The faint glow of dawn slipped through the small, high windows of the weapons room, casting long shadows over rows of polished blades, battle-worn stakes, and gleaming stacks of hand-to-hand gear. The Academy was silent, the students tucked away in their dormitories and most Guardian on a break before the day's tasks began anew. But here, in the quiet solitude of the weapons room, the air was sizzling with a different kind of tension.
Rose kept her stand casual, leaning slightly against a weapons rack, her arms folded as she watched Guardian Belikov inspect the contents of a dark leather case. She was careful not to let her gaze linger on him for too long, but it was hard not to. Even in the faint light, Belikov's presence was a thing to behold, an intensity radiating from him that was hard to ignore. His reputation was one thing, but seeing him up close - Rose had a hard time tearing her eyes away.
Belikov glanced up, catching her eye. "I heard you managed to pass Guardian Alto's assessment."
A smirk tugged at Rose's lips. "You heard about that?" She snorted softly. "The man sure can hold a grudge."
Belikov's lips curved in a restrained smile. "Can't blame him," he replied. "From what I've heard, you were a particularly… challenging student."
Heat crept up her neck. She knew full well that she's been a nightmare at sixteen - a constant rebel, a thorn in the side of every Guardian assigned to her training. "I might've been a little… spirited."
"Spirited?" he questioned
"I'd like to think I made it interesting for him." She brushed it off quickly, feeling a spark of the old pride and defiance she'd been known for as a teenager. But she pushed the memory away. "So... we're not sparring, then?"
Belikov shook his head and reached into the leather case, lifting a set of gleaming knives that caught the dawn light. The knives looked new, each with a hand-crafted handle and a wickedly sharp edge. Rose's hands tingled just at the sight of them.
"No," he said, his voice softer now. "I have no doubts about your combat skills, Hathaway." He held out the knives, one in each hand, their balance perfect even from this distance. "I got these a while ago. Never had the chance to test them. I thought you might appreciate the challenge." He tilted his head, his eyes meeting hers. "I hear knives are your weapon of choice."
Rose raised a brow, her curiosity piqued. She took a step forward, and for a moment, the distance between them felt tangible, like something she could reach out and touch. "They are," she said, trying to keep her voice even as her pulse quickened. She felt the weight of his gaze as she took one of the knives from his hand, the cool metal familiar in her grip. She ran her thumb along the blade, admiring the craftsmanship.
It was the first time she'd held a knife since Budapest. Her chest tightened at the realization, memories flickering like shadows at the edges of her mind. Belikov was right - knives have always been her weapon of choice. She had a custom pair made, infused with elemental magic to mimic the strength of a stake. With her small hands, a full-sized stake had always felt awkward, unwieldy. But her knives? They'd fit like an extension of herself.
She'd often wondered what had happened to them after Budapest. She was sure she'd had one still in her hand, fingers locked around the hilt even as she'd fallen, and her body sank into darkness. She'd been certain it would be her last moment, that the knife would be her last defense before slipping into death.
But when she woke in the hospital, she barely had her clothes on, let alone her weapons. They were gone, lost like everything else in the attack. The thought twisted something inside her, a pang of loss that went beyond the physical. Those knives had been hers - extensions of her identity as a Guardian, forged with care and precision for the battles she'd fought and the ones she hadn't yet faced.
Her grip tightened instinctively on the blade in her hand, and she forced herself back to the present, the familiar weight grounding her as she met Belikov's gaze again. Desperate to shake off the memories, she gave him a wry look. "You might want to get your money back," she said, lifting the knife slightly. "They'd never work with giant paws like yours."
Amusement flashed through his onyx eyes. Blikov took a measured step closer, filling the space between them, and placed the second knife in her free hand. The quiet thrum of tension between them spiked, her nerves tingling with something she couldn't name. Rose's heart skipped, and she was suddenly, painfully aware of the sharp intensity of his gaze, the controlled strength behind his zen attitude.
"All the better, then," he said, his voice a low murmur. "You can show me what a professional like yourself can do with them."
The challenge sent a thrill down her spine. Rose gripped the knives harder, fighting the flush creeping up her neck. He was her Captain, her superior - and a living legend in the Moroi world. Intimidating, steadfast, and, she was beginning to admit to herself, damnably attractive.
She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes, heads on. "Careful what you wish for, Belikov."
"Do your worst," he dared.
The weight of the knives in her hands felt like coming home. After a day of holding herself in check, stifling every impulse and emotion, the cool, solid feel of the blades brought a sense of clarity she hadn't felt in a long time. Her grip tightened, and the ache in her ribs faded into the background as muscle memory took over. Every frustration, every ounce of tension from Alto's taunts and her own self-doubt seemed to melt away, leaving only focus and control.
Rose exhaled slowly and began moving through a sequence, her body slipping into a rhythm as natural as breathing. Each movement was precise, deliberate - a combination of speed and skill honed from years of practice. She spun the knives in her hands, the silver glint catching the low light as she swept through the motions, her feet steady, her form exact. She wasn't as fast as she used to be; the ache in her ribs reminded her of that with every twist and strike. But she compensated with fluidity, each transition smooth, her control razor sharp.
Belikov's presence at her side was a quiet but undeniable weight, a silent audience to every shift and strike. She could feel his gaze on her, assessing, watchful, as she cut through the air, her focus never wavering from the targets ahead.
With a final twist, she pivoted, sending one of the blades spinning toward the target across the room. It struck dead center, the thud satisfying in the quiet room. She stilled, feeling the faint burn of her sore muscles, a reminder of her limitations, yet a spark of pride flared within her. Even with the toll Budapest had taken on her, she still had this.
Then, just for good measure - and because she couldn't resist - she whipped around, letting the second knife fly. It sliced through the air with precision, heading not toward a target, but straight toward Belikov.
She had to give it to him, he didn't flinch, didn't even blink. The blade passed a breath away from his face, close enough to slide through a stray strand of hair, sending it fluttering to the floor. The silence between them was charged as Rose raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smirk.
"Looks like you're due for a haircut," she said, her tone light. She tilted her head, a grin tugging at her lips. "Maybe even a shave, while we're at it."
Belikov's eyes held hers, his expression shifting from surprise to something darker, more amused. He gave his head a slow, incredulous shake, lips twitching. "You're a menace, Hathaway."
Rose just shrugged, a smug grin replacing the effort it took to keep her breathing even. Her ribs ached, her body protested, but the satisfaction of reminding him what she was capable of made it worth it.
To his credit, he didn't question her, didn't chide her. Instead, he watched her for a lingering moment, his expression inscrutable but somehow softened. "Well, I suppose you can keep the knives... if I can trust you not to use them on me."
She was momentarily taken aback, a warmth settling somewhere deep as his words sank in. He was trusting her with the blades, a connection to who she was before Budapest. She didn't expect the gesture, and it meant more than she was willing to admit. She masked her reaction with a smirk, shrugging off the emotions welling up. "No promises there."
For the first time since they'd officially met almost twenty-four hours ago, Guardian Dimitri Belikov gave her a full-on smile, a flash of warmth breaking through his usual reserve. And she'd be damned if she didn't feel her lips stretch to return it.
The sun was rising when Rose made her way back to the Guardians barracks, the only sounds of her boots against the gravel and the faint chant of birds from the trees beyond the warded walls. The weight of her new knives against her calves was a comfort she hadn't anticipated, grounding her in a way she hadn't felt since Budapest. With each step, her mind replayed the training session with Belikov. She would never admit it, but the support he offered in his unspoken way settled a small part of her. It felt good to have a new set of blades, a piece of herself felt somewhat restored.
The barracks were empty, everyone was already fast asleep, just as she'd hoped. At least she'd have the showers to herself, God knew she needed it. Rose ducked into the bathroom, her fingers lingering on the light switch, the fluorescent lights flickering to life above her. She caught her reflection in the mirror: shadows under her eyes, faint bruises across her cheekbone from when it was broken in Budapest, and the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin.
She exhaled slowly, stripping off her gear and stepping into the stall, letting water cascade over her. The shower scalded her skin, but she welcomed the heat, letting it wash away the tension in her shoulders and the grimness of the long, brutal day.
As she rinsed off, her gaze fell to the scars along her ribs, angry pink lines that stood out against her pale skin, twisting and turning like a morbid map of battles past. There was one in particular, a curved scar between her jaw and collarbone where Strigoi fangs had punctured, and another that trailed down her side from a blade, left by the night's chaos. She traced the marks with her fingertips, feeling the hard, ridged skin beneath her touch.
The water cascaded down, drowning out the sounds of her shaky breaths, but she couldn't shake the memory. Budapest lingered, even in the mist of the shower, the smell of burning flesh clung to her nose, even under the roar of the shower, the high pitch of lives extinguished in seconds ran in her ears.
Shivering, she leaned her head against the shower wall, her hands pressing flat against the cool tile. She wanted this, the water, the warmth, to wash it all away. But there was no scrubbing off memories etched so deep they felt carved into her bones.
Wrapped in a thin blanket, Rose finally lay down on the stiff mattress. The exhaustion should have made sleep easy, but as her eyes began to close, familiar dread pooled at the back of her mind, tugging her under into the half-formed space between sleep and nightmare.
And the dream started as it always did…
Blurry landscapes of dark woods and shadowed trees rushed past Rose, the dark expanse slipping by like a nightmare's edge. The gentle purr of the car engine almost lulled her to sleep, and yet, her senses thrummed with unease. It was a bitterly cold night, colder than any so far that winter, and no amount of rubbing could warm her freezing hands. She welcomed the physical sting of the chill; it distracted from the icy weight coiling deep inside her stomach, a visceral warning she couldn't explain but couldn't shake.
Something was wrong. Every instinct, every fiber in her body, was on high alert. A Guardian's best weapon was instinct, she'd been trained to know this, to feel it as surely as her pulse. She knew she should have said something, done anything other than just sit there, strapped in as they drifted closer to doom. But she didn't. She stayed silent. It was the worst mistake of her life.
Mason's gaze flicked to her as if he could sense the darkness clouding her thoughts. The smile he wore faded as he took in her face, his green eyes narrowing with concern. His voice was soft, careful. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head, trying to appear calm, but the worry etched into his face told her she wasn't doing a good job of hiding it. "Nothing. I'm just... I'm just being paranoid." The words were weak, unconvincing, even to her own ears. Her partner didn't look away; his gaze held hers, earnest and questioning.
"Rose," he insisted, a note of worry creeping into his tone. "What's going on?"
The moonlight filtered in through the windshield, casting an eerie glow over his face, sharpening his features until he looked almost unreal. A cold dread washed over her, prickling her skin with hard goosebumps, an ominous sense of grief and loss crawling up her spine, making it hard to breathe. She forced her gaze away from Mason, looking out into the shadowed landscape that stretched endlessly around them.
"How long until we get to the wards?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Mason gave her a confused look. "Rose, we passed the mark ten minutes ago."
Her stomach dropped, and just as she opened her mouth to speak, the smell hit her—sickly sweet and foul, like something left to rot. The scent seeped into the car, clinging to her throat. Rose's hand tightened on the door handle, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She turned to search for the source, her senses flaring with sudden urgency.
Then she heard it—a soft, rhythmic crunching, like footsteps pressing down on brittle leaves, swift and organized, just audible above the engine's hum. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight, cold dread spreading through her like ice. Her gaze darted to the rear window, and there, just behind Mason's head, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall, dark figure moving through the trees, keeping pace with the car.
A strangled breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening. "Mason..." she whispered, her voice breaking. He looked over, concern morphing into something closer to alarm as he took in her expression.
"We need to stop—"
But she didn't get to finish. A heavy, bloody mass plummeted from above, landing with a sickening crunch on the hood. The windshield cracked, white spiderweb veins splintering out from the impact, as the smell of decaying flesh filled the air. Rose barely registered Kiran's piercing scream from the back seat as shards of glass flew through the air, cutting across her skin in stinging, shallow lines.
Everything erupted into chaos. The car lurched, veering wildly off course, the wheels screaming against the pavement before they lost traction. They toppled, the world flipping as the car rolled, metal crunching, glass shattering around them in brutal bursts. She felt her body collide with the dashboard, a blinding shock of pain rattling through her as they careened down the road, every sound muted, everything blurring into raw, violent motion.
Then, just as quickly, it all went still. Silence pressed down, thick and oppressive, broken only by the distant echo of Kiran's ragged scream cutting through the night.
With a groan, Rose forced her eyes open. Blood smeared her vision, crimson streaks that blurred the world around her. She blinked, her senses dull and sluggish, struggling to find focus. There was no pain—only a creeping numbness that set her nerves on edge. She couldn't tell if it was the shock, or if her body was simply shutting down.
Kiran. Mason. Panic flared, sharper than any ache, and she tried to move, to reach for them. She could hear Kiran's frantic breathing behind her, feel the dull thud of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears, but her limbs were heavy, unresponsive. Every instinct screamed at her to protect them, to pull herself together and fight, but she felt trapped, caged by the broken metal and shards of glass surrounding her.
Her pulse quickened, the numbness giving way to a sharp, hollow fear as the memory of those figures outside clawed its way back into her mind. She forced herself to move, to fight through the fog clouding her vision, her body screaming in protest. And somewhere outside, beyond the crumpled shell of the car, she sensed them—the Strigoi.