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WASHINGTON, D.C.
The knife remained buried in Yamir's heart, barely vibrating under the unyielding pressure of the Romanians' cold, pale hands. The cry that tore from the lycanthrope was a primal roar, overflowing with anguish, ripping through the silence of the alley like a crack in time. It was the lament of a creature that did not want to die, that fought against the inevitable with an ancient fury.
His body convulsed in violent spasms, every muscle fiber straining, waging a hopeless war against death. His limbs, trapped by the vampiric grip, could do little more than tremble in desperation. The veins in his neck stood out like dry branches, and his throat released strangled growls, weaker with each passing moment.
Then his eyes found Nate's.
There was no hatred in them.
No rage. No resentment.
Only fear. Deep, genuine fear. A silent plea. A question without an answer.
And then, suddenly—
As if a flame had been extinguished from within, Yamir went still.
Life left him in an instant. The light vanished from his pupils, the tension drained from his muscles, and no more air escaped his parted lips. The roar became absolute silence.
The Romanians released their grip with the cold precision of those carrying out an ancient ritual. The werewolf's lifeless body collapsed to the ground with a dull thud that felt like the closing of an irrevocable chapter. After a few seconds, they released Nate's hand—still clenched around the knife's hilt—and stepped back solemnly. Their faces were emotionless marble, but in their red eyes flickered something dark: a silent, profound, ritualistic satisfaction.
Nate slowly lowered his gaze. His fingers were still trembling as he pulled the blade from Yamir's chest with a mechanical gesture, as if the body might still react. The blade was stained with warm, thick, still-fresh blood.
That same knife had ended another life—James'.
But then, it had been different.
Edward had dealt the final blow.
He had merely been part of the process.
Not now.
Not this time.
There was no doubt.
He had killed a man.
One who, despite everything, had only wanted to live.
A storm of emotions battered him from within.
Guilt, heavy as lead.
Rage, like a fire with no outlet.
And—though he didn't want to admit it—relief.
A cold, piercing relief that chilled his lungs.
He had avenged his father.
Nate closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air was heavy with moisture, thick as a shroud. A raindrop landed on his forehead. Then another. And another.
The sky had begun to cry.
As if it shared his burden… or judged him.
He opened his eyes. His voice came out low, restrained, as if it pained him to speak:
"Why did you do that?"
Vladimir was the first to respond.
His voice was deep, ancient, carved from centuries of pain and conviction.
"We did it for you, Nathaniel."
Stefan spoke immediately after, his tone mirroring his companion's, his eyes sharp as daggers.
"We couldn't let doubt wither what you were meant to become."
Vladimir walked slowly to the corpse, inclining his head slightly, like one contemplating an offering.
"You delivered justice with your own hands. You felt it. We know you did. That precise moment when his heart stopped. It was yours. Yours alone."
Stefan allowed a faint smile to form—barely a twitch on his immutable face.
"It is a son's duty to avenge his father. And you, Nathaniel… you have fulfilled it."
Nate didn't answer. His hands were still trembling. He clenched his fists tightly. The rain pelted his face, but it could not wash away the invisible blood he felt on him.
"He deserved it…" he murmured, almost inaudibly. "But he told the truth."
His words dissolved into the rainfall.
"My father… he wouldn't have wanted this."
Vladimir looked at him with an inscrutable expression before replying.
"Your father was an impressive man, even brave. But he was also weak. Weakness was his downfall."
Stefan stepped closer, his voice soft but no less cutting.
"That weakness destroyed him. And your mother. Had he accepted our power, had he not clung to his pathetic humanity…"
Nate's fury exploded like lightning. He stepped forward, eyes ablaze.
"How dare you?! His humanity wasn't a weakness!"
His voice cracked, but he didn't back down.
"You're so blinded by vengeance you can't see what he did have: love, compassion. He had a family. He had something real. Something no power can ever replace."
Vladimir didn't blink. His voice dropped, and with it, the temperature around them.
"That love didn't protect him when the wolf tore through him."
Stefan added, a shadow of irony in his voice:
"And compassion didn't save your mother when she screamed his name… for the last time."
Nate lowered his head. He shut his eyes tightly, as if that could erase the thought. But silence only made their words heavier.
Then Vladimir stepped forward and stood in front of him. His red eyes gleamed with supernatural intensity.
"Tell me, Nathaniel… when you felt his heart give out beneath your hand, when you saw that he would never breathe again…"
He tilted his head slightly.
"Didn't you feel… peace? Wasn't it… pleasurable?"
Nate swallowed hard, unable to respond.
Stefan moved beside him. His tone was gentler now, like a maternal voice whispering from within a nightmare.
"We are not monsters. We are not blind beasts. We are consequences. What you've done tonight…"
He gestured lightly toward the body.
"…is exactly what we have waited centuries to witness."
Vladimir nodded solemnly.
"Justice."
The rain had become a shroud, covering everything, making Nate's hair stick to his forehead—just enough to hide the shadow of doubt in his eyes.
Vladimir stepped back slightly, as if making way for a new truth.
"Your father has been avenged. The wolf breathes no more."
Stefan leaned slightly toward the corpse.
"But he was only a tool. A disposable weapon."
Vladimir looked toward the darkness at the end of the alley. His voice turned coarse, like crushed stone.
"The real killers still live. Untouched. Untouchable."
Stefan lowered his voice—and with it, the world seemed to stop.
"The ones who killed your mother… the ones who condemned your father… laugh from their marble thrones at your loss and your pain."
Both fixed their gaze on Nate.
And then, in unison, with chilling synchronicity, their voices merged:
"The Volturi."
The name sent an involuntary shiver down Nate's spine.
He could almost see them in his mind: haughty and eternal figures, eyes cold as blades, looking at his parents as if they were nothing. As if their lives had held no value. The memory of his mother smiling in the kitchen. His father was humming an old song while cleaning the windshield. Both were murdered because of a decision made in a marble hall, dictated with disdain.
A spark of pure anger pierced Nate's chest like a heated dagger. But he held himself back. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, letting the rain cool his skin and his mind. Then he spoke—not shouting, but with a firmness born of conflict:
"I'm not throwing myself headfirst into a bottomless pit. Not when I have people to protect. I have friends. I have a family… And I have my partner."
He paused, swallowing hard, as if the words needed extra weight to stay grounded.
"Revenge isn't worth it if it means risking everything I love. I'll always carry what the Volturi did. And I truly hope you get what you're after. I won't forget how you helped me today, or the answers you gave me… but I'm not going to risk the lives of my loved ones for a war where I have nothing to gain… and everything to lose."
Though his tone was calm, a thin thread of doubt ran through his voice. As if he wasn't only speaking to them, but trying to convince himself.
Vladimir stepped forward, frustrated, brows furrowed, eyes burning. He was about to speak, but Stefan raised a hand in his direction, silencing him without a word. The rain drew diagonal lines across his long dark coat as he turned to Nate with a voice that was almost friendly, serene… but dangerously persuasive.
"You want to sound like your father, Nathaniel. But you are not him."
Nate clenched his jaw.
"We saw it before the wolf even tried to run. When you faced him… You already had your suspicions. Your movements, your eyes… You knew."
Vladimir smiled slowly, immediately understanding where Stefan was going. He stepped forward and added in a deeper voice, with that theatrical cadence that so defined him:
"Your goal was to buy time, we get that. But you enjoyed every second. You faked weakness. Gave him the upper hand. Let him grow confident…"
Stefan continued, a gloomy glint in his eyes:
"And then, when he felt invincible, you took everything from him. It wasn't uncontrolled rage. It was a choice. Execution. Because deep down, you had already reached the conclusion that he had killed your parents."
Vladimir tilted his head slightly, a smile not of mockery, but of deep understanding:
"You made him pay… And now you come to us saying you don't want to finish what you started?"
Silence spread between them like the rain, each word echoing on the wet stone ground, in Nate's ragged breath, in the distant echo of his own conscience.
Nate didn't know what to say. He knew. He had known from the beginning. Even if he tried to convince himself otherwise, even if he clung to reason, a part of him—deep and quiet—knew the truth. There was something dark inside him. Something that didn't just want revenge… but craved to inflict pain. Something that wanted to do to the Volturi what he did to the werewolf. Only worse. Much worse.
He took a few steps back, as if the ground were beginning to tilt beneath his feet. His mind throbbed violently; thoughts and emotions crashed into each other like thunder in a storm.
The Romanians said nothing. They remained still, like statues carved from ancient marble, offering no judgment—only watching. Their eyes were needles piercing his soul.
Nate ran both hands through his hair, almost in desperation, as if trying to rip out the thoughts. The conflict in his head hurt. It wasn't symbolic; it was real pain—blows, hammers shaking his judgment, his reason, his essence.
Then something broke the spiral: the soft, familiar tone of his phone.
The sound, so mundane, so human, clashed with the heavy atmosphere. Nate thought of ignoring it. His heart was already pierced by too many doubts to care about a call. But then he remembered… At the bar. Hours ago. He hadn't replied to Alice's message.
Maybe it was her.
The thought alone was enough to let a breeze slip through the storm. Her voice. Her laughter. Her words. She always had that effect. She calmed him more than any strategy, more than any victory.
He pulled out the phone quickly, as if just holding it brought hope.
But when he saw who was calling, he froze.
Edward.
For a second, he thought he had read it wrong. But no. It was his name. A direct call. The first time he had ever called him. He never had before.
The Romanians watched him. There was no offense in their faces. No reproach. On the contrary, both tilted their heads slightly, attentive. Interested.
Nate answered the call with a furrowed brow, still wrapped in the storm of emotions tearing through him.
On the other end, there was nothing. Not a breath, not a whisper. For a moment, he thought it was a mistake, a pocket dial. But then, after a pause so long it began to feel ominous, Edward spoke.
"Nate... I'm sorry for calling so late," Edward said, his voice tight, broken by something deeper than exhaustion. "I didn't know how to tell you this. But I had to do it now. It wouldn't be right for you to find out later."
Nate's heart began to pound, thundering in his chest. Something in Edward's cadence—some mix of guilt and resignation—triggered his darkest alarms.
"I'm here," he murmured, throat dry, a knot tightening in his stomach. "Tell me."
Edward hesitated. It was clear he was searching for the right words, trying to soften the inevitable. But there was no way to disguise it. When he spoke again, his voice was a tense, restrained whisper.
"I'm sorry, Nate. I didn't think through all the possibilities..."
A brief, suffocating pause. Then he continued quickly, like he had to get it all out before collapsing.
"I took Bella to my house. I thought that, with my family away, it would be safer if I isolated her. If I kept her away from other humans, there'd be fewer risks. But... a newborn appeared. I read his mind. He was one of Victoria's."
The pieces began to fall into place slowly in Nate's mind—like fragments of a photograph he didn't want to see. His chest felt like a nailed-shut box.
"I think he was after Charlie… but he was with your grandmother. And with Jacob. I tried to stop him. Jacob… he transformed. Everything descended into chaos. I couldn't do anything."
The tension overflowed in Nate's muscles. He placed a hand against the nearest wall. His voice came out hoarse, barely controlled.
"Edward… please… be direct."
On the other end, Edward took a deep breath. Then, in a low, almost defeated tone, he dropped the words like a stone into a deep lake.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't keep my promise. Your grandmother… she's dead."
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
The world suddenly stood still. There was no scream, no tears, no immediate reaction. Everything inside Nate froze. The pain didn't come. Only a solid, opaque, unbearable nothingness. As if something had ripped the soul from his body and left only the shell behind.
The phone slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a dry thud. It bounced once and then went still—like him. Not moving. Not blinking. Not breathing.
Everything remained silent for long minutes. The rain kept falling, filling the alley with its constant murmur, as if the world had shrunk to that monotonous, relentless sound. Nate, still leaning against the damp brick wall, didn't move. He felt the water trailing down his face… until he noticed that some droplets were warmer. They weren't coming from the sky.
They were his. Silent tears, blending with the rain, tracing invisible lines across his skin.
A few meters away, the Romanians watched everything with growing interest. They said nothing at first. Just observed, attentive, like witnesses to someone else's tragedy. Finally, Vladimir broke the silence with a tone of near-scientific curiosity, devoid of compassion.
"Was your grandmother someone close?"
Nate didn't answer right away. He kept his forehead against the wall, as if the concrete could hold up his soul. Only after a few seconds did he murmur:
"She was all the family I had left."
Stefan stepped forward, his tone deeper, heavier, weighted with judgment.
"And you left her alone? Without protection?"
Nate's voice cracked. The tears kept falling, but his voice tried to stay steady, as if he needed to justify every word, every decision.
"I wasn't supposed to be gone that long… The Cullens were there. Edward was supposed to protect her."
The Romanians didn't respond. They simply walked toward him slowly, like shadows wrapping around him. When they reached his side, one stood to his right, the other to his left. Nate didn't move. His forehead was still pressed to the wall, rain pounding against his back, grief soaking into his bones.
Vladimir, with a final step, crushed the phone lying on the ground. The crunch was sharp, like a sentence passed. The screen shattered beneath his boot.
Stefan was the first to speak, his voice soft, almost comforting.
"Don't blame poor Edward, Nathaniel…"
Vladimir followed immediately, his voice as hard as marble:
"You can't blame him when all the blame… is yours."
Nate opened his eyes. What shone in them now wasn't pain. It was fury. Without thinking, he stepped back and turned to throw a punch directly at Vladimir's face.
The impact was brutal… but only for him. Vladimir didn't flinch. Didn't move. Didn't even blink.
For Nate, it was like punching a block of granite. Pain shot up his arm like an electric surge. He was almost certain he'd broken his hand… but the rage was stronger than any fracture.
"Shut up!" he shouted, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.
Vladimir let out a short, dry, cruel laugh.
Stefan spoke, his eyes never leaving Nate:
"What he says isn't a lie, Nathaniel. Your parents' deaths… that was out of your control."
Vladimir nodded slowly, his mocking expression unchanged.
"But your grandmother's blood… that's on your hands."
Nate took another step back. His gaze was a whirlwind. He clutched his injured hand with the other, as if trying to hold together the fracture… or his own mind.
Vladimir stepped forward.
"How long have you been with that vampire? How long have you had access to a bite?"
Stefan followed him, his voice merciless:
"You clung to your useless humanity, just like your father. And now… you've paid the price."
Nate raised his eyes with renewed anger, but Vladimir lifted a hand, cutting him off before he could speak.
"Or tell me I'm wrong. If you had our capabilities… do you think you would've let anyone even get near her?"
Stefan finished, voice firm, emotionless:
"And even if you had left... with our abilities, do you really think it would've taken you that long to find the wolf?"
Nate was about to reply, rage barely contained in his throat—when a shadow crossed his mind. Doubt.
He had always known the extent of his abilities. Since he was a child, he'd been stronger, faster, smarter. His mind—his greatest weapon—had been able to devise strategies that cornered beings far more powerful. He never considered himself arrogant, but there were truths even he couldn't deny.
If he'd had the vampires' abilities that day in the clearing when they first met James… he knew it well: not one of them would've escaped.
If he'd had them in Phoenix, he would've finished Victoria before she ran off and built her army.
If only he'd had them when he arrived in Washington, he would've found the wolf in days, not weeks.
He would've made it back in time.
He would've torn the bastard who killed his grandmother apart with his own hands.
But all of that was in the past…
A chain of missed opportunities now weighs like stones on his chest, dragging him down with guilt and remorse.
The Romanians watched him silently, observing how his gaze drifted into the void. Then, they looked at each other. A barely noticeable curve at the corners of their lips betrayed the subtle smile they shared.
In a soft, almost affectionate tone, Stefan spoke first, his voice a whisper that sounded far more compassionate than it truly was:
"And now that you've not only lost your parents… but your grandmother as well…"
Vladimir finished the sentence, with that cruel cadence masked as sweetness:
"You're about to lose your mate, too."
Nate looked up. With sorrow, he muttered, unsure:
"She said they have it under control… her family will protect her…"
Stefan gave a falsely sweet smile, like someone gently scolding a naive child:
"We've told you already, Nathaniel… newborns are hard to kill, even for experienced vampires. There are no guarantees."
Vladimir picked up the thread, voice low and sharp:
"Do you blindly trust that they'll keep her safe? The same way they kept your grandmother safe?"
The words struck with surgical precision. Nate went still, eyes slightly wide, as if something had just clicked inside him. The realization hit him like a brick. With everything he was feeling, he even felt dizzy.
He had lost his whole family…
And now, he was losing the trust he'd placed in the Cullens.
His eyes fixed on a distant point in the alley, while his mind shuffled through options—each more desperate than the last. He couldn't lose anyone else. Not again. Not her.
That's when the Romanians stepped closer, one on either side, whispering in his ears with a venomous cadence, like demons speaking from the shadows.
"And do you know what the worst part is, Nathaniel?" Stefan whispered slowly, letting each word sink in.
Vladimir continued without pause:
"How convenient all of this is…"
Stefan tilted his head as if sharing a secret:
"Among the rules that Italian trash imposed when they took over was that deaths shouldn't draw attention…"
Vladimir resumed, his voice laced with false innocence:
"That's why vampires travel in small groups, constantly moving. Too many deaths would raise suspicions… and the Volturi would come to enforce order."
A pause. A charged silence.
"But now, with the trail an army leaves behind… conveniently… they haven't shown up."
Vladimir turned to Stefan, as if posing something curious, almost amusing:
"You know, there are no covens near Phoenix right now. The closest… are the Cullens."
Stefan raised his brows, as if just now understanding:
"It's almost… like the Volturi are allowing it."
"And why would they do that, Vladimir?" Stefan asked with theatrical confusion, as if the idea shocked him.
Vladimir smirked, crooked:
"I don't know… but wouldn't it be a shame if someone trimmed down the Cullen coven? They're the second largest after the Volturi themselves."
Stefan chuckled softly:
"Eliminating an entire coven just because they have a few extra members? That would be… excessive."
Vladimir narrowed his eyes, his smile turning more sinister:
"I don't think it's all of them… that Edward said on the phone he reads minds, didn't he? That sounds… convenient."
"And the girl," added Stefan, thoughtfully, "I'd never heard of anyone having visions. If they had no coven to return to…"
Vladimir finished the sentence in a murmur dripping with intent:
"…they'd have no reason to resist joining the Volturi guard, would they?"
Nate raised his voice, forcing himself to sound firm even though his words trembled inside:
"That's all speculation! You have no proof that any of this is happening!"
Stefan gave him a calm, almost patronizing smile, as if speaking to a child who didn't understand how the game was played:
"And you're going to bet your mate's life… just because you have no proof?"
Vladimir leaned in slightly, his eyes gleaming with a cruelty disguised as reason:
"Even if the Volturi aren't involved… do you have any guarantee they won't come for her later?"
Nate clenched his jaw, but said nothing. Vladimir continued, voice deeper now:
"I don't know if you were aware, Nathaniel, but the Volturi's dog… he used to belong to the coven of an old acquaintance of ours: Amun, the Egyptian."
Stefan picked up seamlessly, like they were finishing each other's thoughts:
"Amun never understood how it happened… but they found out about the boy's gift… and ripped him from his coven. Almost too easily…"
Vladimir took a step forward, approaching Nate with serene yet cruel eyes.
"What guarantee do you have that they won't do the same to your mate? If she's as valuable as we believe, do you really think they won't want her among their ranks?"
Nate lowered his gaze for a moment. The air felt heavier, as if merely speaking of that uncertain future brought it closer.
Stefan let out a soft, joyless chuckle.
"So, the way we see it..."
Vladimir followed seamlessly, as if a single voice split between two mouths:
"Even if your mate survives the army of newborns... there's no guarantee she won't become a target of the Volturi later on. Maybe not this year, maybe not this century..."
Stefan completed the thought with an almost melancholic whisper:
"But as long as their ambition exists, their thirst for power... she will never be safe."
Vladimir stared at him, his expression hard and final.
"So tell me, Nathaniel… are you going to let them take everything you love from you again?"
Nate clenched his fists tightly, ignoring the pain surging through his fractured hand. A thin trail of blood slid down his wrist, dripping onto the ground. His lips trembled, but his voice came out rough, a rasping growl dragged from deep within his chest:
"No."
The Romanians smiled, pleased. It was exactly what they had hoped for.
They approached with the slow confidence of those who have no need to rush, certain that the moment belonged to them. Their voices intertwined with unnatural synchronicity, as if they shared the same thought across two minds.
"Not only will we give you power," began Stefan, his voice deep and seductive.
"Your enemies will become our enemies," continued Vladimir, never breaking eye contact with Nate.
"No one will take someone you love from you again... not the newborns, not a bitter vampire," added Stefan, with a touch of venomous mockery.
"Not even the Volturi," Vladimir said, firm as a vow.
"You'll have the strength to never be trampled again," murmured Stefan, in a smooth, tempting tone.
"And with our support, everything you plan will come to pass," Vladimir concluded, each word dropping like a poisoned promise.
"All we ask..." they whispered together, almost reverently,
"Will you fulfill our dream?"
Nate didn't answer. He remained still, his gaze distant, shoulders tense. Then, slowly, his legs gave out. He fell to his knees on the cold, damp cobblestones of the alley.
He raised his arms, at first clumsily, as if part of him still resisted. But then, amidst the chaos in his mind, one image emerged with overwhelming clarity: Alice.
Her face. Her voice. Her absence.
And that was enough.
He steadied his arms, raising them toward the Romanians, offering them without a word.
Stefan took one. Vladimir took the other.
They opened their mouths in unison, fangs glinting under the dim light. And just before they bit down, Vladimir looked up with a spark of celebration in his eyes:
"To our new ally, Stefan."
Stefan responded with a smile that didn't bother to hide the monster beneath his skin:
"To our first step toward the fall of the Volturi."
And then, in perfect synchrony, they sank their fangs into Nate's forearms.
The alley was filled with screams. Endless, torn, inhuman screams.
Meanwhile, the wheels of fate began to turn with renewed force—
As if the decisions made that very night carried enough weight to change everything.