THE ARCHIVE

The basement of Ashwick City Archives smelled like forgotten things—old paper, leather bindings, and the musty odour of centuries of accumulated dust. Sera Thorne had long since stopped noticing the smell. She'd spent too many nights down here, alone among the stacks, for it to bother her anymore.

The only sound other than the old building's sporadic settling groan was the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead. The main floors above her had been cleared out hours before. Sera had the entire archive to herself at almost midnight after the day workers had left at five and the evening researchers had started to leave by eight.

Just the way she liked it.

Coughing as dust blew into her face, she took another leather-bound book off the shelf. Only a year had passed since the murder that had condemned her people when the novel was written in 1625. The stamped date on the spine, worn smooth by time and innumerable hands, was traced by her fingers. How many of those hands had belonged to others who shared her quest for the truth?

Documents littered the table in front of her, a meticulous mess she had created. She took pictures of documents she wasn't legally allowed to view, copied pages, and transcribed notes.

It all revolved around the execution of Morgana Thorne and the demise of King Aldric Ashcroft.

The ancestor of Sera. Ten times removed, roughly, her great-great-great-grandmother. The woman whose alleged crime had sentenced every witch who came after her to a life of hiding and fear.

Opening the volume, she skimmed through pages of official vampire documentation. The majority of it was pointless, including trade deals, property transfers, and the routine operations of a monarchy. But in the last three years, she had developed patience.

She had learnt to sift through mountains of irrelevant information for tiny grains of truth since her grandmother's death, when she was left alone with nothing but questions and a desperate need for answers.

Morgana was innocent, according to her grandmother. Had tried to prove it her entire life. Sera was carrying the torch now, burning it in this dark place where nobody could see.

She was drawn to the following line: "Council meeting, 15th day of September, 1624."

Discussion regarding concerns about the king's proposed reforms..." Her pulse quickened. She pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the page. King Aldric had been planning reforms. She'd found oblique references to this before, but never details. What kind of reforms? Why had they concerned the council enough to warrant a formal meeting? She flipped pages, looking for more, but the next entry jumped forward a month.

Everything that had been addressed was either lost or had never been documented in this specific volume.

Rubbing her weary eyes, Sera reclined in her chair. It always went like this. Bits and pieces of knowledge, glimpses of something bigger, but never enough to create a whole picture. Because she so much wanted them to exist, she occasionally questioned whether she was chasing ghosts and seeing patterns where none were.

Her phone buzzed. "You're at the archive again, aren't you?" texted Marco, one of the few friends who was aware of who she really was.

This is getting unhealthy." She ignored it. Marco was human, well-meaning, but unable to understand. He thought she was obsessed with local history as a quirky hobby. He didn't know she was hunting for evidence that might save her people. Though "save" might be too strong a word.

The witches who remained were scattered, hidden, surviving. Most had given up on anything beyond survival. Only a few, like Rowan and his resistance network, still actively fought against vampire rule. And even fewer, like Sera, believed that truth might accomplish what violence never had. She returned to her search, pulling more volumes.

The trial records from Morgana's execution had been heavily edited, she knew. Whole sections removed, testimony redacted. But sometimes information leaked through in other records—mentions in personal letters, footnotes in unrelated documents, the cracks where the official narrative didn't quite fit together. Hours passed.

Sera was hunched over the desk, and her back hurt. Insufficient light caused her eyes to burn as she read tiny handwriting. But since this was all she had, she persisted. When she was eight years old, a vampire raid on the apartment building where her parents had been sheltering resulted in their deaths.

Raised by her grandmother, she learned to be invisible, to avoid using magic in public, and to survive by being inconspicuous.

Then her granny fell three years ago. A single, tiny spell to aid a neighbour's ailing child.

Someone had noticed. Someone had reported. The Nightguard had come.

It had occurred when Sera was at work. When she returned home, she saw her grandmother dead on the floor, furniture overturned, and their apartment door smashed. Sera knew the truth, even if they had pretended it was a heist.

The story was revealed by the burns on her grandmother's wrists—spelt chains, the kind reserved for witches.

Since then, she has been by herself.

No family. Few friends.

All she had left was her modest apartment, her position at the archives, and her personal battle for a truth that no one else seemed to care about.

A document fluttered to the ground after slipping between the pages of an ancient ledger. Sera scowled as she leaned to get it.

The paper was fragile and brown with age; it was a letter, or a portion of one. It appeared as though someone had attempted to destroy it but had not completed the task because the edges were burnt.

With her heart pounding, she unfolded it carefully on the desk. The handwriting was difficult to decipher due to its antiquated style. Due to time and fire damage, the majority of it was unreadable. However, she noticed a few expressions that managed to survive:

"The blade was given by." The following line was destroyed. "didn't want peace between." More damage. "will look like the witch's doing, and none will question." Sera's hands started to shake. This wasn't part of the official record. This was someone talking about framing Morgana. This was evidence.

She reached for her phone to take a picture of it, but before she could, something struck her like a blow. It began with an abrupt tug in her chest, as though something had caught in her ribs and was pushing violently. She gasped because the sensation was so weird and unexpected.

It sparked at her fingertips as her magic reacted to it. Overhead, the lights flickered.

No. No, this couldn't be what she thought it was.

The mate bond. Her grandmother had described it: an irresistible pull toward your other half, the person whose magic and soul resonated with yours. Among witches, it was rare but celebrated. Two witches find each other, their powers complementing and enhancing one another. But the pull wasn't directing her toward the witch community hidden throughout the city.

It was pulling her north and west, toward the Nocturne District. Toward vampire territory. Sera shoved away from the desk, backing up until she hit the bookshelf. This was impossible. Witches didn't bond with vampires. Not anymore. That's what had gotten Aldric and Morgana killed. That's what had started the war.

The tug grew more pungent and more unpleasant. The lights went completely out as her magic erupted in response. She could see her hands glowing slightly green in the sudden darkness, power seeping out despite her best efforts to contain it.

She had to go, hide, return home, and guard her apartment. However, the attraction was so strong that it overpowered reason. Every cell in her body was yelling at her to pursue it, to locate the origin, to complete the bond.

With trembling hands, Sera reached for her bag and instinctively shoved the broken letter inside. Using the flashlight on her phone, she staggered in the direction of the stairs. The lights flashed back on behind her, but she didn't pause to look into it.

When she came out of the building, the night air slapped her face. There were a few late-night passersby on the street, and most stores were closed. She began moving toward her house and safety.

She staggered as the force pulled hard in the wrong direction. It wanted her to turn away.

"No," she muttered to herself. "Absolutely not."

But her feet had stopped moving toward home.

The bond tugged and tugged as she stood motionless on the sidewalk. It was no longer merely physical. She was experiencing feelings that were not her own, such as restlessness, hunger, and perplexity. The feelings of another person seep through the incomplete bond.

Her someone. Her mate. A vampire.

Sera turned to face the Nocturne District, which could be seen in the distance due to its older buildings and the gentle glow of gas lamps, which the vampires favoured over contemporary lighting. She would never go there. No sensible witch would. They immediately slaughtered her species because it was vampire territory.

However, the bond was now tugging so firmly that opposing it was like attempting to stop a river with her bare hands. Beneath the horror and the rational terror of what she was thinking about, there was a deep-seated conviction that she had to find this person.

That something essential was incomplete without them. "This is insane," she told herself. Then she started walking north.

As she got closer to the Nocturne District's edge, the streets altered. Older structures supplanted newer ones, with stone and wrought iron replacing steel and glass. The lighting becomes more dramatic and dimmer. The smell of old roses from the gardens that many vampire houses kept filled the air, making it feel even colder.

A few pedestrians walking in the opposite direction passed her. They appeared to be humans returning to safer neighbourhoods after patronising vampire establishments. They didn't look at her again.

Although unmistakable, the border was clearly visible. Sera sensed it as soon as she crossed—a tingle of ancient magic that denoted territory—even though there was neither a wall nor a sign.

Vampire law took precedence over human law after this point. She had no protection after this.

She raised her hood and kept moving.

The nighttime beauty of the Nocturne District was perilous. The stone façades of the well-kept antique houses were illuminated by gaslight, creating swirling shadows. The streets were lined with expensive vehicles. She could see sophisticated bars and restaurants through the windows, vampires visible in their finery.

They moved differently than humans, she noticed.

More fluid, with a graceful, predatory economy of motion. They exuded danger even through the glass.

If any of them knew who she was, they would kill her.

She was drawn farther into the district by the bond, past residential neighbourhoods and toward what appeared to be a commercial core.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She tried to appear like a human being with business here by keeping her head down, but she couldn't understand what business a woman by herself at midnight may have.

Then she noticed it: The Crimson Room, a velvet and dark wood restaurant that would likely cost more for a single dinner than she could prepare in a week.

The bond pulled her directly toward it.

In particular, toward a single figure visible through the glass.

He was seated at a table with several other people, all dressed in the dark, formal attire typical of vampires. However, she could tell which one he was from the outside, even before she gave him a conscious glance. A note of recognition vibrated in her bones as the bond sang between them.

His dark hair curved slightly at the nape of his neck, his angular features were almost too flawless, and even at this distance, she could see his eyes. He had vampire-like beauty. The eyes were remarkable, ice blue, and seemed to sparkle.

Then, through the glass, those eyes locked with hers, and the bond solidified.

The world narrowed to that connection for a brief period. She sensed his disbelief, his bewilderment, his hunger—and behind it all, the same compelling attraction she was feeling. Recognition. Completion.

Something instinctive in her whispered, "Mine."

Then reality crashed back in. She saw his expression shift from shock to realization to something more complex. She saw him stand, saw his companions react with alarm.

She saw the exact moment he decided to come after her.

Sera ran.