The Zakharov estate was alive with motion. The mansion buzzed like a hive, filled with staff rushing through the corridors, arms full of crystalware, garlands, or silver trays carrying hors d'oeuvres that smelled expensive. Every corner shimmered under polished chandeliers, while the main ballroom was being transformed into a gilded marvel meant to impress powerful warriors and terrify politicians.
Upstairs, in a quieter wing of the mansion, Isaac Zakharov stood before a gilded mirror. Clad in a midnight black suit with an obsidian tie and lapel pin shaped like a jackal. he smirked at his own reflection, eyes glinting with boyish mischief and refined arrogance.
Behind him, lounging like royalty, Tatiana sat beside Klaus on a wide chaise. She was in silk, legs crossed, idly flipping through the pages of a tattered novel. Klaus, meanwhile, stood at his easel, his brush sweeping across canvas in smooth, calculated strokes.
"Well, sister dearest," Isaac drawled, tilting his head to the side and adjusting his cufflinks. "Tell me again how devastatingly handsome I am."
Tatiana didn't look up. She offered him a saccharine smile, eyes still on her book. "Hmm… You might need to use all your accumulated luck to get a compliment from me today."
Isaac chuckled, unbothered. One of his aides adjusted his jacket, brushing invisible specks from his shoulders. He looked radiant—not just physically, but in that rare Zakharov way, exuding charisma, menace, and cunning like it was cologne.
The door hissed open—not creaked, not swung—hissed, revealing a woman whose entrance felt like a glitch in the simulation.
She was about 5'7", but carried herself like a living threat assessment. Her dirty blonde hair was tousled in an almost calculated mess, and her ocean-blue eyes shimmered with intellect, madness, and just enough contempt to make anyone uneasy. She looked like the kind of person who could build a bomb in her garage and still be late to dinner because she forgot the time.
She wore a fitted mauve coverall streaked with orange and black piping—functional but enhanced, built with sensor mesh and armored lining. Over it hung a darker purple tactical jacket, dotted with data ports, power strips, and what looked like a microdroning patch on the chest. A sleek white emblem, like a stylized wolf fang, marked the left side.
When she stepped in, a faint hum accompanied her—either from the haptic servos in her boots or whatever exotic tech she was tinkering with last.
Isaac's grin widened the moment he saw her.
"Well? Where's your dress, love?" he teased, tone honeyed with anticipation.
Tatiana perked up with a rare, genuine smile. "It's been a while, Rachel. You look... exactly the same."
The woman—Rachel, or more accurately Driver—tilted her head and gave a long-suffering sigh. She leaned against the wall like she owned the place, arms crossed, eyes gleaming.
"First off, I'm not in the mood for dresses. Second—Driver, please. Code names exist for a reason. We built an entire organization on protocol and then keep violating it like horny anarchists."
Isaac sighed dramatically and approached her, wrapping his arms loosely around her from behind. "Such a cruel girlfriend… I might die of heartbreak before the party even starts."
Driver let him cling, but it was clear she was far more interested in the structural integrity of the wall than his affection. She finally pushed him off with a gentle shove and dropped into a nearby chair like a soldier who'd just defused a reactor core.
Crossing one leg over the other, she slouched with practiced indifference. Her gaze flicked to Klaus—still painting, still ignoring the world—and she grinned.
"Hey. Smiling creep."
Klaus didn't look up, but his hand paused mid-stroke.
"Can you get me those nightmare creatures?" she asked sweetly. "The frogs that suck oxygen out of the atmosphere?"
Klaus's expression soured. His concentration cracked like glass. Slowly, he turned his head to glare at her.
"What do you want them for, Driver? I'm working."
Driver rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. "I'm building a new bomb. if I can integrate their pulmonary sacs into a plasma mesh, I might be able to develop a functional Oxygen Destroyer. You know—vacuum collapse. No more breathable air. Poof. Just silence."
The room went silent.
Tatiana lowered her book. Isaac blinked. Even Klaus set his brush down with a quiet clink against the easel.
Driver shrugged. "What? I'm bored of thermonuclear bombs. Time to try something new."
Klaus turned his full body to face her, placing his brush down like a priest sheathing a relic. His smile widened—too wide. Too knowing.
"My dear Rachel," he began, voice silken and dangerous, "have I ever denied you anything? We've been friends for years. You're practically family. And you're dating Isaac—so by extension, my family."
He paused, eyes gleaming like a shark's. "So, of course, I'll deliver those lovely little murder-frogs to your doorstep."
Driver visibly cringed, caught between flattery and revulsion. "Ugh. You're making this weird, Klaus. You're literally weaponizing guilt."
Klaus just smiled wider, turning back to his canvas.
Rachel, a.k.a. Driver, was no ordinary engineer. Her abilities were about Creation—a terrifyingly versatile aspect that allowed her to infuse essence into technology. Her bombs weren't just explosives—they were artifacts, capable of bypassing resistance, harming even Ascended beings, and in rare cases, rewriting battlefield physics.
Even her guns—those handcrafted, humming hybrids of essence and science—could kill Sleepers, breach Awakened defenses, and in the right hands, destabilize entire zones.
But it wasn't just weapons.
She'd built mobile exosuits, AI with evolving sentience, internal black boxes, holographic clone decoys—and once, as a joke, a toaster that caused localized EMP pulses every time it finished a slice.
And if she wanted to know your secrets?
She already did.
Government files? Passwords? Surveillance blackouts?
Child's play.
Klaus shook his head, painting with renewed amusement. Even now, he was uploading a new classified request to the organization's encrypted server, funds transferring silently for her next creation.
While Isaac continued his dramatic pleas for Rachel to wear a dress—each more outrageous than the last—Klaus quietly stilled.
His eyes dropped to the communicator in his hand. A soft chime had sounded just moments ago. One glance at the message, and the ever-present smile on his face faltered, replaced by a silence that seemed to stretch unnaturally in the air around him.
He stood without a word, slipping off his painting gloves and retrieving his long black coat from the rack.
Tatiana noticed first, lifting her gaze from her book.
"Where are you going, Nik?" she asked gently.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek gently, almost affectionately.
"Just a bit of business to handle before the festivities," he murmured with a voice too casual to be trusted—and then he was gone.
Rachel scoffed the moment the door closed behind him, shaking her head.
"Tch. That smiling creep is unreasonably strong," she muttered, crossing her arms. "He gives me the chills every time he vanishes like that…"
Elsewhere, far above the choked hum of the city, Klaus stood atop a high-rise, the cold wind playing with his coat. He inhaled deeply, the midnight air cutting and clean. He closed his eyes.
Then took a step forward.
Reality cracked.
Colors bled through the air like oil across water—red, gold, violet, azure—twisting, blending, then parting to reveal a doorway stitched between chaotic, overlapping dimensions. Klaus stepped through it without hesitation.
On the other side, the world was quiet.
He emerged at the edge of a crumbling cathedral, its spires long-since broken, its bells silent. Time and abandonment had hollowed it. Since the Nightmare Spell revealed the Dream Realm and the death of gods, faith had withered. And with it, places like this had turned to dust.
Klaus walked forward, his boots crunching gently on old gravel. At the heavy wooden doors, he paused and knocked with courteous restraint.
A voice answered from within—deep, weathered, unmistakably ancient. "Come in."
The doors creaked open. Inside, the scent of ash and damp stone hung in the air. Broken pews lined the space like the skeletal remains of a forgotten congregation. In the center, where an altar once stood, a small fire burned in a makeshift hearth.
An old man sat before the flames on a crooked chair, as though he had always belonged there. He looked worn by time but not diminished—his presence was a sea during storm, calm on the surface, deadly beneath. His beard was long and silver-shot with blue, matching the cold indigo gleam of his eyes.
Klaus didn't speak. He remained standing, posture straight, expression unreadable, but respectful—something almost no one alive could draw from him.
The old man stared into the fire, his back turned.
"It's been a while… Icarus."
Klaus tilted his head ever so slightly, but the name didn't shake him.
"Yes," he said finally. "It has… sir. Though I go by a different name now."
The old man nodded, slowly. He drew a long, curved blade from a sheath resting at his side, examining Klaus through the mirror of its polished surface.
"I imagine you're wondering why a washed-up relic would summon you," he said.
Klaus lowered his gaze, thinking. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't… Elder Knossos."
The name hung in the air like incense.
Knossos's eyes opened. Their depth hadn't dulled with age. If anything, they were sharper now—cutting straight through Klaus. He slowly sheathed the blade again, the motion deliberate.
"I need your help," he said quietly.
Klaus raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.
Then he stilled.
Something in Knossos's voice… the weight of the request behind it… hit him like a whisper of danger. His pupils dilated for the briefest second, but his expression remained perfectly composed—save for a single, fleeting moment of recognition.
"No," Klaus said coolly. "I'm not chasing your little sharks around the Dream Realm."
Knossos chuckled—a deep, worn sound, as if carved from stone.
"You've grown more arrogant since the last time. But I think you'll change your mind…"
He leaned forward, his fingers tracing the pattern etched onto the hilt of his sword.
"Because this time, I'm not asking you to hunt them down."
Klaus narrowed his eyes. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.
Knossos spoke again—low and deliberate.
"Because this isn't about them. It's about her."
The flames crackled. Somewhere above, the remnants of a bell groaned in the wind.
Klaus's smile vanished.
The cathedral fell silent once more.
***
Hey everyone!
Sorry for the slower chapter releases lately — exams are coming up, so things are a bit hectic on my end. Thanks so much for being patient!
So, what did you think of the latest chapter? Was it a surprise? What do you think Knossos meant by her? And why do you think Klaus reacted that way? I'd love to hear your theories!
Oh, and just a heads-up: this part of the story happens the day before Cassie gets her invitation, so don't worry if the timeline feels a little tricky.
As always, thank you all so much for the support. It means the world. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
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