The castle ruins loomed ahead, crumbling stone covered in ivy, half-swallowed by time. Yet Alexandrov recognized every column, every arch. This had been his home. His sanctuary. And now, it was a tomb of memories.
He stepped inside, the silence heavier here, like the building itself mourned what had been.
There were no torches, but he saw clearly. Vampiric vision cut through the dark with ease. He walked the halls like a ghost returned to haunt its own life.
In the great hall, a shattered throne still sat beneath the rose window. He approached it slowly, then knelt before it.
Visions came unbidden. Laughter. Music. A child running through the corridor. A woman's hand gripping his before war tore it away.
He rose, not with bitterness, but with purpose.
Amalia was the key to his awakening. But the past—his legacy—was the foundation of everything that would come next.
And somewhere, out there, the enemy who had buried him still breathed.
Alexandrov would make them remember his name.