The moon bled through stained glass, casting red shadows over Amalia's sleeping face. It was quiet in the chapel—unnaturally so. A kind of stillness that curled into the bones, whispering secrets only the dead would understand.
Alexandrov hadn't moved in hours.
He sat with his back against the cold stone wall, his eyes on her. Watching. Waiting. I listened to every uneven breath she took. Outside, the world shifted, alliances crumbled, and enemies crept closer. But in here—within the sacred space of Thorn Chapel—they were suspended in a moment outside of time.
She stirred. Eyelids fluttered. A soft groan escaped her lips.
"Where are we?"
"Safe. For now."
The Thorn Chapel wasn't part of the main school structure. It was older. Forgotten. It bore the heavy scent of dried blood and burning myrrh—remnants of forgotten rituals. Six elder sigils had been carved into the floor by Alexandrov's hand. Each radiated with silent power, a seal that even the Tribunal could not breach unless invited. And Alexandrov? He'd burned his invitation rights the moment he said no.
Amalia sat up slowly, her breath catching in her throat. Her hand went instinctively to her heart.
"It's getting worse," she whispered. "She's not just whispering anymore. She's inside me. Her memories… they bleed into mine."
Alexandrov crossed the room in a heartbeat, taking her hand in his. Cool, reassuring fingers wrapped around trembling skin.
"We'll find a way," he said. "There's an ancient haven below this chapel. Older than the school. Older than even the Tribunal."
Her eyes widened. "You mean the catacombs you mentioned in the library?"
He nodded. "The ones sealed after the last Gate War. If we can find them, we might uncover truths the Council buried centuries ago."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Then we go."
They moved fast.
James met them by the crypt door. He wore a hooded cloak, the lantern in his hand flickering with mage-fire. His expression was tight.
"You sure about this?" he asked. "This place hasn't been touched in centuries. If we're caught—"
"We won't be," Alexandrov said firmly.
Amalia stepped forward. "I need answers, James. I need to know who I am… what I am."
James cracked a smile. "Then let's go find the bones of truth."
The crypt entrance was hidden behind a stone altar. A small rune, pressed with blood and whispered Latin, opened the way. The heavy slab moved, grinding against ancient mechanisms.
The descent was steep.
They spiraled down a staircase slick with moss and condensation, the smell of damp earth and decay growing stronger. Mural after mural lined the walls, each more grotesque than the last—depictions of vampire martyrs burning at stakes, witches being drained, and monstrous creatures chained beneath moons painted with real silver.
But one mural stopped Amalia dead in her tracks.
A woman in white.
Her hands raised in a desperate plea.
Behind her, a gate split open, unleashing horrors: fire, clawed hands, skies torn in half.
Inscribed beneath the figure:
Ysolde Winter – The Soulbinder. Destroyer of Realms.
Amalia staggered.
"That's my surname."
Alexandrov caught her. "You're her descendant."
She felt her blood throb in her ears. The whispers inside her intensified. Images—visions—flashed behind her eyes. Chains, screams, an ancient gate pulsing with dark light.
They continued down until the stone gave way to walls formed of bones. Skulls watched from empty sockets as they walked. Femurs, ribs, and spines were mortared into the very foundation.
Finally, they entered a massive circular chamber.
At the center stood an altar. Black granite streaked with crimson veins. It pulsed faintly.
A single silver flame burned atop it.
Alexandrov stepped forward. "This is it."
He placed his hand on the altar. The stone responded, glowing brighter. A voice, ancient and disembodied, filled the chamber.
"To bind is to suffer. To awaken is to shatter."
Amalia stepped forward. Her pendant—Alexandrov's gift—rose from her chest, hovering.
The flame twisted violently.
The altar cracked.
Chains shot out from beneath it, latching onto a silver sarcophagus buried within.
James sucked in a breath. "Is that what I think it is?"
"The Gatekeeper's tomb," Alexandrov said. "They didn't kill him. They sealed him."
"He's alive?" Amalia asked.
"No," a voice answered behind them. "But he will be."
They turned.
Charlotte stood at the entrance.
But she was changed.
Her eyes burned red, veins glowing beneath her skin. A staff of polished bone in one hand. Beside her stood Bruno—shirtless, snarling, claws dripping with blood.
"Did you think I wouldn't find you?" Charlotte sneered.
James stepped forward. "Back off, Gunner."
Charlotte ignored him. She looked directly at Amalia.
"Hello, cousin."
The word hit like ice.
"What?" Amalia whispered.
Charlotte grinned. "Didn't they tell you? Our grandmothers were sisters. You and I—we're the last of the Soulbinders. But only one of us was meant to inherit the flame."
She raised her staff.
The chains on the sarcophagus snapped.
The tomb opened.
From within rose a figure. Silver hair. Hollow eyes. Skin like withered parchment. His armor was bone. His presence ancient.
The Gatekeeper.
He opened his mouth and exhaled—not air, but a scream that tore through space and time.
Amalia dropped to her knees, her skull pounding.
Magic surged.
Bruno attacked first.
He lunged at Alexandrov, claws slashing. Alexandrov met him mid-air, fangs bared, the two crashing against the wall in a flurry of movement.
James summoned fire.
It erupted in a wall, shielding Amalia.
Charlotte stepped through it like mist.
"You're still trying to be human," she said bitterly. "Why cling to weakness? We were made to rule."
Amalia stood, swaying.
"I'm not weak," she said. "I choose to feel."
A light burst from her chest.
Her mark glowed—not red, not black.
White.
Blinding.
Charlotte screamed as it struck her, sending her flying into the altar.
The Gatekeeper faltered.
James fell to his knees.
Bruno was unconscious, blood leaking from his mouth.
Alexandrov crawled toward her. "Amalia, stop! It'll burn you out!"
She rose off the ground, eyes now glowing silver.
"I don't need to open the gate," she whispered. "I am the key."
The Gatekeeper roared.
She reached out—and with a gesture, the sarcophagus slammed shut again.
Chains re-formed.
Charlotte vanished in a burst of shadow.
Silence returned.
James groaned, holding his head.
Alexandrov limped toward Amalia.
She floated gently back down. Her skin shimmered with lingering light.
"You… you sealed him again," Alexandrov breathed.
Amalia didn't speak for a moment. Then she said, "No. I didn't just seal him. I bound him. To me."
Alexandrov stared at her in awe and fear.
"That's dangerous."
"I'm dangerous."
He gave a shaky laugh. "Gods help me, I like that."
She leaned into him, kissing him—slow, tender, then fierce.
"Let them come," she murmured. "I'm done running."
And for the first time in centuries, the Gatekeeper's tomb hummed—not with hate, but recognition.