Rain slid over the black hood of the Porsche 911 Turbo as it growled up the driveway of Saint Laurentius Academy. The full moon glinted across the windshield, casting pale light on the polished onyx paint. Inside, Alexandrov Limonhus sat behind the wheel, still as a statue.
He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and a blood-red tie. His green-blue eyes gleamed like gemstones in the dark, reflecting the crimson dashboard lights. His short-shaved hair was damp with the night's mist, and the scent of rain stirred something ancient within him.
The gates groaned closed behind him. This was his new beginning—or the next chapter in a long, cursed book. He didn't blink as the looming Gothic building rose before him, its iron spires piercing the sky like a crown of thorns.
Saint Laurentius Academy.
Where humans pretended to be safe.
Alexandrov stepped out of the car. Brown leather seats sighed as he left them behind. He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket with precise fingers—more like a hitman than a student. No luggage. No smile. Just a single black duffel that carried nothing a mortal would recognize.
Students on the lawn paused their laughter. Conversations died as he passed. His presence was gravity, and they orbited him unconsciously—some drawn in, others repelled.
He didn't care.
The wind carried dozens of scents. Perfume, sweat, ink, sugar. But none of that mattered. Not yet.
"You're late," said a tall young man with dirty-blond hair, standing under the stone arch of the main entrance. His voice had the tone of someone used to being obeyed.
Alexandrov didn't stop walking. "I'm always late."
The young man stepped in front of him, blocking the door. "Name?"
He met his gaze, cold and unflinching. "Alexandrov Limonhus."
The name landed like a guillotine.
The boy stepped back immediately, the smirk vanishing. "You're... him."
"Yes."
The door creaked open behind him, though no hand had touched it. Alexandrov walked past without looking back.
Inside, the halls were lined with tall stained-glass windows. Candles flickered in wall sconces, despite the academy's modern wiring. Tradition clung to this place like ivy.
A woman stood at the top of the grand staircase. Sharp black heels. Silk blouse. Clipboard.
"Mr. Limonhus," she said. "Headmaster Thorne will see you briefly before you're shown your quarters."
He nodded once. Her heart was beating too fast. She didn't like being this close to him.
Most humans didn't.
The office smelled like old paper, pipe smoke, and something slightly metallic. Headmaster Thorne was a gray-bearded man with spectacles and eyes too knowing for a mortal.
"I'm aware of your... pedigree," he said, steepling his fingers. "But this academy has rules. Even for the cursed."
Alexandrov gave the faintest smile. "Of course."
Thorne leaned forward. "If there's any trouble—"
"There will be," Alexandrov said softly. "But not from me."
That night, in the top floor of the east tower, Alexandrov sat by the window, watching the stars.
The academy slumbered. But he could hear the secrets stirring beneath the floorboards. Whispers in languages long dead. Shadows shifting across the garden paths.
He let them talk. Let them fear.
Because something had called him here.
And though he didn't yet know her name, he could feel her heartbeat.
Somewhere in the dark.
Waiting.
Earlier that day, long before his arrival, a council of shadows convened beneath the academy's chapel. Hooded figures with crimson seals on their robes murmured in hushed tones.
"He's coming," one said. "The heir."
"He must not be allowed to rise unchecked."
"Eyes will be on him. Even those who dwell beyond the veil."
In a silver bowl, a single drop of blood bloomed in water, forming the outline of Alexandrov's face. Then it vanished.
Back in his new dorm, Alexandrov unpacked methodically. The black duffel contained weapons—not guns, but blades forged in centuries past, laced with silver and nightshade. Charms. Seals. One velvet pouch containing dust from the grave of his grandfather, stolen during his last mission in Venice.
He hung a crucifix upside-down over his mirror, not out of irony, but as a silent warning.
He turned to the window again. The stars pulsed faintly. He saw something move in the garden—a flicker of white cloth, the glint of a silver pendant.
His nostrils flared.
There it was.
The scent that had haunted his dreams for nights.
Not prey.
Something else.
Someone.
And for the first time in a hundred years, Alexandrov's heart quickened.
At that same moment, in a room three floors below, a girl named Amalia Winter turned toward her open window. Her hand rested on her chest, where a strange warmth had bloomed.
She didn't know why.
Only that something—or someone—had arrived.
And the world had just changed.