Sylvane walked closer, the candlelight catching on her fangs.
"The curse is circling her," she said softly. "And through her... you. You must choose, Alexandrov. Your heart or your duty."
His voice was low. Dark. Final.
"I'm not choosing."
Sylvane raised a brow. "Then you've already lost."
Back in her dorm room, Amalia stared at the ceiling.
The word "Soulbinder" echoed over and over in her head. The ledger was hidden beneath her mattress, but the truth was still a weight on her chest.
She remembered her childhood—her mother warning her never to speak of the dreams. Never to draw the symbols she saw in the mirror. Never to go near the woods after sundown.
She thought it was superstition.
But now?
Now, she knew it was heritage.
Something stirred behind her.
She turned—and froze.
Alexandrov stood by her window, silent as a shadow, eyes unreadable.
"You can't be here," she whispered.
"I know."
And yet he didn't move.
"I need answers," he said.
"So do I."
Their gazes locked.
"I found the ledger," she admitted. "My family… it's worse than I thought."
"How bad?"
Amalia swallowed. "My ancestor cursed the vampire council. Bound souls. Opened doors to realms that should never have touched ours."
"Did you inherit it?" he asked.
"I don't know," she breathed. "But the dreams are getting stronger. And now… they're waking me in Latin."
He stepped forward slowly, every movement deliberate.
"Then we're out of time."
She reached out—barely touching his fingers.
"I'm scared, Alex."
His jaw tightened.
"I am too."
Their hands clasped, finally, fingers intertwining.
And in that second, every candle in the room flickered—then extinguished.
The bond between them was no longer dormant.
Charlotte knelt before the smoldering remains of her ritual site.
The ashes began to swirl.
And from them, a voice emerged.
"The bond has awakened. The Soulbinder stirs."
Charlotte's lips curved.
"Then it's time."
She pulled a final object from her pocket—Alexandrov's old signet ring, taken from his room months ago.
She whispered a binding incantation.
And dropped it into the flames.
Down the hall, Alexandrov cried out—clutching his chest, the scar beneath his collarbone glowing.
Amalia caught him, panic rising. "What is it?!"
He couldn't answer.
Because in that moment, he saw it—a vision not from his mind, but hers.
A field of skulls.
A girl in white, standing alone at the center.
Her face was Amalia's. But her eyes weren't.
They glowed with fire.
And she whispered:
"You were never meant to survive me."