Chapter Two: Return

The car rattled along the empty highway, the vast Montana landscape blurring past the windows. But for Rose Hathaway, the cramped space felt like a cage. Wedged between her mother and Guardian Belikov, Rose was certain this wasn't a simple courtesy drive. Mikhail, another Guardian whose name barely registered, sat in the driver's seat, his eyes fixed ahead, focused on the road. The lineup wasn't meant to ease her return to Saint Vladimir's Academy—it was a safeguard. They didn't trust her not to run.

And truth be told, she'd considered it more than once. She even wondered how far she could get with both her mother and Belikov in tow. Probably not far at all, she thought bitterly. They wouldn't hesitate to drag her back, kicking and screaming.

The car's steady hum did little to calm the buzzing tension in her head. Her fingers twitched toward the door handle, an impulse to escape. Instead, she shifted in her seat, the oppressive silence pressing down on her like a weight. No one spoke. The void between them deepened with every mile.

Belikov's presence was a quiet, unyielding force in the passenger seat. She could feel his gaze on her, steady and assessing, even when he wasn't looking. Rose caught his gaze in the rearview mirror, their eyes locking briefly. His expression was impassive, but the scar slashed through his eyebrow was still raw, an unmistakable reminder of his battles. She hadn't asked how he got it, and she didn't plan to. Belikov was practically a legend, known throughout the Moroi world for his skill, his control, his discipline. Until Budapest, he had been just another name. Now, he was a constant reminder of everything she had lost.

Beside her, Janine sat rigid, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Rose could see the faint tremor in her mother's knuckles, a rare show of nerves from a woman who prided herself on being unshakable. But it wasn't comfort. The silence between them had stretched from the plane to this stifling car, and neither seemed willing to break it.

"Guardian Belikov has a lot of expectations," Janine finally said, her voice clipped, formal. "I expect you to follow his orders and not give him any grief."

Rose bit back the retort that burned on her tongue. Of course, Janine's first words to her would be a lecture. She had no idea how to talk to her daughter, not after years of distance and harsh reprimands. Nothing had changed. Rose pressed her forehead against the cool glass, hoping Janine would take the hint and stop talking.

But Janine wasn't finished. "You should be grateful. He made a very generous offer to take you in. It wasn't something he had to do."

The words hit Rose like a slap. A favor. That's what this was. Of course, Belikov had taken her on as a favor to Janine. Rose's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as the familiar burn of resentment flared hot in her chest.

She shot a glare at Belikov through the mirror. He sighed, the faintest shift of his lips betraying his discomfort. "It's not a favor," he said quietly, his voice carrying a hint of his Russian accent. "She deserves the chance to recover. I would've done the same for any Guardian."

"All the same," Janine pressed, oblivious to the growing tension in the car. "It was very generous. Maybe this time, you'll learn a thing or two."

The words landed like a punch, stealing the breath from her lungs. For a moment, all she could do was stare at her mother, the hurt sinking in deeper than she wanted to admit. "Learn a thing or two? You think what happened in Budapest was because I wasn't good enough?"

Janine's face faltered, her mouth opening as if to retract the words. "Rose, I didn't mean—"

But Rose cut her off, her voice trembling with barely restrained rage. "You weren't there. You didn't see… Nothing—no amount of training, no amount of learning, no amount of weapons—could have prepared me for what happened. I did my best. It wasn't enough, I know that better than anyone. But I did my best."

The weight of her confession hung between them, sinking into the heavy silence that followed. Her mother's face softened, regret flickering across her otherwise stoic expression.

"Rose, I—"

"Don't." Rose's voice was cold, final. "Don't try to make this right. You never were a mother to me, and it's too late to start now."

The words hit their mark. Rose saw the flash of hurt in Janine's eyes before the familiar mask slipped back into place. But Rose didn't care. She was done caring. As far as she was concerned, she had been raised to continue the Hathaway legacy of legendary Guardians, nothing more.

The rest of the drive passed in suffocating silence. Belikov remained a steady presence in the front, watching, though Rose could feel his gaze on her at intervals. He didn't interfere, didn't speak, but she could sense his quiet judgment—or maybe it was pity.

The car finally pulled up to the towering gates of Saint Vladimir's Academy. The iron bars creaked open with a groan, revealing the sprawling grounds and shadowed stone buildings beyond.

The moment Mikhail parked, Rose flung the door open and stormed out. Her boots crunched against the gravel as she walked quickly, needing space, needing distance from her mother, from Belikov—from all of it.

Even as she moved, she could feel their eyes on her, and she hated how much it burned.

The late afternoon air hung thick as Rose wandered across the Academy grounds, her boots sinking slightly into the well-manicured grass. The sky above was streaked with fading hues of orange and pink, but shadows stretched long across the familiar landscape. Everything was still, almost eerily so. The Moroi would still be asleep, their nocturnal schedules ensuring the Academy was bathed in quiet until the sun fully set. But the guardians never slept—not fully. She could see them now, scattered across the grounds, patrolling the borders like sentinels in the growing twilight.

Eight years.

It had been nearly eight years since Rose had last set foot here, yet every stone, every archway of Saint Vladimir's was etched into her memory. Her time here had been nothing short of tumultuous. At sixteen, she'd been a force of nature—wild, angry, defiant, always pushing the boundaries. They had called her a prodigy, but she suspected the Academy had been just as relieved to be rid of her when she graduated early. A pain in the ass, they said.

She shook her head, smirking bitterly to herself. Back then, they hadn't known what to do with her. And now—almost twenty-four, scarred in ways that went far beyond the skin—they still didn't. She doubted anyone ever would.

Her path led her past the places she had once called her prison—and her home. The dormitories where the Moroi royals slept in luxury, blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking beyond the wards. The training halls where she had honed her skills, learned to fight, to kill, to sacrifice herself for others. And ahead of her, looming like a fortress, were the Guardians' Barracks—practical, imposing, unchanged.

Rose sighed. Shared living spaces. No privacy. No solitude. She had forgotten how cramped it was. Guardians weren't afforded the luxury of comfort—not when danger could strike at any moment. Every aspect of their quarters was designed for efficiency. Quick reaction times, readiness for battle. Easier to die for someone else.

This is going to be hell.

She pushed open the heavy door, stepping inside. The familiar scent of sweat, leather, and metal hit her immediately. The sound of distant conversation, mingled with the rhythmic clatter of boots on concrete, echoed through the large, open space. Bunks were lined up in neat rows, each claimed by a Guardian. Some faces were familiar, others not. All eyes seemed to flick toward her, just long enough to register her presence before darting away, whispers trailing behind her like a shadow.

She's the one who survived Budapest.

The only one.

Rose felt the weight of their stares, the judgment, the pity. The whispers, hushed but pointed, clung to her as she walked. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides, resisting the urge to adjust the collar of her turtleneck. She had chosen her clothing carefully—long sleeves, high neck—to hide the Strigoi bite scars that crisscrossed her skin. The fabric rubbed uncomfortably against the rough, jagged lines beneath, but she refused to give in to the instinct to cover more. There was no hiding those scars, not really. They were a part of her now, just like everything else that had been ripped apart in Budapest.

Her steps were slower than usual, her muscles protesting every movement. It wasn't just the scars. Her body still hadn't fully healed. The bites, the fractures, the torn muscles—she felt each of them like a dull throb beneath her skin. Every step sent a ripple of discomfort through her side, a reminder of her cracked ribs.

She reached her assigned bunk, a simple metal frame with a thin mattress that offered little in the way of comfort. It felt impossibly small after the sterile, private room where she had spent her recovery. Everything here felt claustrophobic—the constant presence of other Guardians, the open space with no privacy. She had nowhere to hide, no escape from the eyes watching her.

Her breath hitched as she caught sight of herself in the small, cracked mirror on the far wall. For a moment, she barely recognized her reflection. The woman staring back at her looked older, harder, the faint blue veins beneath her skin more pronounced in the harsh lighting. She tugged at her sleeves again, her gaze flickering over the fabric that covered the bite scars. She resisted the urge to touch them, to trace the jagged lines.

You're still here. You survived.

But she didn't feel like a survivor. She felt like a ghost.

A sharp pain flared in her side as she twisted to reach for her duffel bag, a reminder of the cracked ribs that hadn't fully healed. She stifled a wince, cursing under her breath. She had been cleared for duty, but every movement felt like a test of endurance. Pretending she was still as strong as she once had been was an exercise in futility, but it was all she could do.

As she sat on the edge of the bunk, adjusting to ease the ache in her ribs, the door to the barracks creaked open. The soft chatter of Guardians filled the space. Their conversation halted the moment they spotted her, an awkward pause settling over the room.

She could feel their eyes on her, the weight of their judgment heavy in the air. Whispers crawled through the room, low and stinging. Survivor. Lucky. The words twisted in her gut like a knife.

"Hey, Hathaway."

Rose turned at the sound of her name. A younger Guardian—someone she didn't recognize—stood a few feet away, his expression caught between admiration and unease. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then awkwardly blurted, "You were...uh, incredible. In Budapest, I mean. People talk about it. About you."

Her first instinct was to snap at him, to tell him to shut up, but she bit it back. Instead, she forced a tight smile. "Yeah," she muttered. "Real incredible."

The Guardian shifted awkwardly, clearly unsure if he should press on. After a beat, he nodded. "Anyway, welcome back."

Rose exhaled sharply as he walked away, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She wasn't sure how long she could endure this—the whispers, the sidelong glances, the constant reminder of everything that had changed. Everything that she had lost.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, signaling the start of another long night. Saint Vladimir's schedule always began after sunset, but Rose's body ached from exhaustion, her mind already fatigued.

No time for rest.

She unzipped her duffel bag and pulled out a few items—minimal clothes, a set of weapons, and a small, tattered photograph of her and her late guardian partner. Her fingers trembled as she stared at the photo. A lump rose in her throat, threatening to choke her, but she swallowed it down, shoving the memory back where it belonged—out of sight, out of mind.

Just as she was about to sit back, a sharp knock sounded from the door of the barracks. Rose looked up to see a female Guardian standing in the doorway, arms crossed casually but with an air of authority that Rose immediately recognized. She was one of the senior Guardians, Cleste something.

"Hathaway," the Guardian said, stepping further into the room. "Guardian Belikov asked me to get you. You're needed at the evening briefing."

Rose blinked, exhaustion still dragging at her limbs. She was barely settled, and they were already pulling her in? Her first instinct was to refuse, to tell them she'd just arrived and needed a moment, but she bit back the response, knowing it wouldn't make a difference. Instead, she forced a neutral tone. "Okay. When is it?"

Celeste gave her a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's now. I'll walk you there."

Now? Rose stifled a groan, fatigue gnawing at her bones. She'd been running on fumes since the review that morning, and every muscle in her body screamed for rest. The last thing she wanted was to parade herself in front of the other Guardians right now, not when her exhaustion was so close to the surface. But there was no point in arguing. Not with Guardian Belikov. Not on her first day back.

She stood up, her ribs protesting with a sharp, familiar ache. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the tightness coil in her muscles, the kind of pain that never quite went away. "Fine. Let's go."

Celeste nodded, gesturing for Rose to follow her out of the barracks. As they walked, Rose could feel the quiet glances from the other Guardians lingering on her, the unspoken questions hovering in the air. It was like she was under a spotlight, and all she wanted was to slip back into the shadows.