"Well, this is... unexpected."
The voice cut through the stillness like a blade.
My stomach tightened.
The figure stepped out from the shadows of the birch trees, his silhouette familiar and imposing.
My half-brother.
Maxim Kostkov.
He never raised his voice, but in our world, the quietest men are often the most dangerous.
"Max," I said. My voice was a flat line of steel.
Whatever vulnerability I had shown Dmitry moments ago was buried under layers of Kostkov ice.
"You're a long way from home."
Maxim let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Taking a walk, dear sister. Though I didn't expect to find you... playing home with an Ivanov."
The way he spat the name Ivanov was a calculated insult. Beside me, Dmitry shifted. He didn't retreat; instead, he closed the space between us just enough for our shoulders to brush. A silent, defiant claim.
"Rumors never lie," Maxim continued, his gaze dropping to our proximity. "An Ivanov and a Kostkov, walking the same path...I should have known you'd find a new way to disgrace this family."
"We were leaving," I snapped, stepping in front of Dmitry before he could retaliate. "There is nothing here for you, Maxim. Go home."
"Isn't there?"
His eyes flickered to the freshly turned soil of Ellie's grave. His lip curled. "A cat. How sentimental. I don't recall Father giving you permission to wander this far without a leash.. Not at least with an Ivanov."
I opened my mouth to burn him with a retort, but Dmitry beat me to it.
"And I don't recall you having the authority to question a future Pakhan," Dmitry said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Especially one who has a year of seniority over you."
Future Pakhan. The title hung in the air, heavy and lethal.
Maxim's smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Uh-uh-uh, careful, Ivanov. You're speaking as if you have a seat at a table that hasn't been built for you yet."
He stepped closer, the air between them turning electric. "Your father may be my father's right hand, but you? You're just a shadow. And a shadow should know better than to touch what doesn't belong to it."
He looked at me, then leaned in, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "An Ivanov will always be second, Dmitry. No matter how close you crawl to a Kostkov. Remember that."
The blood in my veins turned to fire. I stepped into Maxim's personal space, my eyes boring into his. "That's enough, Maxim."
"Oh wow, standing up now for an Ivanov, huh?" he challenged, his face inches from mine. "What do you think Father will do once he knows you're out here playing house with this man? You're being disgraceful enough for this family just by accepting to be the next Pakhan, and now...this?"
I didn't breathe. I didn't think. I lunged, my hand fist-flicking into his collar, grabbing the expensive fabric of his uniform until it crumpled in my fist. I felt Dmitry move to pull me back, but he stopped, sensing the shift in me.
"You're threatening me, aren't you?" I hissed with my voice dangerously low. "Just to remind you. It is you who will always be the second. No matter how many sons my father has. Whether I accept the crown or not. You have no right to threaten me or any person near me."
The insult hit its mark. Maxim's hand went to his back, and in a blur of motion, we both drew.
Steel sang against steel.
The tip of my knife was an inch from his throat; his blade was leveled at my heart. We stood frozen, two predators locked in a stalemate, our breath hitching in the cold air.
"Raising a knife to me is a new thing for you, dear sister," Maxim said with that infuriating smirk he has.
"For someone so obsessed with hierarchy," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline, "You should know which lines are fatal to cross. I am the eldest. And if the price of the bloodline means having a knife-to-knife war with you because you insulted me? I'd do it a thousand times."
I could see the fury turning his face a dark shade of red. His knife hand shook with the effort of not lunging. He knew better than to touch me.
The silence lasted an eternity until I felt a warm, firm hand wrap around my wrist. Dmitry. He didn't pull me away; he held me like I was something sacred.
"Enough of that," Dmitry commanded, his eyes locked on mine. " Your father wouldn't appreciate the mess you will both create here."
I held Maxim's gaze for three more seconds—long enough to win—then lowered my knife.
"Brave enough," Maxim whispered, sheathing his blade with a sharp click, "Next time? I won't be this generous."
Then he paused, "And oh, Father will know about this, Anastasia." He turned with a dangerous, playful grin before vanishing into the trees.
The silence that followed was hollow.
It pressed against my ears, louder than the clash of steel from moments ago.
I exhaled a breath I didn't realize I had been holding—one that felt like it had lived in my chest since childhood.
Slowly, I turned to Dmitry.
My chest was still rising too fast. Too uneven.
"You shouldn't have seen that," I muttered. The words felt wrong the moment they left my mouth because they were too soft.
Dmitry didn't answer immediately.
His gaze drifted—not to me—but to the grave. To the torn soil. To what was left of something we once shared.
Then, slowly, he looked back at me. And whatever warmth had been there before was gone. It cuts deeper than Maxim's blade ever could.
"Maybe it's better if we stay away from each other, Ana," he said quietly.
Then a pause.
"Ellie is gone. There is no reason for us to pretend we have a connection anymore."
Something in my chest tightened in an instant. My fingers curled slightly at my sides, "Dmitry—"
His eyes flickered briefly—just briefly—toward where Maxim had disappeared.
"He's right." This was never supposed to happen. An Ivanov doesn't stand a chance against a Kostkov. I just...I just knew it was wrong that we crossed the line when we were eight."
I shook my head fast. "If this was about the letter, I never received it, I swear," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "Dmitry, I didn't know—"
"Ana, this is not about the letter anymore."
The interruption was quiet.
Too quick.
Too certain.
And that hurt more than if he had shouted. Because he didn't even question it. He didn't ask. He didn't wait. He just ended it.
"Go home, Kostkov." he said. Not Ana anymore. Not with the soft voice meant for me when everything was peaceful.
I watched him turn around. I could see it in the way his shoulders tensed. In the way his hand curled slightly at his side, like he was holding himself back from something he shouldn't want.
From that moment, my heart sharpened in a way that it was hurting me badly.
My chest tightened, something unfamiliar clawing its way up—but I forced it down.
Because Kostkovs don't break.
I now understand that some lines aren't meant to be crossed...
They are meant to be burned from the start.