The meeting room was silent when Rose stepped in. Her steps were measured, her face a blank canvas. The exhaustion that throbbed beneath her ribs stayed hidden behind practiced indifference. They wouldn't see that—she wouldn't let them.
The room itself was unremarkable. Practical. Just like everything in the Guardian world. A long table, chairs scattered around, and Guardians already seated, waiting for the evening briefing to begin. But Rose felt the weight of it. The shift in energy the second she entered the room. A quiet curiosity. A calculation.
They were watching her.
She kept her gaze forward, not acknowledging the presence of anyone in particular, not giving them the satisfaction of catching her off guard. Rose Hathaway didn't crack under pressure. Not here.
Guardian Belikov stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, his expression impassive. He didn't give anything away. When his eyes flicked to her for a brief moment, she barely registered it. Just a nod. She wouldn't let herself read into it. That was part of the game.
Taking a seat at the far end of the table, Rose sat straight, shoulders squared, hands folded loosely in her lap. She kept her gaze ahead, eyes sharp but distant, as if she were already several steps ahead. No one would see how tight the control was, how close her patience was to snapping. She wouldn't let them.
Belikov's voice broke the silence. Low, steady, but commanding enough that it drew the room's attention without effort. "Good evening. Let's start."
The briefing began as expected—Belikov efficiently going over the schedule, tasks, and updates from the day shift. Rose's focus was sharp, but she kept her expression neutral, not reacting to the routine flow of information. She didn't need to make a scene; she'd been through hundreds of briefings like this before. Still, she could feel eyes darting her way, quiet as they were, measuring, assessing.
Her jaw tightened ever so slightly, but she held herself in check. The only movement came from her steady breaths and the faintest shift of her hand on the table.
Belikov glanced her way again, but there was no softness in his voice when he spoke. "We have a new addition tonight. Guardian Rose Hathaway is returning to Saint Vladimir's Academy."
There was no dramatic pause, no exaggerated emphasis. Just the fact laid bar. The room shifted subtly—almost imperceptibly. Rose didn't let it bother her. She kept her expression blank, ignoring the flicker of curiosity that passed through a few of the Guardians.
"She'll be joining Guardian Mikhail Tanner's team for the first half of the night shift," Dimitri continued, his tone never wavering. "You'll be assigned to the senior Moroi class. Afterward, Guardian Hathaway will assist with the senior novices in Guardian Alto's training session."
At the mention of Alto's name, Rose's stomach twisted. She didn't need to look up to know that the older Guardian would be glaring at her. They had a history—one that neither of them had forgotten. She braced herself for whatever snide comment was sure to follow.
Stan Alto didn't disappoint.
"Looks like we're in for an educational evening, then," he said, his voice casual, but the jab was there—buried just beneath the surface.
Rose didn't flinch, didn't acknowledge the comment. She wouldn't give Alto the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten under her skin.
Belikov didn't react either, though she felt the weight of his gaze. A subtle warning passed through the room, but no words were exchanged. Alto leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself, but there was no obvious smirk, no open challenge. Just a subtle test—a reminder of their history.
The meeting continued, routine reports filtering through. The day shift reported finding humans wandering too close to the Academy's wards. "Third time this month," Dimitri remarked, his tone sharpening slightly.
One of the day Guardians shrugged. "It's hiking season. Not unusual for this time of year."
Rose remained quiet, her focus still honed in on the details of the shift change, but part of her was listening closely, more so to the silence between words. She didn't trust anything being dismissed too easily—especially not with what she had seen in Budapest. But there was no hint of alarm from the guardians, and she let it drop, for now.
The briefing wrapped up quickly, tasks distributed, and soon enough the room began to empty. Rose stood, slipping into the flow of Guardians heading for the door. She moved toward Mikhail's group, eager to get started on the night shift, eager to just put the past few hours behind her and focus on the task ahead.
But before she could make it out, Belikov's voice cut through the room like a whip, stopping her in her tracks.
"Hathaway."
She turned, already bracing for whatever was coming. Belikov was waiting for her, his expression unreadable, his arms still crossed over his chest. His presence filled the room, and for a moment, it felt like they were the only two people left.
"Come find me after Alto's class," he said, his voice low, private.
Rose's muscles tensed, but she kept her face calm, her words clipped. "What for?"
"You need to get back into your training," Dimitri replied, not missing a beat. "You've been in recovery too long. We'll start tonight."
She swallowed back the retort that rose in her throat. The last thing she wanted after a long night and Alto's class was to face Dimitri in a training session. Her ribs ached just thinking about it, but she wouldn't give him an excuse to think she wasn't ready.
"Fine," she muttered, barely able to keep the irritation from slipping through.
Dimitri gave a brief nod, stepping aside. "I'll see you after."
Rose didn't linger. She turned sharply on her heel and walked out, her face betraying nothing, but the frustration building inside her was impossible to ignore.
The halls of Saint Vladimir's Academy were a blur of movement as students hurried to their classes, their conversations echoing off the stone walls. The sun had only just begun its slow descent, signaling the start of the Moroi morning, and the energy of the Academy was palpable. Rose walked alongside Mikhail and the rest of his team, her steps steady despite the dull ache gnawing at her ribs. She kept her focus on the students, their rushed steps, and the occasional burst of laughter or whispered gossip that trailed after them.
Mikhail led with a practiced ease, his eyes always scanning, never fully at rest. Celeste moved in step with him, her gaze cutting through the hallway like a blade. The other two Guardians fell into place behind them, wordlessly slipping into their routine. They were a tight-knit unit, and though they hadn't said it aloud, Rose could feel them adjusting their rhythm for her, giving her just enough space to settle in without drawing attention to it.
She didn't miss the small pauses—how Mikhail lingered a second longer when introducing her to a few other Guardians in passing, how Celeste pointed out key figures with casual remarks, as though filling her in on the details she might have missed during her absence. It wasn't forced or condescending, but it was there. They were taking it slow, easing her into the fold without making it obvious, and Rose was really grateful for it.
A group of Moroi students dashed past them, barely dodging a late bell. The air around them was charged, laughter mixed with anxious chatter as they rushed to their classrooms. The tension from the royals, though, was unmistakable. There was always an edge when the royals were involved—too many egos, too many alliances.
"You'll want to keep an eye on House Ivashkov," Mikhail said quietly as they walked past a tall boy with dark hair and an air of quiet arrogance. "They're not as loud as some of the others, but don't let that fool you. Ivashkovs are always in the middle of something."
Rose nodded, her eyes tracking the boy as he slipped into a classroom. She didn't respond, but Mikhail didn't seem to expect her to. He was giving her the lay of the land. And he was smooth about it, effortless, almost as if this was part of the routine and not because of her.
Ahead, Celeste leaned against the wall outside one of the classrooms. She glanced at Rose, her mouth lifting slightly at the corner. "Not too much has changed, really. Just the faces. Same politics. Same entitlement."
Rose gave a noncommittal grunt. She didn't have the energy to fully engage in banter, not with the constant throbbing of her muscles and the sharp pull of her ribs each time she turned. Celeste didn't push. None of them did.
As they reached their post for the last period before lunch, Mikhail positioned himself near the door of the classroom, his arms crossed, always vigilant. Rose noticed how he kept a subtle eye on her, but not in an obvious or patronizing way. It was just... there, part of his role as a team leader.
The classroom they were stationed outside hummed with the quiet energy of students settling in for Elemental Control. Ms. Carmack was already at the front of the room, waiting for the stragglers to sit. The group of students that filled the room were mostly royals, their movements filled with the practiced confidence of the elite. One girl, with platinum blonde hair and striking features, drew Rose's attention immediately—Lissa Dragomir.
Rose's eyes lingered on Lissa, the way the girl held herself with an ease Rose had never felt here. The familiar tug gnawed at the back of her mind, a warning she couldn't quite name. Maybe it was Lissa's ease, or maybe it was the way everything about this place felt both familiar and foreign now. A few Moroi students nearby were whispering to one another, sneaking glances at Lissa, their expressions a mix of curiosity and... something else.
Mikhail spoke softly beside her, breaking the silence without looking at her. "That's Princess Dragomir. You've heard about her, I assume?"
Rose nodded. "A little."
Mikhail didn't elaborate, and neither did she. But his gaze flicked toward Lissa for a moment, something almost like concern flashing across his face before he returned to scanning the room.
As the minutes dragged on, Rose's ribs began to throb harder. She shifted her weight, trying to ignore the burning sensation, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. The pain was creeping up on her, despite her efforts to mask it. The morning felt endless, and each passing second stretched longer than the last. Still, she knew she couldn't show weakness, not here. Not now.
It was, as the class settled into a quiet lull, that Rose finally spoke, her voice low enough that only Mikhail would hear. "He asked you to take it easy on me, didn't he?"
Mikhail's posture remained unchanged, but Rose could feel the tension that rippled through him. He didn't answer right away, and for a moment, she thought he might brush the question off. But then he spoke, his voice even, his gaze still fixed ahead.
"He didn't need to," he said. After a long pause, he added, "I was with Captain Belikov during the rescue mission. I saw the aftermath for myself."
Rose's breath caught in her throat. She hadn't expected that—hadn't expected him to acknowledge it so directly. She kept her gaze on the students, but she could feel the weight of his words settling over her, a pressure that made her want to recoil and close herself off.
"You earned a break," Mikhail continued, his voice soft but steady. "There's no shame in taking it easy for a little while."
Rose swallowed hard, the lump in her throat growing. She wasn't used to this—this kind of open understanding. Most of the time, she was met with pity or awkward silence, not quiet empathy. Mikhail didn't press her, didn't pry, but his words dug deep.
Finally, he turned to look at her, his eyes steady and kind, though his expression remained neutral. "It takes guts to still be standing, Hathaway."
She forced a short, almost awkward laugh, brushing away the emotion that threatened to surface. "Yeah, well, standing's about all I'm good for these days."
Mikhail's mouth quirked at the corner, but before he could respond, a burst of giggling interrupted them from inside the classroom.
Rose's attention snapped to the source of the noise, her eyes narrowing as she saw Lissa Dragomir manipulating streams of water with a flick of her hand, a small display of elemental magic meant to impress the girls around her. Ms. Carmack's sharp voice cut through the laughter, silencing the room in an instant.
"Princess Dragomir, if you're so adept at controlling elements, why don't you demonstrate for the class?"
Lissa hesitated, the easygoing confidence draining from her face as she stood and walked slowly to the front of the room. The other students watched, some with smirks, others with a gleam of anticipation. Rose tensed, something in Lissa's energy tugging at her instincts.
As Lissa raised her hands, the air shimmered faintly, the beginnings of fire and air twining together in a precarious balance. But the shift came suddenly—a flicker of hesitation, her brow furrowing as the elements twisted, spiraling beyond her control. Rose felt it before she saw it—a ripple of magic that was too unstable, too chaotic.
And then, a boy at the other end of the classroom burst into flames.
Chaos erupted in the classroom, and Rose made a run for the fire extinguished. However, Mikhail didn't move, his voice calm and steady. "Ozera. Enough."
The flames disappeared as quickly as they had flared. A few rows down, a boy with dark hair and startling blue eyes was softly chuckling to himself. Ms. Carmack scowled at him, but Rose's focus was on Lissa. The princess had returned to her seat, visibly shaken, but there was something more—something that made Rose's skin prickle. Lissa's eyes darted to hers, locking on with an intensity that sent a chill down Rose's spine.
For the rest of the period, Lissa's gaze lingered again, too focused, too knowing. Rose turned away, but the unsettled feeling stayed with her, gnawing at the edges of her mind. She didn't like what she saw in Lissa's eyes—what she felt in her gut.
The training hall was already bustling with movement when Rose stepped through the doors, the clatter of fists hitting pads and bodies hitting mats filling the air. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the room, illuminating the Guardians-in-training as they sparred in pairs. It felt familiar and foreign all at once.
Rose's ribs throbbed in protest at every breath, but she pushed the pain to the back of her mind. She had to. There was no room for weakness here, not in front of Alto. Not today.
At the far end of the room, Guardian Stan Alto stood with his arms crossed, watching the novices with his ever-present scowl. He hadn't changed much in eight years—still tall, broad-shouldered, and rigid as ever. His eyes flicked to Rose as soon as she entered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. She could feel the malice, the history between them bubbling beneath the surface.
"Ah, Hathaway," Alto called out, loud enough for the entire room to hear. "Good of you to join us. I was just telling the class how fortunate we are to have such an... experienced Guardian with us today."
Rose felt the weight of every eye in the room turning toward her. Her jaw clenched, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"Let's see if the rumors live up to the reality," Alto continued, his voice dripping with false praise. He turned to the class. "Pair up. Today, you'll be demonstrating defensive techniques. Hathaway, you'll join us at the front."
Rose's stomach tightened. She knew what this was—a test. A public spectacle. He wanted to see if she'd crack, if she'd revert to the fiery, impulsive girl she'd been at sixteen. But she wasn't that girl anymore. She couldn't afford to be.
She stepped forward, feeling the familiar tension coil in her muscles. Her ribs ached from the strain of just moving, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through it. No one would know.
"Everyone, gather around," Alto barked. "Hathaway will demonstrate with one of our more... promising novices. Let's see how her years of experience hold up."
A younger novice stepped forward, nervousness evident in his stance. He was tall and broad, maybe 18 or 19, but his hesitation gave away his lack of confidence. Rose met his gaze, offering a brief, reassuring nod. It wasn't the novice's fault. He was just a pawn in Alto's little game.
"Let's keep it simple," Alto said, pacing behind them. "A basic disarm. You know what to do, Hathaway."
Rose squared her shoulders, trying to ignore the burn in her ribs. She adjusted her stance, feeling the pull of her muscles protest, but her movements remained steady. The novice came at her, clumsy at first, his strikes easy to deflect. Rose moved with precision, her body remembering the motions despite the pain. She ducked under a punch, twisted his arm, and had him on the mat in seconds, disarming him with swift efficiency.
Alto clapped slowly, his smirk widening. "Impressive. But let's see how you handle something a bit more... complicated."
Rose swallowed the bitter taste of frustration. She could see where this was going, but she wouldn't give him the reaction he wanted. She nodded curtly, bracing herself.
Alto called up two more novices, both stronger and more confident than the first. "Same drill, Hathaway. Let's see if you've still got it."
The two novices advanced, and Rose immediately felt the strain as she blocked their coordinated attacks. They weren't bad—not great either—but good enough to push her. Every block, every deflection sent sharp stabs of pain through her side. Her breaths came shorter now, the ache in her ribs intensifying with each movement. Still, she held her ground, countering their strikes and disarming them, though it took longer than the first.
She stood straight after, her face impassive, though inside she was on fire.
Alto wasn't done.
"One more," he said, his tone edging toward smugness. He gestured to one of the more experienced novices, a girl who moved like she lived in the training room. "Let's see how you handle some real pressure."
Rose's hands clenched at her sides, the pain flaring with each heartbeat. She couldn't back down, not here, not in front of Alto. But her body was screaming at her to stop. She took a deep breath, forcing herself into a fighting stance as the novice approached.
The girl was quick, her movements sharp and calculated. This was different. This wasn't just a test of skill; it was a test of endurance. Rose could feel her strength slipping with each block, each dodge. Her ribs felt like they were on fire, and every breath was a battle in itself.
But she didn't let it show. She couldn't.
The novice struck again, her fist coming in fast. Rose sidestepped, barely avoiding the hit, and retaliated with a sweep of her leg. The novice stumbled but recovered quickly, launching a series of kicks and punches that Rose barely kept up with. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her vision blurring at the edges from the strain.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Rose managed to catch the novice's arm, twisting it into a lock and bringing her down. Her chest heaved with effort, but she kept her face blank, hiding the searing pain in her side.
Alto stepped forward, clapping again, slower this time. His smile was smug. "Well, I have to say, Hathaway, I'm impressed. You've certainly... matured."
Rose met his gaze, her expression cold and unreadable. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing just how close she was to collapsing. Not a chance.
"Alright, class dismissed," Alto called to the room. "Everyone out. Hathaway, a word."
The novices dispersed, casting glances at Rose as they left. She stood rooted to the spot, her hands still trembling from the exertion. Alto approached, his expression more serious now.
"You held your own," he said, his voice softer but still edged. "But you're not invincible, Hathaway. Don't try to be."
Her jaw tightened. She wanted to snap back, but the words wouldn't come. Not through the pain. She just nodded, the weight of exhaustion settling deep into her bones.
As she turned to leave, Alto's voice cut through the air once more. "Don't be stupid, Rose. You're not sixteen anymore."
She paused, just for a second, before walking out of the training hall, her body screaming with every step.
But the day wasn't over. Belikov was waiting.
Fuck. Me.