The forest shifted as Alexandrov moved. The weight of memories pressed on his shoulders, but the scent still lingered—lavender and cherries, faint but present. It grounded him. It called him.
He followed it.
The trail led him to a clearing shaped like a circle of silence. Moonlight spilled into the center like silver ink, and there, etched into the earth, were markings. Ancient ones. Glyphs he hadn't seen in centuries.
He knelt beside them, tracing the symbols with reverent fingers. These weren't just relics. They were alive, humming with a forgotten power.
A tear escaped down his cheek—not from sadness, but awe. This was a place of passage. A veil between realms. Someone had opened it.
Amalia.
She wasn't just human. She couldn't be. Not if she had crossed into his world. Not if her presence stirred the blood of Strigoilia.
Alexandrov closed his eyes and whispered her name—not as a question, but as a vow.
He would find the truth. And her.