Three nights after the wedding-that-turned-apocalypse, I found myself standing before a set of iron doors taller than a cathedral gate. Strange sigils shimmered faintly across the surface, pulsing like veins under skin. The plaque above read: ARCHIVE HALL — ACCESS RESTRICTED.
Stephen whistled low. “You know, when someone labels a door restricted, it’s usually because they don’t want people like us opening it.”
Alex shot him a look. “Then it’s a good thing we’re not people like us.”
“Remind me again,” I muttered, “why breaking into ancient vampire records in the middle of the night was our best idea?”
Alex’s hand pressed against the sigils, and the doors shuddered open with a groan that sounded disturbingly like a sigh. “Because Lilith’s warning wasn’t a threat—it was a prophecy,” he sa
