Chapter Text
Viktor Krumov had always known the exact moment his life would change.
In the Krumov family, the twenty-first birthday was not celebrated. It was endured.
The manor overlooking the Black Sea was steeped in silence that evening, wards humming low and ancient through stone older than most European ministries. The servants had been sent away hours earlier. Even the portraits were subdued, curtains drawn as if the house itself wished to look away.
Viktor stood alone in his chambers as dusk bled into night.
He had removed his Bulgarian national team robes and folded them carefully, fingers steady despite the restless tension coiling beneath his skin. The room smelled faintly of salt and old parchment and magic—his magic—though it had never smelled this alive before.
The first sign came quietly.
A shift.
The air thickened, pressing against his senses. Viktor frowned, rolling his shoulders as if to ease an ache he hadn’t earned yet. He took a step toward the window—and froze.
He could hear the sea.
Not distantly. Not vaguely.
Every wave crashing against the rock echoed in his skull with unsettling clarity. He could hear gulls far beyond the cliffs, the wind tearing through their wings. Somewhere below, a servant’s wards flickered—and Viktor felt it like a brush against his nerves.
“What the—” he muttered.
Then came the smell.
Salt, yes—but layered beneath it was iron. Stone. Ozone. Magic that felt hungry. Viktor staggered, gripping the edge of his desk as heat bloomed under his skin, sharp and sudden.
His heart began to race.
This was it.
He had trained his body to endure pain—broken bones, brutal matches, war magic tearing the air apart—but this was different. This came from inside him, ancient and inevitable.
His vision sharpened abruptly. Shadows deepened. Colours grew violent in their clarity. When Viktor glanced at his reflection in the mirror, he barely recognised himself.
Not because he looked different.
But because he looked more.
His features had sharpened, jaw stronger, eyes darker and brighter all at once. His lashes cast shadows that hadn’t been there before. Magic clung to him like a living thing, curling under his skin, whispering.
Claim.
Find.
Mine.
The ache hit next.
Low in his chest. Deep in his bones. A hollow pull that made his breath stutter and his fingers dig into wood hard enough to splinter it.
Viktor bent forward, gasping.
“So this is it,” he whispered hoarsely.
He remembered his father’s voice from years ago, calm and merciless in its honesty.
Veela are not meant to be alone.
You will feel it when it begins.
If you do not find her by thirty, Viktor… your magic will consume you.
Full-blooded Veela did not fade quietly.
They burned out.
Viktor straightened slowly, staring at his reflection again.
Somewhere in the world, his soulmate existed.
He did not know her name.
He did not know her face.
But his magic already knew her absence.
And it hated it.