They say lightning never strikes twice, but that's a myth. It doesn't happen often. Lightning usually gets it right the first time. When you're hit with 30 amps of electricity, you feel it. It can make you forget who you are—burn you, blind you, stop your heart. It can change your life forever.

When Dimitri had stepped into the aftermath of Budapest a few months ago, it felt like the sky had cracked open and damned them all. The memories of that dawn had etched themselves into him, each moment burned into his mind with cruel precision. And now, as he stepped out of his car and onto the gravel drive of the Badica Residence, the knot in his gut was just as heavy.

Please let it not be another Budapest, he prayed, a silent plea to whoever might be listening.

The air hung thick with the scent of blood and smoke, the metallic tang sharp enough to taste. The residence loomed ahead, its imposing stone façade bathed in the faint glow of dawn. Shattered windows glinted coldly in the early light, and the long shadows they cast made the jagged remains seem even more sinister.

The grounds were a flurry of controlled chaos. Central Command officers in their sharp uniforms moved briskly, their clipped tones and precise gestures a stark contrast to the carnage they worked amidst. Dhampir and Moroi alike circled the grounds, their boots crunching on gravel as they coordinated and analyzed. Alchemists, their sterile suits glinting in the light, were hunched over a body near the edge of the lawn. Even from a distance, Dimitri could see the glint of their instruments as they cataloged every gruesome detail.

A tall figure broke away from the commotion, his stride steady despite the weariness in his expression. Colonel Joshua Peterson—a name that carried weight even among the Guardians. One of the few dhampirs who had clawed his way to the title of Colonel after three decades of service, Peterson was a rarity. In their line of work, most didn't make it past 45.

"Belikov," Peterson greeted, his tone heavy but warm. He extended a hand, and Dimitri clasped it firmly. Peterson's lips curved into a faint, tired smile. "We need to stop meeting like this."

Dimitri nodded, the tension in his chest coiling tighter. "I wouldn't mind."

Peterson let out a dry chuckle, though his eyes remained sharp. He gestured toward the house with a grim nod. "Come on. You need the rundown."

As they walked, Peterson spoke in low tones, his words precise and measured. "It's not Budapest," he began, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen too many of these scenes. "Here, the attack was quick. Efficient. Clean."

Dimitri's jaw tightened as he listened.

They walked together, Peterson's heavy boots crunching against the gravel. "The Guardians were shot at their posts—clean, single shots. Military precision. The Moroi? Shot in their beds. Not a hair out of place."

Dimitri stopped walking, his gaze sweeping over the scene as Peterson spoke.

"If it weren't for the bite wounds on Princess Marcella Badica," Peterson continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "we'd have a hard time proving this was a Strigoi attack at all."

Dimitri's stomach twisted, the words settling heavily in his chest. Not a hair out of place. It was the antithesis of everything he knew about Strigoi. Their attacks were brutal, chaotic—driven by bloodlust, not strategy. This was something else entirely.

"When did this happen?" Dimitri asked, his voice low but steady.

"About an hour before dawn," Peterson replied. "It shouldn't have been possible, but… here we are."

Dimitri scanned the scene again, his eyes narrowing as they lingered on the Alchemists hunched over the body. "Guns?" he asked.

Peterson nodded, his expression grim. "We've recovered bullets from the scene. They're being sent for testing—Central Command wants to identify the exact make and model. But we're certain silencers were used."

Dimitri's stomach twisted. "Silencers," he echoed, the word heavy with implication. Strigoi didn't use guns, let alone silencers. Their attacks were vicious, chaotic, driven by bloodlust. This… this was calculated.

"They didn't just want to kill," Peterson said, as though reading Dimitri's thoughts. "They wanted to make sure no one had the chance to fight back."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Dimitri scanned the shattered windows, the jagged edges of glass glinting in the light. His mind raced, the details forming a picture he didn't want to see.

"Whoever did this," Peterson added, his voice grim, "knew exactly what they were doing. This wasn't just an attack. It was an execution."

Dimitri nodded slowly, his jaw tight as he processed the Colonel's words. Execution. The thought churned uneasily in his gut. This wasn't the Strigoi he knew—this was something else. Something worse.

The cold knot in Dimitri's stomach twisted tighter. "Military precision," he muttered, half to himself. "Since when do Strigoi operate like this?"

Peterson exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "They don't. Not like this. Which is why we're all on edge." He paused, his gaze scanning the scene around them.

Dimitri's eyes swept over the grounds again, taking in the stark contrast to Budapest. Budapest had been chaos incarnate—unrestrained violence, destruction that seemed to exist for its own sake. But here… here everything was calculated. Efficient. Cold.

And yet, the results were no less devastating.

Dimitri moved through the grounds with quiet precision, his boots crunching against the gravel path as he surveyed the carnage. The rising sun cast long shadows over the scene, the light catching on the glint of bullet casings scattered near the sentry posts. The bodies of Guardians lay slumped where they had fallen, their postures eerily still, each one marked by a single, precise shot. The sentries had been taken out without a chance to fight back, their weapons untouched, their stances frozen in disciplined readiness.

The air was heavy with a sharp, metallic tang, mingling with the faint acrid scent of gunpowder that hadn't yet dissipated. Dimitri crouched near one of the fallen Guardians, his sharp eyes noting the clean entry wound at the base of the man's skull. A professional kill—no sign of struggle, no frantic scuffle. It was surgical.

"Captain." A Guardian approached him, her voice low, strained. "We've finished clearing the west wing. Same pattern. Guardians neutralized before they could respond."

Dimitri nodded, rising slowly. His gaze swept over the grounds again, his expression unreadable but his mind churning. Strigoi didn't do this. They were chaos and carnage incarnate, driven by bloodlust and a primal urge to dominate. But this… this was precision. This was planning.

Moving toward the residence, Dimitri stepped carefully through the shattered doorway, the splinters crunching underfoot. Inside, the air was thick and stagnant, oppressive in its stillness. The Moroi victims were still tucked in their beds, their faces serene, untouched by the violence that had taken their lives. Clean shots through their hearts, the sheets beneath them soaked in dark crimson.

His chest tightened as he moved deeper into the house, the horror of it settling like a lead weight in his gut. He paused near a child's room, the small form under the blankets barely discernible amidst the darkened bloodstains. He didn't step inside. Couldn't. He turned away, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to focus.

"Since when do Strigoi use guns?" he muttered under his breath, the words bitter, almost incredulous.

The question echoed in his mind as he moved toward the grand staircase leading to the upper floors. Every step felt heavier, his unease growing with each new scene. The attack had been swift, efficient, calculated. A stark contrast to the unrestrained chaos of Budapest. The Guardians there had fought valiantly, leaving behind a battlefield littered with signs of their struggle. But here, there was no struggle. Only death.

As he reached the main bedroom, he hesitated for a moment at the threshold. The ornate double doors hung ajar, one of them splintered from the force of entry. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of blood, sharper here than anywhere else.

Marcella Badica lay sprawled on the lavish bed, her body ravaged by Strigoi bites. The delicate silk sheets were a sodden red, pooling beneath her lifeless form. Her face, once renowned for its beauty, was contorted in a final expression of pain. The rest of the room was immaculate, untouched save for the crimson carnage that spread from the bed like a grotesque centerpiece.

Dimitri stepped inside, his expression hardening as he approached. His sharp eyes swept over the scene, noting the precision of the attack. The bite wounds stood out against the surgical cleanliness of the gunshots throughout the residence. This wasn't just an attack—it was a statement.

"Belikov." A familiar voice broke through the heavy silence.

Dimitri turned sharply to see Alexander Drakovich standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed against the pale light spilling in from the hallway. The Moroi officer's piercing blue eyes surveyed the scene with a calm that felt almost out of place.

Drakovich stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over Marcella's lifeless form before landing on Dimitri. "Clean, isn't it?" he said, his tone quiet but carrying a weight that made the words hang in the air. "If not for the bites, one might mistake this for a professional hit."

Dimitri didn't respond immediately, his focus returning to the body. "Strigoi don't do professional hits," he said finally, his voice low, taut. "They don't plan. They don't coordinate."

Drakovich moved closer, his sharp gaze catching every detail of the room. "And yet, here we are."

Dimitri's jaw tightened. The implications of this attack, the methodical precision of it, were something he wasn't ready to voice. His mind churned with questions he couldn't yet answer, each one more unsettling than the last.

Drakovich crouched slightly, inspecting a faint mark on the floor near the bed. "This wasn't just an attack," he said, almost to himself. "It's a shift. An evolution."

The word sent a chill through Dimitri, though he didn't let it show. He stepped back, his eyes narrowing as he studied the scene once more. "If that's true," he said, his voice like steel, "then we're dealing with something far worse than we've ever seen before."

Drakovich straightened, his expression unreadable but his gaze sharp. "Then let's hope we figure it out before it figures us out."

Dimitri stood near the edge of the bed, his eyes moving over every detail of the gruesome tableau. His trained instincts dissected the scene—the pooling blood, the position of the body, the violent contrast between the clean efficiency of the gunshots and the visceral savagery of the Strigoi bites. Every detail painted a picture, but the strokes didn't make sense.

Behind him, Drakovich stepped closer, his footsteps deliberate, measured. He didn't immediately speak, but when he did, his tone carried its usual air of provocation.

"You should've waited for me, Belikov," he said casually. "We could've carpooled. The roads out here are dreadful this early."

Dimitri ignored him, his jaw tightening as he crouched by the bed to inspect the faint smudge of blood near Marcella's hand.

Unperturbed by the lack of response, Drakovich leaned slightly against the doorway, crossing his arms. "I mean, it's only polite, isn't it? You're already up before dawn, might as well have some company to share the misery."

Still no response. Dimitri straightened and moved toward the window, his sharp eyes scanning the grounds below. Drakovich tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Ah, well," Drakovich sighed, his voice shifting to a more thoughtful tone. "Poor Marcella. Did you know she was set to take a seat on the royal council next week?"

That caught Dimitri's attention. He turned slightly, his brows furrowing. Drakovich caught the flicker of interest and pressed on.

"Unfortunate timing, isn't it? She was quite the ambitious one, always playing the long game. I imagine she waited for years for her dear papa to finally pass away so she could wear the family crown herself." He gestured toward the body on the bed, his smile thin. "And here she is, dead mere days before she could claim it."

Dimitri turned fully now, his sharp gaze locking onto Drakovich. "Marcella had a brother," he said slowly, his voice measured. "Prince Philippe. He's next in line."

Drakovich's smile widened slightly, a glint of something unreadable in his piercing blue eyes. "Was next in line," he corrected. "Seeing his… extracurricular activities, the Queen decided Marcella was better suited for the title."

Dimitri's frown deepened. "I didn't know that."

"Of course you didn't," Drakovich said easily, uncrossing his arms and stepping further into the room. "It was privileged information. Only a select few were aware." His tone was light, almost conversational, but there was a weight to his words, an undertone of something darker.

Dimitri's mind began to turn, the wheels spinning faster with every passing second. He glanced back at Marcella's lifeless body, at the meticulous execution of the attack, at the strategic efficiency that spoke of something far more organized than the usual Strigoi chaos.

The pieces didn't fit, but the picture they hinted at was unsettling. An ambitious royal, poised to take power, killed with precision days before her coronation. A weakening of the wards that made the attack possible. The tactical use of firearms, not fangs.

Unfathomable scenarios began running through Dimitri's mind, each one darker and more insidious than the last.

Drakovich's voice cut through his thoughts, smooth and sharp as a blade. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" he said, stepping closer to Dimitri, his grim smile returning. "Who gains from this? Who loses? And most importantly… who's next?"

Dimitri didn't respond, but his jaw tightened, and his fists clenched at his sides. He took another slow, deliberate look around the room, his sharp eyes absorbing every detail. The weight of the implications pressed heavily against him, and the cold knot in his gut twisted tighter.

Drakovich chuckled softly, the sound low and devoid of humor. "You feel it, don't you?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That sense that we're not just cleaning up after a massacre. We're standing in the middle of someone's game."

Dimitri turned his gaze to Drakovich, his expression hard, unyielding. "Games have rules," he said quietly, his voice like steel. "And players."

Drakovich tilted his head, his smile widening just enough to seem both knowing and unsettling. "Indeed," he said, his tone almost playful. "So the question is, Captain… which one are you?"

The words hung heavy in the air, suddenly interrupted by a sharp knock at the doorway. A young Guardian stepped in, her face pale but composed, though her posture betrayed the urgency of her message.

"Captain Belikov," she said, her voice steady despite the tension in her tone. "Colonel Peterson is asking for you on the grounds. It's the wards—something's up."

Dimitri froze in place. "The wards?"

The Guardian nodded, glancing briefly at Drakovich before focusing back on Dimitri. "Yes, sir. We've got people checking them now. Initial reports say they weren't broken but… weakened. Tampered with."

The words echoed in Dimitri's mind, pulling him back to Rose's voice after Budapest: The wards felt thin. Weaker, like something was draining their power.

He swallowed the rising unease and nodded, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Thank you. Tell Peterson I'm on my way."

It was Drakovich who spoke next, his voice carrying an easy command. "We're coming."

Dimitri's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. The two men stepped out into the cool morning air, their boots crunching against the frost-dusted grass as they made their way toward the ward boundary.

The tension between them was palpable, and for once, Drakovich's usual playfulness seemed muted. His face had taken on a mask of annoyance, his brow furrowed as he scanned the grounds. "We should get Hathaway here," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Dimitri didn't look back. His voice was low and firm. "You should stay away from her."

Drakovich snorted, his footsteps crunching loudly on the gravel as they approached the ward boundary. "She's the sole witness to the last known attack. She should be here."

"She's been through enough," Dimitri said, his voice sharp. He didn't bother looking at Drakovich. "The last thing she needs is to be thrown into another nightmare. She was sent to St. Vladimir's to heal, not to relive this."

"She knew something was wrong with the wards in Budapest," Drakovich pressed. "We didn't know that until weeks later."

Dimitri's fists clenched at his sides. "You're Moroi. Last time I checked, the magical aspects were your responsibility, not ours."

"You don't understand," Drakovich's tone turned serious, the edge in his voice undeniable. "Wards are a very complicated thing. They require all four elements of magic, woven together into a single, powerful spell. I can control fire, so I can feel its traces here, but that's it. I can't tell you where the wards begin or end, if they're holding, weakened, or tampered with—not without the entire Elemental Council and their equipment."

Dimitri kept walking, his sharp gaze scanning the edge of the property. Drakovich pressed on, his tone intensifying. "This isn't public knowledge, Belikov. It's not something just anyone can do. But she—she felt it. She needs to be here."

Dimitri's mind was racing now, his thoughts tangled between denial and a deep-seated dread. He knew exactly what Rose's sensitivity to the wards could mean—what it could entail—but he'd be damned if he let anyone drag her into this.

"You're getting ahead of yourself," Dimitri said evenly, though his voice carried an edge of warning. "You have no proof."

"Yet," Drakovich shot back, his tone clipped. "No proof yet."

Dimitri stopped abruptly, turning to face him, his dark eyes narrowing. "Let me get this straight. You're suggesting that some random dhampir can do something that only a full council of Elemental Moroi can do with sophisticated equipment? Do you even realize how absurd that sounds? How insane your theory is?"

Drakovich's expression darkened, the sharp angles of his face hardening. "I know what you're trying to do, but we both know I'm right."

"She's a Guardian," Dimitri said firmly. "A good one. Well-trained. Top of her class. She has years of experience under her belt. It's her job to hone her instincts. Pick any Guardian here—they'd tell you the same thing."

Drakovich sneered, his tone dripping with venom. "Yeah, especially the ones with the bullet holes in their skulls."

Dimitri's anger flared, his jaw tightening. "Listen," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I brought her to the Academy so she could heal. She wasn't even supposed to leave the facility, not after what she went through. She's still fragile, and I won't let you sniff around her like some mad hound chasing an insane theory."

Drakovich tilted his head, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Awfully protective, aren't we, Belikov?"

"She's a Guardian in my squad," Dimitri snapped, his voice rising. "She's my responsibility, mine to protect, mine to—"

His words cut off abruptly, his gaze snapping to something behind Drakovich. A faint glint of metal caught his eye, reflecting the weak morning light from the edge of the ward boundary.

"What?" Drakovich asked, his smirk fading as he turned to follow Dimitri's line of sight.

Dimitri didn't answer. He strode past Drakovich, his boots crunching against the frost as he approached the gleaming object. It was staked into the ground near the ward marker stone, half-buried in the frozen earth.

He crouched down, his heart pounding as he reached for it. His fingers closed around the hilt, the familiarity of the blade sending a shock through him. He turned it over in his hands, his breath catching in his throat. The nick on the hilt, the faint scuff on the blade's edge—it was unmistakable.

It was one of Rose's blades.

His mind raced, the memory of Budapest crashing down on him with brutal force. She'd had two blades that night. One was still in her hand when they'd found her, but the other… the other had been missing.

Until now.

Dimitri stood frozen for a moment, the blade heavy in his grip, its familiarity gnawing at him. The dull shimmer of the hilt caught the faint morning light, a ghost of Budapest come to haunt him. His mind churned with the implications of its presence here, at the edge of the wards, amidst the carnage of the Badica Residence.

He knew what was expected of him. As a Guardian, as Captain, his duty was clear: report every detail, every anomaly, every potential lead, no matter how uncomfortable or personal. The Central Command demanded transparency, and his loyalty was to the Moroi he had sworn to protect.

But this blade—it wasn't just a detail. It wasn't just a clue. It was a loaded weapon aimed at Rose.

His chest tightened as Drakovich's words replayed in his mind: She knew something was wrong with the wards before anyone else. And the insinuation: She needs to be here. The thought of dragging Rose into this mess, of forcing her to relive the horrors she'd barely begun to escape, was unbearable. She'd been sent to St. Vladimir's to recover, to heal—not to be thrust into another battlefield.

Dimitri glanced over his shoulder. Drakovich lingered a few steps away, his sharp eyes fixed on Dimitri like a predator waiting to pounce. For all his provocations and smirks, Drakovich wasn't a fool. If he so much as suspected Dimitri was hiding something, he would dig until he unearthed it.

Dimitri turned back to the blade, his grip tightening. This wasn't an accident. Whoever had placed it here wanted him to find it, wanted him to connect the dots to Budapest. It was a message, but from whom? The Strigoi? Or something else entirely? The possibilities sent a chill through him.

He turned the blade in his hands, the weight of it was familiar, almost intimate, but it felt wrong in this setting. It belonged to Rose—to her past, her pain, her survival. Not here.

His mind raced. Reporting this would mean opening a floodgate of questions, and Rose would inevitably be dragged into the center of it all. Drakovich would seize on it as confirmation of his theories, and Central Command would scrutinize every detail of her connection to the wards and the attacks. She would no longer be Rose Hathaway, a Guardian healing in the shadows; she would become an anomaly, an asset, a target.

No. Not yet.

Dimitri straightened, slipping the blade into the inner pocket of his coat. The decision sat heavy on his shoulders, but his resolve hardened. He would not let them pull her into this—not until he had answers.

Drakovich's voice broke the silence, sharp and probing. "Find something interesting?"

Dimitri turned, his face impassive, the mask of stoic professionalism firmly in place. "Just a blade. Nothing unusual."

Drakovich raised a brow, suspicion flickering in his sharp blue eyes. "A blade?" he echoed, his tone laced with disbelief. "In the middle of nowhere? That's unusual."

Dimitri met his gaze evenly, his tone steady. "There's nothing here worth noting. Let's focus on the wards."

For a moment, Drakovich didn't move, his eyes narrowing as if trying to see past Dimitri's wall of composure. Then, with a faint scoff, he turned toward the ward stones. "Suit yourself, Belikov. But I'll find what you're hiding eventually."

Dimitri didn't respond, his silence louder than words. He followed Drakovich to the edge of the wards, but his mind was elsewhere—turning over every angle, every possibility. The blade felt like a brand against his chest, a constant reminder of the unspoken promise he'd just made.

As they reached the mark of the ward boundary, Dimitri took one last look around the grounds. The scene was still a chaos of activity—Guardians and Central Command officers combing every inch, their faces grim with determination. But for Dimitri, the focus narrowed to one truth: someone was playing a dangerous game, and Rose was part of it.