Deiter pushed open the large wooden door, the hinges giving a weary groan as they stepped from the dim warehouse into the yard beyond. The air outside was cold and sharp, filled with the scent of diesel, sweat, and wet earth. The building behind them had been converted into makeshift barracks for the hybrids, and the yard itself was alive with muted activity.

  “I cannot believe it,” Deiter muttered, shaking his head as he took a long drag from his cigarette. The smoke curled lazily from his muzzle before being caught by the wind. “It sounds like madness on the part of the American.”

  Eira stuffed her hands into her pockets, her ears angling back slightly. “He was indeed mad, Deiter. If it’s all the same, it’s a time I’d prefer not to dwell on. It’s done, and for that I’m grateful.”

  Deiter studied her face for a moment. There was something brittle about her tone, a hollowness that hadn’t been there before. He looked as though he wanted to say more but thought better of it. Instead, he took one last drag and flicked the cigarette into the dirt, grinding it under his heel. “Of course,” he said quietly.

  Eira turned her gaze toward the rest of the yard. Four hybrids were off in the corner, their bodies moving in perfect rhythm as they performed pushups. Their chests dipped within a fist’s width of the ground before rising again, each repetition counted off in rough unison. Nearby, a human Unteroffizier stood with his arms folded, sharp eyes following every movement. The man’s expression was neutral, but his stance spoke of a constant, guarded tension.

  “They keep us busy of course,” Deiter said, motioning toward them. He glanced back at her. “Recognize any of them?”

  Eira squinted. The young faces and lean frames were unfamiliar. “Nein,” she said after a pause. Then her brow furrowed, realization dawning. “How old are they?” Her voice carried a faint edge of disbelief.

  “Young,” Dieter said, lowering his voice. “Also, so you’re aware Adam and Eve have been removed from the frontlines to focus on training the new ones. That makes you and I the elders now, at least outside the facilities.”

  Eira straightened slightly, blinking. It had been months since she’d last heard those names spoken aloud. “They pulled them from combat?”

  “Ja,” Dieter said. He sighed and ran a hand through the fur on his neck. “We’re the old ones now, Eira. The war keeps eating the young and spitting out replacements.” He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Strange feeling, isn’t it?”

  Eira’s mouth twitched into the faintest ghost of a smile. “Old,” she said softly.

  Her attention drifted toward another part of the yard, where a male and female hybrid sat side by side on a bench cleaning their rifles. The rhythmic click of metal being reassembled carried faintly through the air. Eira’s eyes lingered on the female, she was the one Eira had seen earlier. Every few moments, the females hand drifted up to scratch at a bare patch on the bridge of her muzzle, a nervous tick she didn’t seem aware of.

  Deiter noticed her gaze and motioned subtly. “That’s Varan,” he said in a low voice. “Be mindful what you say around her.”

  The name stirred something in Eira’s memory. She blinked, thinking back. “Varan…” she said slowly. “I remember her. She used to build those little houses out of sticks and twigs she’d find.”

  Dieter gave a small, nostalgic smile. “Ja. That same Varan. She doesn’t talk much anymore. Vollmer would hardly recognize her now,” He paused and gave a bitter huff. “for that matter, none of us are what we were back then.”

  Eira leaned forward, resting her hands on a nearby crate. “They said the Reich thought Vollmer was too soft,” she said quietly. “Too… sentimental.”

  “Soft,” Dieter repeated, his tone darkening. “Maybe. But at least he saw us as more than tools. Now we’re measured in efficiency.”

  Eira nodded, leaning forward slightly. The memory of those early days. Simpler, quieter times before Vollmer had been taken away. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of boots striking the ground and the sharp cadence of counting filled the silence between them.

  The faint wind caught a bit of dust from the yard, swirling it around their boots before it vanished again into stillness.

  Just then the door to their left opened, the hinges creaking as Feldwebel Falkner stepped out into the yard. Behind him followed a man with a narrow face and sharp, intelligent eyes. His hair was a shock of gray, combed neatly back, though a few rebellious strands had escaped and danced in the breeze. Instead of his full uniform, he wore a wool knit sweater, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, giving him a look halfway between officer and schoolteacher.

  Dieter straightened at once, snapping to attention, and Eira followed suit beside him.

  The man gave a small groan and waved his hand dismissively. “At rest, please. I’m much too tired for ceremony today.” His tone was dry but not unkind.

  Eira and Dieter relaxed, though they remained standing straight as Falkner turned to look at them. His expression softened slightly as his gaze settled on Eira.

  “Well, Oberschütze Eira,” Falkner said with a nod. “This is where we part ways.” He checked his wristwatch, squinting at the face. “Ack, nearly too late for coffee,” he muttered, sounding genuinely disappointed. Dropping his wrist, he turned to the man in the sweater. “Oberleutnant Haller, I’m off then.”

  The gray-haired officer stood straighter, extending a hand. “You be well, Feldwebel,” he said simply.

  Falkner grasped it firmly and gave a single nod. “And you.” Then, tipping his cap to both hybrids, he added, “Keep your heads down. The world’s growing mad.” With that, he made for the gate, his boots crunching on the gravel until the sound faded.

  Haller stood quietly for a moment, his sharp blue eyes flicking between Eira and Dieter. His expression wasn’t one of disgust or curiosity, more like a craftsman inspecting his tools before use. Finally, he spoke. “I am Oberleutnant Haller, as Falkner so kindly mentioned. We’ll be here for a few days before we return to the Oder.”

  He stepped forward, his movements unhurried, and perched himself atop a nearby crate with a quiet grunt. From his pocket, he produced a small silver tin and popped the lid open. “I understand you are injured, Oberschütze?”

  Eira nodded once. “Ja, Oberleutnant. A few days’ rest will suffice.”

  “Good,” Haller said, his tone brisk but approving. He pinched a bit of brown tobacco from the tin, inhaled sharply through his nose, and immediately winced. “Ah, too much,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Every time I think I’ve got the measure of this stuff.” He gave a sniff and waved off the discomfort. “You’re excused from training until you’re fit to rejoin. I’ll inform my staff.”

  He stood from the crate, squared his shoulders, and raised his voice. “Muster!”

  The yard came alive with movement. The four hybrids who had been doing pushups snapped to their feet, voices cutting off mid-count. The two at the table, Varan and the male beside her stood quickly, her chair scraping across the dirt. They fell into line with crisp discipline beside the human Unteroffizier, forming a neat row of muscle, fur, and sweat-stained uniforms.

  Haller surveyed them with the faint satisfaction and a curt nod, and turned to Eira. “That would be Unteroffizier Vetter,” he said, gesturing to the human. “Feldwebel Kranz is securing supplies at the moment.” He stepped forward and addressed the assembled hybrids directly.

  “This is Oberschütze Eira,” he said, his voice cutting through the yard with a steady authority. “She is now attached to Stosstrupp Zwei, effective immediately.”

  He paused, letting the name settle among them before continuing. “Due to her service record and the trials she has endured, I am granting her a field promotion to Gefreiter.”

  A ripple of acknowledgment passed through the group. Haller turned to Eira and gave a small, approving nod. “Congratulations. You and Dieter will be responsible for keeping this lot alive and disciplined in the field.”

  Eira straightened slightly, though her chest felt tight. “Jawohl, Oberleutnant.”

  He nodded once, satisfied, then rubbed his nose again with an irritated sound. “We’ll be leaving in three days’ time. I don’t yet know where command intends to send us, but it will no doubt be somewhere unpleasant. Our duty remains the same. To the Fatherland.”

  He let his gaze sweep over the group, measuring each of them in turn. “Dismissed.”

  The group broke formation immediately. The younger hybrids drifted back to their tasks, the clatter of weapons and muted voices resuming across the yard. Varan returned to her seat at the table, picking up her rifle and cleaning rod. Her brown eyes flicked toward Eira now and then, a faint suspicion behind them. Her hand rose unconsciously to scratch that bare patch on her muzzle again.

  A loud sneeze suddenly shattered the moment. Haller cursed under his breath, fumbling for a handkerchief. “Damn snuff,” he muttered, blowing his nose and giving the group a weary look. He sighed, tucking the handkerchief away, and straightened his shoulders with a faint wince. “Carry on, all of you. You have your orders.”

  He gave Eira and Dieter a brief, courteous nod before turning toward the door. The gray-haired officer moved with a deliberate calm, brushing a streak of dust from his sleeve as he went. The wooden door creaked shut behind him, the sound fading into the low murmur of the yard.

  Eira stood still for a long moment, her eyes lingering on the door. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. She had braced for the usual contempt, the quick recoil most officers tried to hide when addressing her kind. But Haller’s tone had been different. Measured, mild, almost bored. It threw her off balance in a way open disgust never could. It was as if he didn’t see her as anything unusual, and somehow that was more disarming than the alternative.

  She exhaled slowly, realizing her shoulders were still tense. Dieter’s hand came down lightly on her shoulder, pulling her from her thoughts. His voice carried a rough warmth. “Come, little sister,” he said. “Let’s see about some food. Perhaps something even edible this time.”

  Eira gave a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I hold no expectations,” she said quietly.

  They started toward the building together, boots crunching softly in the dirt. The others had returned to their tasks, but she could feel their eyes on her all the same. The weight of those glances followed her until she stepped back through the door, the cool air of the yard giving way to the dry heat inside the building.

  Eira sat at the long table inside the converted warehouse, the air thick with the scent of boiled meat, sweat, and old oil. The benches creaked under the weight of the hybrids gathered there, the flicker of lantern light throwing long, uneven shadows across the walls. Her meal sat before her on a dented metal tray. Dry sausage, a small hunk of stale bread, and a bowl that had once contained thin broth. It wasn’t much, but it was warm and real.

  She tore into the sausage with visible hunger, chewing with effort. The meat was tough as leather, the kind that fought every bite, and loosened teeth.

  Beside her, Dieter dipped a piece of bread into his bowl, softening it before tearing off a chunk with his teeth. The crust cracked like bark. He glanced over at her, eyebrows raised in amusement. “You’re eating like a…” He trailed off, smirking as if catching himself.

  Eira paused mid-bite, then set the sausage down. She wiped a smear of grease from her mouth with the back of her hand. “Like what, Dieter? A starved wolf?”

  Dieter laughed, shaking his head. “Ja. Exactly that. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “Not particularly,” she said flatly, though the faintest hint of humor tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  She reached for her tin cup and tilted it, pouring water carefully into the left side of her muzzle. The motion almost mechanical. Around the table, the others ate more slowly, some barely touching their rations. The scraping of metal cutlery and quiet chewing were the only sounds for a while.

  She hesitated, the flicker of a memory creeping in. Smoke, hunger, Emmett’s rough voice. The thought lingered just long enough to make her jaw tighten. Then she decided to speak it aloud, despite her initial reservations. “I actually ate wolf once,” she said quietly. “A few weeks ago. Does that make me a cannibal?”

  Next to her, Dieter blinked, then let out a quiet hum as if turning the idea over. “I suppose it is,” he said after a moment, his voice thoughtful. “Though we’re only half, so maybe only half cannibalism.”

  A ripple of laughter passed through the group, low and brief, before the sound of chewing resumed.

  Eira nodded slightly, returning to her meal. She found herself staring at her empty bowl, and regretting emptying it so quickly. The broth would’ve helped soften the sausage enough to make it bearable. She eyed Dieter’s bowl for a moment, then looked away.

  Dieter followed her glance, and without a word, began to tilt his bowl toward hers, intending to pour some of his remaining broth into it. Eira’s hand shot out, stopping him midway. “Nein, Dieter. Thank you, but no,” she said firmly.

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  He studied her for a second, then nodded, pulling his bowl back with a quiet grunt. “I miss proper food,” he muttered, tossing the last of his bread into the broth.

  A few others chuckled in agreement, the sound more tired than amused. Eira lifted her gaze and caught Varan watching her from across the table. The female hybrid’s brown eyes glinted in the lamplight, her expression cautious but curious.

  Eira offered her a small, genuine smile and gestured lightly with her hand. “Varan, it’s been a while.”

  Varan pointed at her with her spoon, a bit of broth dripping from the edge. “Ack, it has. The last time we spoke, you were helping me with my lessons, weren’t you?” Her tone was guarded but light enough to carry a faint warmth. “Welcome to Stosstrupp Zwei.”

  Eira smiled faintly, breaking the sausage into smaller pieces. “Thank you,” she said simply.

  Dieter cleared his throat and set his bowl aside, the faint trace of a grin on his muzzle. “Well, you already know Varan and myself, of course,” he said, gesturing toward the others seated along the table.

  He pointed next to the hybrid sitting beside her. “That’s Ulric,” Dieter said. The wolf hybrid was tall and broad-shouldered, his thick mane of fur spilling down his neck and chest, preventing him from fastening the top buttons of his tunic. He lifted a hand lazily in greeting, his claws glinting in the dim light. “Welcome back to the kennel,” Ulric said, voice deep and amused.

  Dieter then pointed to the hybrid seated on Varan’s right. “And that is Ernst,” he said. The name came with a flicker of sympathy in his tone. Ernst’s fur was patchy, singed around the jawline and throat, as though fire had kissed him once and refused to let him forget it. Despite the scarring, his eyes were calm, even kind. He gave Eira a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to methodically tearing a crust of bread apart.

  “Next is Rolf,” Dieter continued, pointing to the hybrid across the table, who was midway through chewing a piece of dry bread that looked as though it might break his teeth. Rolf simply nodded without speaking, his jaw working slowly as if that were answer enough.

  Dieter leaned back slightly, angling himself so Eira could see the wolfman sitting to his right. “This one here is Otto.”

  Otto offered a polite nod, his expression unreadable as his yellow eyes met hers briefly before turning back to his bowl.

  Finally, Dieter gestured toward the hybrid seated to Eira’s immediate left. “And this is Rainer,” he said.

  Eira turned, meeting the younger male’s gaze. His fur was a lighter shade of gray than most, with a streak of white running down the bridge of his muzzle. He smiled easily, showing clean white canines. “Pleasure to meet you, big sister,” he said, his voice bright and unguarded. He extended a hand, and Eira reached out to shake it, her grip firm but measured.

  “Likewise, Rainer,” she said quietly, her tone even.

  Dieter grinned and gave her a firm pat on the back. “It’s good having you back,” he said warmly. His hand lingered for a moment before he leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing hers as he returned to his meal.

  For the first time since she’d arrived, she felt something close to peace. The table around her hummed softly with idle chatter, the kind of noise that only came from men and women too tired to argue and too hungry to care.

  For a brief, fragile moment, it felt almost like family again.

  Emmett limped through the mud, the cold air biting at his face. Each step dragged a ragged breath from him and sent a streak of pain through his hip. He leaned on the crude crutch he had carved from a fallen branch, its rough wood digging into his armpit. It dulled the pain in his leg, but not by much. His strength was leaking out of him, his body long past its limit.

  He gritted his teeth and fixed his gaze on the faint strip of ground ahead. Illuminated by a flare, launched from the German lines. As the flare burnt out the night once again became absolute. No stars, no horizon, only a black lid of cloud pressing low. Between distant artillery rumbles the world seemed to hold its breath.

  He had reached the German defensive line along the Oder. A miracle, if miracles still bothered with men like him. The works were heavy. Guns behind, trenches in layered belts, the land sewn up with wire and mines. He had studied the pattern from afar. Rear trenches for support, then the main line, then the forward pits bristling with teeth. He had slipped through at a spot where the wire sagged and the ground hinted at a path.

  It had nearly killed him. The outer zone was a waste of pits and wire and mud deep enough to take a man whole. He could still feel it drag at his legs, clinging like a thing that wanted him for itself.

  What he was attempting was madness. He had crossed the line only to turn back toward it again, all to sell a lie. That he was an escaped Wehrmacht soldier, wounded and desperate, fleeing the Russians.

  He pushed on, boot soles sucking at the muck. Pain in his leg had settled into a steady pulse, dull as a buried toothache. He would not last long.

  The worst part wasn’t the pain, or even the exhaustion, it was the uncertainty.

  At any moment someone might see him, a shape through a rifle scope. A silhouette in a flare’s pale light and take the shot. From the German side, they’d see a lone figure moving through no man’s land, and paranoia would do the rest. From the Russian side the same, a dark form angling toward the enemy. Scout, deserter, target.

  He kept low, trying to make himself smaller against the horizon, using what little cover he could find. Craters, dead branches, scraps of half-buried debris. Every few steps he paused to listen. The night was full of small treacherous sounds.

  Ahead the earth fell away into a wide depression half filled with stagnant water. He stopped at the lip and studied it. The mud looked deep, the water black and slick. A miserable stagnate pond that would provide cover for what came next.

  He slid down on his stomach, his injured leg dragging behind him. The cold water hitting him like a slap as he became half-submerged along the edge, the muck seeping into his coat. His breath came in gasps, hot against the chill night air as sweat trickled down his face, gathering beneath the eyepatch and stinging the skin within the socket.

  He went still, let his pulse slow and listened past his heartbeat. Far off, a faint burst of a gun rattled and quit.

  He rolled his shoulder, winced and thought through the next steps. Anything that made him look like a threat had to go. The MP40 slung across his back went first. He slid it free, held it a heartbeat, then heaved it into the black water. The sound was a wet plop and then nothing.

  Emmett checked his pockets and found the packet of Pervitin. The itch to take one more stirred. It would sharpen him, push him the last crawl but he knew better. He had already taken too much. After staring at the packet a moment longer he reluctantly tossed it in after the gun where it floated for a moment, then sank without a sound as it became waterlogged.

  The boots would be a problem. American issue. The Soviets had Lend Lease coming in, but they did not give boots like these to prisoners. He could excuse the trousers. The coat, stolen from the truck driver he had killed was German and would help. The boots might betray him if anyone looked too close.

  He would have to ditch them, but not yet. There was still rough ground to cross. Littered with barbed wire and barbs of shrapnel. He would bury them when he could practically smell the Germans.

  Emmett reached to his chin, found the helmet strap and clicked the buckle loose. He turned the helmet in his hands once, then slid it off into the pool. It went under beside the MP40 and the pills. His hand then moved to his belt and touched the knife’s handle. That one, he couldn’t part with. It was the only thing that still felt like his. If someone asked, he would lie through his teeth about why he carried it. But he wouldn’t let it go.

  He lifted his head. Artillery thudded far off. Lighting the sky as the clouds began to thin and a cold wash of moonlight crept over the field, showing a country of scars. Craters winked with pale water and rows of barbed wire stretched across the land.

  Judging the distance there was three hundred meters, between him and the first German position. maybe less. Still too far to risk a shout, and too far to be seen for what he wanted them to see. He needed another hundred.

  Not far now.

  He lowered his head and let the filth take him. The mud gripped his chest and face and made him heavy. Each pull lit the bad leg. Cold gnawed from the outside, fever from within. His breath came in short, shallow bursts that fogged the air.

  His pulse thudded behind his ribs. The wounds woke and ached slow and deep, embers under skin. He pictured infection crawling the seams of his cuts.

  He went forward anyway, dragging with his arms while his elbows sank. He held the crutch like an anchor to keep himself from sliding back into the hole, moving in short sets, stopping to feel ahead with one hand for seams in the earth or the hard little bells of buried metal.

  He paused, chest heaving, and lifted his chin. Coils of wire took the moon, a dull glint. The strands twisted like thorns and whispered when the wind rushed through them. He edged closer and studied the run. There was a gap in the wire to his left. A narrow break that looked like tempting but he knew better than to trust it. It was too perfect, too clean. Somewhere in that path, a mine waited for the first fool desperate enough to take the easy route.

  Emmett looked right and found a faint track where a vehicle had churned through. The ruts held water, but they were a path.

  Just then the moon went out, swallowed as the clouds blocked out the sky. The dark came back in thick and heavy.

  “Perfect,” he whispered, fog smoking from his lips.

  He pressed on, his mind turning toward what came next. If he made it to the line, they’d question him. He would need to pass for one of them. They would test him, ask details. Unit, location, rank. Every answer would need to sound instinctive, automatic.

  He whispered between gasps. “Jakob Fischer. Gefreiter Jakob Fischer.” He ran it again, slower. “Gefreiter Jakob Fischer.”

  The surname stuck in his mind. It scratched at something faintly familiar. He frowned, dragging himself another few feet before it came to him. “Oberleutnant Klaus Fischer,” he said aloud, voice low and rough.

  The officer who had invited him and Henri to mass in Charleville-Mézières. A polite man, clean uniform, clean conscience. The same man whose throat he had opened in a fuel yard not long after. He could still see the look on Fischer’s face. The shock, the confusion, the instant where recognition flickered before the light went out of his eyes.

  “Almost feel bad about that one, mon ami,” Henri had said, in a low tone.

  Emmett’s mouth pulled into a grin. “Almost,” He said in a low, almost amused tone.

  His knee struck a rock and pain flashed white up the leg. He hissed and held still until his breath settled. Henri would have something to say about all this. He always did. Emmett could almost hear him, could almost see him grinning and lighting one of those crooked French cigarettes.

  “You have the worst luck imaginable, mon ami,” Emmett said, trying on the voice. It came out as a broken laugh as his hands clawed the dirt. Then the picture of Henri face down, lying dead in frozen mud came hard and he shoved it away.

  Ghosts were thick in the past. Out here he honestly felt like one of them.

  He stopped and drew a slow breath through his teeth, turning his gaze to the defensive positions ahead.

  Not much further now.

  He rolled on his side, stared at his boots, and swore as with cold, clumsy fingers he worked the laces loose. The boots came free with a wet suck, followed by the hole ridden stockings. Night air bit at his bare feet and he hissed.

  Emmett scooped a shallow pit, only a few inches deep but enough to hide them. He dropped the ruined boots in and packed mud over them until there was only a mound of dirt hinting to what lay beneath.

  “Rest in peace, you bastards,” he said, digging his feet into the ground as the mud closed over his toes like ice.

  The world drew quiet again except for the low groan of the front. Now and then the earth shivered at a far-off burst. The moon bled through rifts in the cloud’s and painted everything in dull silver.

  Ahead the churned track faded into firmer dark earth. The trenches could not be far.

  He set his forehead on the muck and took a long breath. The air stinging the throat. “Should have been me, Henri,” he rasped. “I have fouled too much to claim otherwise.”

  The wind whispered through the wire. His only answer.

  The clouds shifted and the moon poured light over the ground. For a moment he could see broken stakes, shattered posts, the shape of sandbags stacked into walls.

  Two hundred meters. Maybe less.

  He crawled again. His thoughts blurred to his breathing. The mission was a shed skin now, his entire reason for being out here in the first place. Dropped in the mud with the helmet, the submachinegun and the pills.

  Vollmer, orders, purpose. Gone. Only one thing remained.

  Eira.

  The thought steadied him and sharpened the world. It filled him with something bitter and cold. He pictured her face and felt the thing that kept him alive feed on it. He did not care if he lived. He did not care if he made it back to anyone. All that mattered was finding her again and seeing the shock in her eyes before he slit her throat.

  His lips twitched into a ghost of a grin with no warmth in it.

  Another memory slid in, unbidden. Henri’s voice, easy and alive. I dream of a quiet home. A beautiful wife. Two boys, both pigheaded and loud, like me.

  Emmett froze, pressing his forehead to the mud. He could see the Frenchman in that small village, as the sun rose high in the sky as they sat on a bench in the square. Henri had turned to him with that unguarded smile. You could do the same. Bring Adele back to America. Or stay. I see how you look at her.

  Adele.

  Emmett’s jaw tightened as he drove his fingers into the mud and forced the thought back down. “Not now,” he said. “Not her.”

  He moved faster, as if he could outpace his own head. Fatigue and the amphetamines made the world tilt making him feel like a hollow thing pushed by spite.

  He tossed the crutch aside as the ground firmed. The mud thinned and shapes showed. Low walls, sandbags. Emmett swearing he saw a flicker of movement.

  This was close enough.

  He stopped, panting, and forced himself upright as his arms shook. His knees went loose and then held. The leg screamed but he rose anyway. The world swimming with bright pinpricks across his vision.

  He lifted his hands, then raised them higher over his head. His voice cracked when he shouted.

  “Hilfe! Sanit?ter! Sanit?ter! Ich bin schwer verwundet!”

  It tore out of him raw and spilled out across the dead land. His breath steameding as he swayed and struggled to maintain his footing.

  “Come on,” he rasped. “See me.”

  His knees shook, ready to go, but he kept his arms high. The only proof he was still a man and not another piece of wreckage.

  He thought he heard voices on the wind, sharp syllables, distant. Shadows shifted behind a low rise but no answer came.

  He swallowed, throat feeling like sandpaper. “Kamerad!” he tried, louder, ragged, desperate. “Ich bin verwundet! Bitte… Sanit?ter!”

  The sound went out and faded. Silence held a beat, then a bark came back, firm and wary. “Wer da? Bleiben Sie stehen!”

  The order to halt clicked in his head. He swayed but held keeping his hands high.

  “Ich bin Gefreiter Jakob Fischer,” he called, forcing the voice to carry. He shaped the next part in his head and spoke it clean. “Zweite Kompanie, Grenadier-Regiment dreihundertsiebenundvierzig. Ich wurde von den Russen gefangen. Bitte, ich brauche Hilfe.”

  The English formed under the German without thinking. I am Gefreiter Jakob Fischer. Second Company, Grenadier Regiment 347. I was taken by the Russians. Please. I need help.

  Speaking cost him the last of his strength. His legs folded and he dropped to his knees in mud somehow managing to still keep his shaking hands up, palms open to the dark.

  “Come on,” he said, breath clouding. “I am one of yours.” Emmett whispered.

  Silence again, heavy and unsure. Then the crunch of boots on hard ground. Several careful sets, moving carefully. Figures eased out from the works, low and ready, rifles up. No lamps. They moved by memory and the little moon they had.

  One called sharply. “Woher kommen Sie?”

  Where are you from? The man had asked. For a moment, Emmett was able to focus, shaking his head to clear the fog of exhaustion. He coughed and felt it tear.

  “Oppeln,” he said, half a gasp. “I am from Oppeln. Please. I can barely stand.” He said in German.

  They whispered among themselves. Barrels still up. Helmets now visible. Breath in small plumes.

  “Are you armed?” one asked.

  Emmett shook his head. “Nein. Only a knife on my belt. That is all.”

  His arms suddenly dropped out of sheer exhaustion. Hands falling to his sides with a dull slap. The soldiers froze, fingers tightening on their weapons as if expecting the worst. For a heartbeat nothing moved.

  He sat in the mud and pulled air in shallow and uneven. His chest worked like a bellows. Cold chewed through his wet clothes and took the fire out of his wounds. Calm began to slide in behind it.

  Emmett had done what he could. If they shot him, they shot him.

  Boots closed the last distance. A weapon clicked and a low order followed. Hands came down, rough and careful, patting his coat.

  Another sound rose. Not from them. From somewhere else.

  “A wolf in sheep’s clothing,” a voice said, low and clear, riding the echo of a far artillery roll. “They welcome him amongst themselves.”

  Emmett’s head snapped up. His remaining eye going wide.

  At the top of the muddy road a figure stood cut against the broken moon.

  Henri, his coat moving a little in the wind. Hands in his pockets and wearing that familiar crooked grin.

  The Germans did not react. They moved around Emmett, speaking softly, boots sucking at the ground. To them, there was no one on the road.

  Emmett’s heart beat hard. He tried to blink it away, but Henri remained where he stood. Smiling. Eyes bright and knowing.

  One of the Germans went to a knee at Emmett’s side. A hand pressed his shoulder. Another checked for weapons or wounds. The touch feeling distant.

  Henri tipped his head. “Too far gone, mon ami,” he said, gently as if just stating a fact.

  Emmett opened his mouth but nothing came. The edges of the night started to tilt and smudge.

  The Germans’ voices dulled. The moonlight wavered.

  As the last of his strength bled into cold earth, Emmett knew Henri was right. He had crossed that line somewhere back in the mud. And there was no coming back.

  Thank you for reading!

  Wei?er Wolf, I wanted to give everyone a quick heads-up. To keep the quality where it needs to be, I may start skipping an occasional Tuesday upload. So, if a Tuesday rolls around and there’s no update, don’t worry.

  Snud, who’s been an incredible help throughout this process. As a small thank-you, I’ve included one of his characters in Wei?er Wolf. The Wolf Hybrid Varan in my story is actually Ikerloy Varan from Snud’s original work Echoes of Shelling, available on Archive of Our Own. If you get the chance, I highly recommend giving it a read.

  Wulden on RoyalRoad, who’s been a massive help catching typos and tightening edits. I’ve been reading his Cyberpunk story The Rails, and it’s been a blast. Go check it out and tell him I sent you.

  -SABLE