The council chamber of the vampire empire was drowned in crimson light — the kind that never reached mortals. Marble pillars rose like sentinels, veined with obsidian, and every whisper that stirred there carried the weight of centuries.
Nickolas stood before the high dais, composed yet tense. His jaw was sharp, his posture perfect — a lord-in-waiting sculpted by duty and deception alike. Before him sat the Council, five in number, their faces hidden behind carved masks of silver and bone. And beside them, veiled in dark silk and quiet purpose, stood Saphine.
"The time has come," one of the elders declared. "You will attend the mortal gathering arranged in New York. A… ball, they call it. The guest of honor will be a woman of particular interest."
Nickolas inclined his head, suspicion flickering across his gaze. "You believe her to be—"
"Your destined mate," another interrupted. "Leo's prophecy confirmed the resonance. The bloodline calls to you, Nicholas."
Saphine's eyes flicked toward the floor — not in reverence, but to hide her thoughts. The bloodline calls, yes… but not to him. Only she knew the truth of the magic binding the name Alexander. The same bloodline her sister Alishya had sworn to protect before her death — the same bond that, if awakened, could bring her back.
The Council continued their rhetoric, voices like stone grinding over bone, but Saphine heard none of it. Her mind was already elsewhere — tracing invisible lines across the map of mortal cities, converging on one point.
New York.
Where Shyla Alexander lived. Where fate would be rewritten.
The night of the ball was a spectacle. Chandeliers blazed with golden fire, their light glittering off crystal walls and velvet drapes. Music drifted through the air — refined, otherworldly — carrying whispers of something older than the hall that held them.
Nickolas entered first, his presence commanding, a perfect imitation of charm and poise. Every mortal in the room felt the subtle shift of his aura — like standing too close to a storm that hadn't yet broken. He scanned the crowd, searching for the pulse that had haunted his dreams since the Council's summons.
And then he saw her.
Shyla.
She stood near the edge of the ballroom, her laughter soft, unaware of the eyes that had found her. The air seemed to bend toward her unconsciously — the mark of Alexander blood, radiant and ancient.
From the balcony above, Saphine watched, her gloved hand tightening around her fan. The faint shimmer of spell work pulsed in the chandeliers — not enough to alter fate, but enough to mask her true intent. Every movement of hers had been calculated — the invitations, the timing, even the enchantments that veiled Nickolas's instincts. She had built this night not for the Council's prophecy, but for Alishya's return.
Because only the Alexander line could rekindle the soul bound to death. And only Shyla, unknowingly, held that key.
But Saphine was not the only one watching.
In the farthest corner of shadow, between gilded mirrors and mortal light, the air thickened — and Valerian stepped through.
No announcement. No sound. Only darkness folding open to reveal the true heir — weakened, ghostlike, but burning with will. His crimson eyes locked on Shyla instantly, and the world narrowed to the rhythm of her pulse. The sight of her with Nickolas — his hand guiding hers — felt like a blade twisting inside him. Every ounce of restraint trembled.
He whispered her name, but it carried no sound.He was a ghost in his own world.
"Valerian…" The voice came faintly — Ash, the witch sentinel. His silver sigils flared within the veil, unseen by mortals. "You shouldn't be here."
He didn't turn. Couldn't, as his gaze was still fixed on her — her smile, her light, the bond that burned invisible between them. But his body was faltering again. The last shadow-crossing had torn too deep into his core; this one was breaking him apart.
Ash appeared beside him fully, the sigils around him pulsing brighter. "If the Council sees you—"
He staggered forward. "I just needed to see her."
"Then you've seen enough."
Before he could resist, his hands pressed against his chest — cold, pulsing with witchfire. The shadows around him coiled violently, reacting to his spell. For a heartbeat, his eyes met Shyla's across the ballroom. Something in her paused — a breath, a flicker of awareness — but the next instant, he was gone.
No one noticed his disappearance. Not Nickolas, whose gaze lingered possessively on Shyla's face. Not Saphine, whose mind was locked on the spell she had woven. Only Ash, whose cloak now fluttered in the winds of the Witch Kingdom, carrying the broken heir through a portal unseen.
Valerian's body fell limp against his as they crossed the veil. "This was never meant for you, shadow prince," he murmured, lowering him onto the ground of his domain. "But perhaps… you are the only one who can fix what's coming." He ordered Bluemines to watch everyones moves and report him back.
Back in New York, the chandeliers flared once, just slightly — as if reacting to a heartbeat lost in another world.
Saphine turned sharply toward the disturbance, eyes narrowing.
"Something shifted," she whispered to herself.
And in that single tremor of light, destiny altered course — unseen, inevitable.