What Do Gods Dream Of ? PV — V. NIGHTHAWK

The night pressed in, heavy and almost brutally quiet; it was as if the cold had created a vacuum that oppressed even a bit of sound that surrounded the snow-filled terrain. The Durmstrang castle, for its part, stood unyielding as ever, its silhouette cut clean against the gloomy sky that offered no light.

Nights were never a fragment of peace for Vasilius; they were instead the time of the day that stretched painfully long to endure, and the dreams accompanying it were no boon either, rather a testament of the shadows that loomed over his mind; they were ephemeral but enough to cast a lasting effect on him that swallowed his sleep to countless sleepless nights at a time.

Tonight was one such night, where Vas found himself sneaking out of the castle, small snowflakes falling over his hair, clad in a simple pyjama, too thin to bear the chilly winds yet rather comforting in an ineffable way. The box of his usual smoke sticks was heavy in his pocket as he walked out in an attempt to find a place to drown himself in his thoughts until dawn broke.

Suddenly, the sound of a metal cut through the silence.

It was sharp and immediate, the kind that'd make most people scream.

He remained still, his head turning towards the dagger that had flown right past him, and finally, his gaze lifted towards the figure sitting on the roof, the bearer of the dagger.

"You missed", the words came out quietly; there had been no salient change in his expression.

He slowly reached out to pick the dagger, the cold metal scintillating under the moonlight. It was almost ethereal, yet sharp enough to scream that it could kill a person in a single attempt. He lifted it, observing the minor details that etched the dagger, easily missed by human eyes if not attentive.

"It wasn't much of a miss, barely to be exact, but enough to get you badly caught in a life or death situation."

His eyes flicked towards the dagger, before looking at the girl, finally observing her, who wasn't someone he'd seen before, a sign that she belonged to perhaps a year or two below him. Her expressions were almost enigmatic for Vas to read past, like he usually did, almost like a clandestine figure.

"You had the line, perfect angle, no obstacles to be honest", he muttered before pausing for a second, as silence spread between them, before finally adding, "but still couldn't."

He slowly cracked his neck before finally looking up, as if he was aiming. With a flick of his wrist, the dagger flew up in total fluidity before settling again, on a wall, centimetres away from the girl. It was a deliberate shot, aimed at passing it back to her without causing any damage because the last thing he'd want was to carry back a stabbed figure to the nurse and the explanations that followed it.

♱ ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀɪʏᴀ ᴍsᴛɪsʟᴀᴠᴏᴠɴᴀ ᴘᴇᴛʀᴏᴠsᴋᴀʏᴀ ♱

IRONMADE — Дом Петровских Student of Durmstrang Institute, Second Year OUTFIT: this, minus the sword. hair is loose.

HEX: russian - #3f3022 ; english - #470000 23 NOVEMBER, 2025, WORDCOUNT: 000 INTERACTING: @Vasilius Nighthawk

𝕬 scowl immediately creased her ivory brows, superior lips curling in something resembling a hiss. Missed? The blade she had thrown was but an extension of her limbs. Her fingers knew every curve, every crease of its chiseled surface, every intricate pattern embedded in its handle. The weight of it, how gravity tugged on its extremities, was engrained in her wrist, hand bending with it, following its movement. Viktoriya knew how the breeze around them moved, had learned to recognize the exact second within which time slowed down, breath exhaling and curling up to the skies, an opening. Her blade went where her will aimed it, to the point she was not sure if she was capable to miss. Calloused hands, marks on her skin that ranged from purple to indigo, thousand of healed cuts and fresh ones — training. Again, and again, and again. Even during time like these where the night swallowed her entirely, and it suddenly felt like no breathing creature knew her name, her fingers ached to feel the weight of a blade, twist it in the air and hear the ravenous sound of silver slashing oxygen. Missed. Eyes unmoving, still fixed on a point in the indiscernable horizon of the ink-black night, she scoffed, back resting against the sharp edges of the roof once more. The tiles beneath her were as cold as a russian winter, the sting of their uneven surface softened by the layers of her tunique. Uninterested. "придурок," she muttered under her breath. When finally, at the end of his improvised lecture — one he could have addressed to anyone but her, given the common knowledge of her House's specialisation —, his voice came to a halt, she shifted, head tilting to the side until he appeared in her frontal vision. At the exact same second, her own blade was aimed back at her, and her imperceptible shift on the roof made it brush her skin by a centimeter, ending its course where her hand stood mere seconds ago. Others had gravely suffered for less of an affront. A scoff escaped her. Was every man she was bound to meet this innately moronic? By aiming her blade inches away from her, he had only managed to reproduce what she had previously done — target a close area, near enough to scare yet not to draw first blood. Only a man could lecture about one thing, then proceed to do what he had just criticized. Truly brain dead. A silver coin rolling between her fingers, she pinched it in the air, watching it rise and spin before unsheathing another blade strapped to her thigh and piercing the coin in its center, ending its course right at the intruder's feet. Still perched on the roof, she addressed him a gaze filled with pure disdain, fangs unsheathed. "If I had wanted to miss, I would have," she raised an eyebrow. "Spare your insipide lectures for someone who needs them. Which, it appear, would be yourself."

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