I had a free period between classes—a sliver of unstructured time that I, as always, chose to spend in the one place that offered both silence and solace: the library. As I said, it had become my sanctuary, my second home, a cocoon of ink and dust where the world outside seemed less chaotic.
I sat nestled between tall wooden shelves, poring over a Sociology textbook. The neatly printed words blurred before my eyes, the page crisp beneath my fingers, yet my mind was miles away. The mark. Again, I found myself unable to escape the presence of it—etched into my skin like a phantom echo, pulsing softly beneath my shoulder blade.
Was it just a dream?
No. It felt too real. Too visceral.
Vladamor.
Vampires.
Noctaria.
Soul-binding.
The words replayed in my mind like a haunting lullaby. What I had seen, read, and experienced in that… vision—or whatever it was—clung to me with unnerving persistence. If it were all a dream, then how could I explain the mark? How could something imagined leave such a tangible trace?
Frustration gnawed at me. I slammed the book shut, not loudly enough to cause alarm, but with enough force to release some of the pressure building inside my chest. Closing my eyes, I drew in a deep breath. The library's air was cool, sterile almost, carrying with it the faint scent of old paper and something more ancient, more hidden.
I opened my eyes suddenly, drawn toward a spot at the far end of the room. A shelf—normal in appearance—stood before the wall where, in my vision, a passage had once opened. I approached it with hesitant steps, my heart drumming a steady rhythm of anticipation and dread. I placed my palms on the cold stone behind it, feeling along the surface, searching for a latch, a seam, anything.
Nothing.
The wall was solid, unyielding, sealed tight as though it had never opened. As if the dream were no more than an elaborate fabrication conjured by my desperate subconscious. But I wasn't convinced. No matter how much the world tried to gaslight me, I knew what I saw. I knew what I felt.
Determined to get answers, I cast a glance toward the row of computers nestled on the far side of the library. I couldn't rely on my phone. Information access at Velmora was tightly restricted—our devices filtered and monitored, courtesy of the university's own proprietary electronics. Everything we used—from smartphones to tablets to headphones—was manufactured by the school's exclusive brand. No outside tech was permitted. Even the networks we connected to were isolated, controlled, and surveilled.
I slipped quietly into a seat at one of the library terminals, fingers trembling slightly as I typed my first query: "History of Velmora University."
What came up was disappointingly mundane.
"Velmora University was founded in 1843 by the Velmoran government under the leadership of Gregor Morvain…"
The basics. Sanitized. Predictable. A curated history designed to pacify curiosity. There was no mention of anything peculiar—no legends, no whispers of the supernatural, no anomalies.
I leaned back, sighing in frustration, and typed the next word with more force than necessary: "Noctaria."
No results found.
Not even a recognition of the word. As if it never existed. I clenched my jaw, now irritated.
Next, I typed "Soul-binding." This time, something surfaced.
"Soul-binding is a ritualistic practice said to have originated in the medieval period. It involves joining a fragment of one's soul to another's—a bond formed through intent, power, and fate. The binding does not require physical presence or even temporal proximity; a soul may lie dormant for centuries before merging with another, chosen by the universe's inexplicable design.
Unlike reincarnation, which is a cyclical renewal free from memory, soul-binding is an unnatural tether. It is a deliberate distortion of destiny, chaining souls together for reasons of love, power, revenge, or duty. Once bound, the soul cannot wander freely. It becomes trapped, cursed to remain entwined with another across lifetimes, planes, or realities.
In essence:
Reincarnation releases.
Soul-binding imprisons."
The words struck a chord deep within me. My breath hitched.
Was that what I had seen? Was that what had been done to me?
A slow chill crept down my spine as the pieces started to connect. The inexplicable pull I felt toward Velmora… the mark on my body… the strange familiarity I couldn't explain, especially in the library… Could this all be remnants of a soul-bound past?
Why had I worked so hard to get into Velmora? Prestige? Really? That wasn't enough of a reason. Not now. There was something deeper pulling me here.
In the dream—or vision—I had read that five individuals conducted a ritual. Five soul-bound vessels, meant to prepare for the return of someone named Vladamor Shavira.
If it was real… I couldn't be the only one marked.
There had to be others.
I typed his name next: "Vladamor Shavira."
No results.
Of course. The truth was being buried. Or erased.
I rose from the desk, tension wrapping around my chest like a vice. If technology failed me, perhaps the past hadn't been completely wiped from print. I hurried to the History section, scanning spine after spine, fingers trailing across dusty covers and leather-bound silence. Nothing. No hidden texts. No trace of Noctaria, Vladamor, or anything remotely arcane. The school's history was scrubbed clean.
Why?
Frustrated, I left the library, letting my hand brush against one of the stone pillars outside—and hissed as pain lanced through my skin. A scratch. Small, but deep enough to sting. And Velmora's rules were clear: even minor injuries required immediate medical attention. I had no choice but to go to the infirmary.
The walk was long and irritating—especially because the infirmary lay closer to the dormitories. I trudged on, cradling my hand, the mark beneath my shoulder tingled faintly, like a whisper trying to speak.
When I arrived, Miss Donna, the school nurse, was seated at the reception.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," I said with a strained smile.
She looked up, kind but stern. "Oh dear. What happened?"
"Just a scratch," I explained, raising my hand.
She stood immediately. "Come with me."
We entered the dressing room, a small sterile space off to the side. She cleaned the wound with practiced care, muttering about how students ought to be more careful.
"You don't know what even the air in this school carries. Could be anything. Bacteria, spores, cursed ash," she chuckled lightly.
I half-laughed. "Yeah… I got distracted, that's all."
She gave me a knowing look, then finished patching me up.
That was when the door burst open.
"Miss Donna, I need your attention now!" A frantic voice rang out.
We rushed out to see Mr. Raven, the housemaster of House Virelle, carrying an unconscious boy in his arms. Panic danced across his features.
"He ran out of the dorm… screaming. Then just collapsed," he said breathlessly.
Miss Donna took charge, guiding him to a bed. "Lay him down. Gently."
She examined him quickly and murmured that he'd be alright, but she needed to pull his file. "He's new," Mr. Raven added. "Today's his first day."
After a moment's hesitation, he left. Miss Donna retreated upstairs to fetch the medical records, leaving me alone.
When he was brought in, I caught something on his neck, I didn't get a clear vision of it but I saw something.
Something about the boy was… wrong. Or right. I didn't know.
I stepped closer, heart hammering in my chest, and looked at him. Black curls damp with sweat. His skin pale, chest rising and falling in soft, uneven rhythm. But it was his neck I focused on.
I leaned in.
There it was.
The mark.
Exactly like mine.
My stomach dropped. It felt like gravity shifted beneath my feet. I took a step back, then another, before slowly pulling up a chair and sitting beside him.
I would wait.
However long it took.
Miss Donna returned briefly, placed a file on her desk, and turned to me.
"You'll stay a while?"
I nodded.
"Good. I trust you. I need to step out. Might take some time."
"No problem."
She left, and silence settled over the room like a shroud.
I looked at the boy again.
My mark tingled and burnt faintly now.
We were connected.
And this was just the beginning.