The moment lingered like a held breath. But as Amalia turned away, disappearing into the sun-dappled shadows of the forest, Alexandrov was pulled back into himself. Reality crept in around the edges. The forest, once a canvas of sensation and scent, now became a place of questions.
He had remembered her—no, not remembered. Recognized her. The connection wasn't born of memory but of something deeper, written into the marrow of who he was.
Strigoilia. The name echoed in his bones. His lineage.
He was born into the bloodline of the ancient Strigoilia, an empire hidden in history, whispered about in myth. They were vampires, yes—but more than that. They were rulers, scholars, guardians of secrets buried beneath centuries of dust. The Strigoilia were a dynasty of creatures not merely feared, but revered. Their power was not only in fang and claw but in mind and spirit.
He had been one of them. Once, long ago, he had walked halls of marble lit by candlelight, debated philosophy by moonlight, and ruled with a calm hand and a sharp mind. He could see glimpses now—a council chamber, a sword engraved with his family crest, a woman with silver hair whispering prophecies.
And then, the betrayal.
Someone close—family? friend?—had condemned him to sleep, to silence. To wait for an age where the world had forgotten what it meant to fear a name like Alexandrov Strigoilia.
But he was awake now. And Amalia—her scent, her presence—had been the key.
He didn't know why she had awakened him. Only that the bond between them was no accident. The blood of Strigoilia didn't stir without reason. And neither did fate.