The air in the church was still, layered with the cool fragrance of stone and incense, but Rise barely felt it. She stood at the back with the other guardians, her body taut as if she were bracing for an invisible assault as the Sunday service unfolded. She forced her hands to stay at her sides, fingers splayed rigidly against her legs, as the heat from the mark pulsed at the nape of her neck. Each throb was a brand, a living thing pressed into her skin, searing and stubborn. The haze of last night's alcohol had long faded, leaving her raw and acutely aware of each ripple of discomfort.
Sweat trickled along her temple, cold but almost unnoticed against the blistering sensation. She could feel it like a hand gripping her by the neck, demanding to be noticed, demanding something she couldn't name. The Zvezda burned through her composure, reaching deep to coax out memories she kept buried, memories she wasn't ready to unearth.
Celeste stood nearby, throwing an occasional glance in her direction. Rose could sense the other guardian's unease beneath the casual front Celeste maintained, her smile easy as she whispered, "Rough night, Hathaway?" Her tone was light, teasing, a mask over the real concern that lay just below.
But Rose barely heard her. She blinked, forcing her vision to stay in the present, to keep her here in the church and not slip back into the flashes that clawed at her mind. The murmur of voices faded in and out, a distant hum that swelled and receded as she fought to remain grounded.
She looked down, focusing on her breathing. Inhale, exhale. But her focus wavered as she noticed the figure a few rows up. Dimitri Belikov, sharp in profile, the harsh lines of his face softened by the dim candlelight that flickered across his skin. He's finally shaved, the shadow of stubble gone, and his hair,- usually a wild distraction, was now neatly gathered into a bun. It changed him, the controlled sleekness lending him a fierce dignity that struck something deep within her.
But what held her gaze wasn't Belikov; it was the Moroi beside him. Tall and composed, with short raven hair, the man sat rigid, leaning ever so slightly towards Belikov as they engaged in hushed conversation. Rose couldn't see his face, but the man's presence was a weight in the quiet space, amplifying the one pressing against her. A strange pull wound through her chest as she stared, a heavy tension that added to the pounding ache in her skull.
The pain of the Zvezda mark flared in rhythm with her heartbeat, merging with the faint words of a prayer drifting through the room. Her fingers twitched. The impulse to reach back, to dig her nails into her skin and scratch the mark away, surged so fiercely it startled her. But she resisted, her hands frozen, the urge contained by sheer will alone.
As the final echoes of the sermon faded, Belikov turned, his gaze slicing through the crowd, finding her with a precision that made her breath hitch. But Rose didn't linger—she bolted the moment the church doors creaked open, pushing through the cool night air. She barely registered the chill; it slipped over her skin, unable to soothe the inferno ignited by the Zezda mark. Her steps quickened, carrying her to the edge of the academy, the world around her nothing more than a blur.
Moments later, footsteps crunched behind her, steady but unhurried. Celeste. The familiar cadence of her approach should have been grounding, but even her presence barely broke through the turmoil swirling within. Celeste's gaze was sharp, worry etched openly across her face as she came up beside her.
"Hathaway, what's going on?" she asked, her voice pitched low.
Rose only shook her head, grinding her teeth as she forced back the scream clawing at her throat. The weight of the mark grew heavier, searing her neck, anchoring her in a way she both loathed and needed.
Celeste's voice dropped, steady and firm. "Listen, you need to get it together."
Rose met her gaze, brow furrowing. The unspoken question lay in her stare—Why now?
"Fast," Celeste added, her voice a tense whisper.
Rose followed Celeste's gaze back to the church. There, just outside the doors, Belikov stood with the same Moroi man from before. They were both watching her, the stranger's expression unreadable but focused. She didn't need Dimitri's subtle hand motion to know what was expected. The message was clear—follow.
Her legs moved on autopilot, her body shifting from the tumult within her to the strange quiet of purpose. Celeste fell into step beside her, close enough for their shoulders to brush.
"I think it's someone from the Secret Command," Celeste murmured, her voice barely audible. She hesitated before adding, "I've never seen a Moroi so well-dressed moving around alone without guardians before."
Rose's pulse kicked up, but she kept her expression neutral. She'd known this moment would come, that leaving the facility would eventually bring her back into someone's sightline. What surprised her was that it had taken this long for them to reach out.
"Do you know when he got here?" Rose asked, voice clipped, just above a whisper.
Celeste shook her head. "I don't even know how he got into the Academy. And Mikhail's been strangely tight-lipped this morning. At first, I thought it was just the hangover," she paused, glancing pointedly back at the Moroi, "but now I think it's him."
"Do you know his name?" Rose pressed.
Celeste scoffed softly. "I would've led with that if I did." After a beat, a smirk curled at her lips. "He's hot, though."
A chuckle escaped Rose's lips despite herself, a sudden, unexpected release of tension. "Thanks. That's… very useful."
Celeste flashed her a grin, the moment of levity a brief respite as they approached Belikov's office. With every step, the weight on Rose's neck grew, and her fingers twitched, resisting the urge to reach up and claw at the mark as it pulsed.
"Wipe your face, you're sweating," Celeste whispered, her tone low but insistent. "And don't speak unless spoken to. Not that I need to worry—you barely talk as it is."
Rose swept a hand across her forehead, wiping the sheen from her lip and brow, then quickly rubbed her palms against her jeans. Every part of her braced for what lay beyond that door, the mark throbbing, her mind alive with questions she wasn't ready to ask, let alone answer.
The Zvezda throbbed again, and this time, Rose didn't try to suppress it. She let it blaze, let the fire travel from her neck down her spine, rooting her in the discomfort, grounding her to the moment. If she could survive that, survive the heat, the pressure, maybe she could survive the ghosts clawing at her mind.
The hallway was silent as Celeste left her, the sound of her footsteps fading into the background. Rose took a steadying breath, lifting her hand to knock, but before her knuckles touched the wood, the door swung open. Belikov stood there, his face unreadable, his eyes hard and intense.
"Come in, Hathaway," he said, his tone firm, leaving no room for hesitation.
She stepped inside, and the door closed quietly behind her. The office felt smaller, the walls closing in around her, the air thick with unspoken tension. Almost instinctively, she drew her shoulders back, forcing herself to stay rooted as her gaze drifted toward the figure behind Dimitri's desk.
He was tall, lean, and every bit the image of a man who knew his own effect. Dark hair framed a face that was sharp and intelligent, but it was his eyes—piercing blue, almost unnaturally intense—that held her attention. The stranger's gaze was unflinching, assessing, peeling back her layers without a word. His scrutiny was palpable, and though she fought the urge to look away, she felt the weight of it settling on her like a tangible force.
The suit he wore was impeccable, each line tailored to perfection, enhancing his broad shoulders and lean build. There was strength in his stance, quiet but potent, like a coiled spring hidden beneath that well-dressed exterior. He was unlike any Moroi she'd seen—he looked like he belonged in a Guardians' training hall more than a Moroi court.
Belikov moved behind her, his presence at her back somehow both grounding and suffocating. There was a strange pressure in the room, a pull that came from being caught between them. Rose struggled to shake the sensation, the feeling of being closed in, but it clung to her, sticky and persistent.
"Hathaway," Belikov's voice cut through the haze, low and measured. "This is Alexander Drakovich."
Drakovich inclined his head, his mouth curving into a polite but distant smile. The name struck something in her memory, but she couldn't for the life of her remember where from.
Her pulse thudded heavily, her instinct for self-preservation warring with the defiance that bubbled up whenever she felt scrutinized. But she kept her gaze steady, meeting his assessing look with one of her own, refusing to let him see anything less than unwavering resolve.
"Rose Hathaway," Alexander said, his voice smooth and refined, yet carrying an edge that made it impossible to mistake his words as mere pleasantries. He leaned forward, a gleam of interest flickering in those sharp blue eyes. "I've heard much about you."
Her response was ready, sharp and biting, but Rose swallowed it down. She gave a slight nod instead, taking Celeste's earlier advice to heart. Silence, she found, could be a shield, and it wasn't lost on Drakovich. His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise—or was it irritation?—crossing his features as she chose not to speak.
Without breaking eye contact, Drakovich slowly peeled off his leather gloves, each movement deliberate, calculated to unsettle. "I think you can guess why I am here," he said, his tone smooth and almost taunting.
Rose held his gaze for a moment before counting silently to three. "I'd prefer not to speculate, sir," she replied, her voice carefully even, every word measured.
The smile that curled Drakovich's lips then was knowing, almost predatory. It was as if he delighted in peeling back the layers of her composure, finding the tension beneath her calm exterior amusing.
Belikov stepped in, his voice a grounding force. "Drakovich is the Superior Officer of the Royal Intelligence Division at the Secret Command" His tone was neutral, but there was a weight to his words, an unspoken warning as if to remind her of the authority this man wielded. "He's here to ask you a few questions about the Budapest attack."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Rose felt a cold shiver travel down her spine. She worked to keep her breathing even, to not let the discomfort and the burn of the mark on her neck dictate her reactions. "I'm not sure I can add anything to what I already told the Central Command Officers who interviewed me after the attack," she replied, her tone clipped.
Drakovich's smile widened, a calculated display of charm that seemed almost designed to grate on her nerves. "Oh, I've read those reports," he said smoothly. "Very thorough, very detailed. Quite impressive, given your physical and mental state at the time." His gaze held hers, piercing and knowing. "I'm sorry to put you through all of that once again, but…" He paused, a practiced sigh of feigned sympathy slipping from his lips. "It's a routine procedure. Quite boring, I'm afraid."
The way he said it felt like a game, one he clearly expected her to play along with. But Rose held her ground, her face a mask of neutrality as she met his gaze head-on. Every instinct told her that this was more than routine, and that Alexander Drakovich was more dangerous than any of his carefully chosen words might suggest.
"Of course, sir," Rose replied, her voice steady. "Anything I can do to help."
"Please, have a seat," Drakovich said, gesturing to the chair across from him with a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. His voice was smooth, diplomatic, as though they were about to discuss a trivial matter rather than relive one of the most harrowing nights of her life.
Rose steadied herself, mentally preparing to revisit that harrowing night. She knew the drill, knew what they expected of her, but each retelling took a piece of her, leaving her a little more hollow each time. Still, she sat down, every instinct on high alert. Drakovich's gaze flicked to Dimitri, who lingered by the door, his posture tense.
"Belikov, why don't you join us?" Drakovich's tone was casual but edged. "No one's making a run for it."
Belikov moved to stand near Rose, his presence grounding but also heightening her awareness of the confined space. Drakovich, settled behind the desk, steepled his fingers, studying her with a quiet, almost disconcerting intensity.
"Let's start with the basics, shall we?" His voice was soft but firm, like a blade wrapped in silk. "The human body that caused the crash… Did you recognize him? Perhaps from the vicinity of Lord Kieran Volkov's entourage?"
Rose steadied herself, choosing her words carefully. "No, sir. The human feeders were vetted thoroughly before they were allowed near any residence. The body that landed on our car was unrecognizable—mutilated beyond recognition."
Drakovich's eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained polite. "You're certain there was no way to determine who it was?"
"Yes, sir." Rose met his gaze, forcing herself to stay calm. "Whoever orchestrated this wanted to send a message, and they succeeded. The body was in pieces."
Drakovich nodded slowly, his gaze still locked on hers. "Very thorough, I see. Now, in your report, you mentioned a sense of… wrongness, a shift, as you passed the wards. Can you elaborate on what you felt? What exactly was 'wrong' about the wards?"
She hesitated, her mind flashing back to the sickly, rotting smell and the thin, fragile sensation of the wards that night. "It's hard to put into words, but… the wards felt different. Usually, there's a hum, a sense of strength in the air. That night, they felt thinner. Weaker. Like something was draining their power."
Drakovich's expression remained unreadable, but his fingers tapped lightly against the desk, his gaze thoughtful. "And did anyone else in your party notice this? Or was it just you?"
Rose clenched her jaw, sensing the implication beneath his question. "No one else mentioned it at the time, and I didn't say anything. I thought maybe it was just paranoia."
"Paranoia…" Drakovich echoed, leaning back in his chair. His gaze sharpened, and his voice softened. "A Guardian, trained to sense danger, and yet you second-guessed yourself? I would have expected more decisiveness from someone with your experience, Guardian Hathaway."
Her fingers dug into the arms of her chair, but she kept her voice steady. "We were minutes from the village, and the wards should have kept us safe. I was trained to react based on evidence, not instinct alone."
Drakovich's smile was thin, calculated. "Of course. But you did feel something, didn't you? A shift, a scent… something off. As if the threat was present even before you saw it."
Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to meet his gaze, holding firm. "Yes. But at the time, I couldn't act on just a feeling."
Drakovich's expression softened, as though he sympathized. "Of course. And tell me… you described seeing a figure moving through the trees. This figure… why do you think they didn't attack immediately?"
"They were waiting," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Waiting for the right moment, for us to be at our most vulnerable. It was… a trap."
The word hung in the air, heavy and damning. Drakovich leaned forward, his eyes glinting with interest. "So you believe this was organized? That the Strigoi acted with a purpose beyond simple bloodlust?"
Rose nodded, the memory flashing before her eyes—of the dark figure pacing the car, of the crash, of Kieran's scream. "Yes. This wasn't random. They knew what they were doing."
Drakovich's gaze was intense, piercing. "And yet… you were the only survivor. Why do you think that is, Guardian Hathaway?"
Rose felt the words stick in her throat, the question hanging over her like a noose. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral, her fingers tightening on the chair's arms. "Dumb luck."
Drakovich's gaze never wavered, as if searching her eyes for some hidden truth. "Luck?" he echoed, his voice skeptical. "Is that what you believe?"
She hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yes. It's the only explanation that makes sense. I should've died that night with everyone else."
He tilted his head, his piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly, a calculating look flashing across his face. "Interesting. Tell me, Guardian Hathaway, do you think Lord Volkov was the primary target? Or do you believe there was a broader goal?"
The question struck her like a blow, reopening wounds she'd tried to keep buried. She swallowed, her voice hardening. "Kieran was a royal; that alone would make him a target. But it didn't end with him. The attack was designed to wipe out everyone—Guardians, Moroi, Dhampirs. It was meant to be a massacre."
Drakovich's mouth twisted into a faint smile, though his eyes remained sharp. "A massacre, indeed. An entire community wiped out in one night, each life taken with precision and purpose." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Tell me, do you think someone from within could have facilitated this? Perhaps tampered with the wards?"
Rose's heart skipped, the implication behind his words clear. "If there was someone on the inside, they hid their tracks well. And the wards… it would take someone with considerable skill and knowledge of magic to weaken them."
Drakovich nodded slowly, leaning back as though satisfied, but the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. "I see. And yet, you sensed it. The weakness, the shift. It's curious that none of the others seemed to feel it. Would you say your instincts are stronger than most?"
She felt herself tense, the question veering dangerously close to something she didn't want to explore. "Guardians are trained to be vigilant, to recognize threats even when there's no obvious sign. That night, everything felt heightened."
Drakovich studied her for a long moment, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk. "And yet, you second-guessed yourself. You held back." His voice was almost gentle, but it carried a bite. "Tell me, if you could go back to that night, what would you do differently?"
Rose's jaw tightened, the memories flooding back with a force that almost knocked the air from her lungs. "I would have told them to stop the car."
Drakovich leaned forward, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. "So you do think it was a mistake. That your hesitation cost lives."
The words stung, digging into her like knives, but she didn't flinch. "Yes," she replied, her voice steady. "I made a mistake, and I'll live with it for the rest of my life. But I did everything I could to protect my charge, even after the attack began."
Drakovich's smile widened, thin and edged with something that set her nerves on fire. "Of course." His voice dropped to a near whisper, laden with mock sympathy. "I'm sorry to make you relive all of that once more, but… you understand, don't you? Routine procedure."
Rose's fists clenched, a flicker of anger sparking beneath the surface. "Of course, sir," she said, forcing her tone to remain polite, though each word was laced with barely contained irritation.
Drakovich's eyes lingered on her, his smile widening ever so slightly. "One last question, then. Is there anything you haven't told us, something that perhaps seemed… insignificant at the time?"
Rose's gaze flickered toward Belikov, his steady presence both comforting and grounding. She took a deep breath, turning her attention back to Drakovich. "No, sir. I've told you everything that I remember. There's nothing I've held back."
Drakovich's smile softened, his gaze shifting to something almost… approving. "Very well. You've been… cooperative." He leaned back, his eyes still locked on hers, an unspoken challenge flickering within their depths. "But remember, Guardian Hathaway, even the smallest details can be the key to unraveling something much larger. If you remember anything else… anything at all, I trust you'll come forward."
Rose met Drakovich's gaze, the weight of his words settling heavily between them. She could feel the threads of the unspoken accusations woven through each question, subtle but persistent, leaving no doubt that this was anything but routine.
"Understood, sir," she replied, forcing herself to hold his gaze, her own expression an impassive mask. She could feel the pressure building within her, each word she didn't say pressing against the inside of her ribs, but she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
Drakovich's smile was as thin as a razor's edge, cutting but deceptively polite. "Good," he said, the single syllable drawn out, almost savoring it. He turned slightly, his gaze flicking to Dimitri. "Captain Belikov, do keep an eye on our young guardian here. She's... a valuable asset. We wouldn't want any unfortunate surprises, would we?"
Dimitri gave a slight nod, his face impassive but his posture stiff with restrained tension. "I'll make sure of it."
"Excellent." Drakovich turned his attention back to Rose, his gaze lingering, assessing, before he finally inclined his head. "Thank you, Guardian Hathaway. That will be all... for now."
Rose stood slowly, keeping her movements controlled. She inclined her head slightly, as was customary, though every muscle in her body screamed to just turn and walk out. "Thank you, sir," she replied, her tone as formal as she could muster, even as she felt his gaze boring into her back.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and headed for the door, her every step calculated, determined. She could feel Belikov's steady presence following close behind her, but neither of them spoke until they were clear of the office, the door clicking shut behind them with a finality that sent a chill down her spine.
They walked in silence, the weight of the interrogation hanging between them. Finally, after a few moments, Belikov's voice broke the quiet, low and careful. "You handled that well."
She gave a bitter smile, her hands still tense at her sides. "If by 'well' you mean managing to stay quiet while he picked me apart."
Belikov glanced over, his expression unreadable. "That's exactly what he was trying to do. And you didn't let him see anything you didn't want to."
The words, though meant to comfort, did little to ease the knot in her stomach. She let out a shaky breath, the anger and frustration still simmering beneath her calm exterior. "He doesn't believe me, does he? He thinks… he thinks I know more than I'm saying."
His silence was answer enough. She looked away, the bitterness rising once again. "It doesn't matter how many times I tell them everything I remember. It'll never be enough for them."
"Drakovich has his own agenda," Belikov replied carefully. "He's probing for weaknesses, for anything he can use to get what he wants. This is as much about power as it is about the truth."
Rose's voice was low, strained, as if each word pulled something from deep within her. "I did my part. I paid my dues. I have nothing left to give."
Dimitri's gaze softened, his dark eyes holding a flicker of something close to understanding. He waited, giving her the space to let the words settle. "No one's questioning what you've already given, Rose," he said quietly. "Least of all me."