Night had pressed in like a weight, swallowing what little light remained beneath the black canopy of winter-stripped trees. The forest had gone still, and quite save for the soft whisper of cold wind rustling the trees.

  Emmett’s legs burned with exhaustion, each step heavier than the last. His fingers had gone stiff, joints aching with every movement, and he knew Eira wasn’t faring any better, even with her fur. She was behind him, her footsteps slow and dragging, breath wheezing softly in the frozen silence.

  “We need to find food,” she said bitterly, the words forced through chattering teeth.

  Emmett had a sharp response primed. Something biting, something cruel. But it died on his tongue. He was too cold, too tired, too done to waste the breath.

  He just grunted, barely more than a sound, and began scanning the tree line with glazed eyes. “Shelter first,” he muttered. “Tomorrow we find food.”

  Eira didn't argue. That in itself was telling.

  She collapsed onto a snow-covered log, breathing hard, arms limp at her sides. Her fur was matted with ice around her collar and wrists, and her uniform had gone from filthy to stiff with frost and dirt. “Ach,” she muttered, eyes scanning the dead horizon, “didn’t even see animal tracks today. Not one. Even they know better than to be out in this.”

  Emmett didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He just nodded grimly, eyes settling on a fallen tree that had cracked apart under the weight of snow and time. It was half-hollow, the trunk split open like a rotten tooth.

  “We’ll build a fire,” he said. “Low and hot. Just enough to dry what we can.” His voice was hoarse, lips cracked and bleeding.

  Eira nodded once, her shivering intensifying. He could see it in her fingers. Stiff, and slow. If they didn’t get warmth soon, they might lose them. And if they lost their fingers, they were done. No pulling laces or snapping twigs. Dead, plain and simple.

  As he moved toward the fallen tree, Eira’s voice floated out behind him, raspy but clear. “I hate you, Emmett.”

  He stopped. Snow crunched beneath his foot as he turned just enough to see her, hunched over on the log, arms wrapped tight around herself.

  She looked up, eyes glassy with fatigue, her breath fogging in the air between them.

  “I hate you more than I can put into words,” she said, voice trembling. Not from emotion, but from cold and exhaustion.

  Emmett stared at her, long and hard. Then he turned and walked back toward her, his steps slow and heavy.

  “Get on your feet,” he said. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just firm.

  She eyed him for a moment, measuring him. Then slowly, she rose.

  They trudged to the fallen log together, clearing away snow with their numb hands. Emmett hacked at pine boughs with his knife, fingers fumbling, skin stinging with every movement. Eira worked in silence, setting up branches and boughs into a crude lean-to shape over the split tree.

  Emmett found a flat stone and used it to dig a shallow pit in the snow-packed dirt. The process was slow. Painfully slow, but he made a firebed deep enough to mask the light. He built up walls around the depression and sparked tinder with shaking hands, shielding the flame from the wind with his body. It caught after three tries.

  He crouched over the growing warmth, feeding in dry bark and splinters until it became a dull, crackling blaze. Just enough. No more. He placed some flat stones near the flames to heat up for later and began undoing the laces securing his boots.

  Eira came around the side, packing snow and pine over the lean-to’s roof with methodical aggression, her hands trembling as she worked. “I can’t feel my fingers,” she muttered, half to herself.

  Emmett pulled off his boots and then stockings with some effort, wincing as the material peeled from skin, damp and red. He draped the socks over a stick beside the fire, then propped the boots up to dry. Eira followed suit. Both edged their bare, frozen feet toward the fire pit, groaning in quiet relief as warmth crawled back into their bones.

  Eira let out a tired laugh. A short, almost manic sound as she flexed her toes.

  Emmett didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know. But she spoke anyway.

  “Dieter. My… brother. If you could call him that. Once…”

  “Stop,” Emmett cut in flatly, not even looking at her.

  She blinked, surprised by the lack of venom in his tone.

  “Don’t pretend we don’t know how this ends,” he continued. “If we survive, I’m dragging you back to the Allies. And you’re going to try to kill me.” His gaze was fixed on the fire, not her. “Do us both a favor. Don’t talk.”

  She stared at him for a long moment.

  Then, slowly, she nodded. “Alright.”

  Silence fell again, and they sat near the small fire, listening to the wind rattle the trees.

  Once the boots and socks were as dry as they’d get, Emmett smothered the flame with a scoop of snow, setting a flat stone over the pit to trap the last of the heat. He passed two of the hot stones to Eira, tucking his own into his coat. They shuffled beneath the lean-to and lay on their sides, facing one another.

  Chest to chest.

  They didn’t speak. They didn’t look at each other.

  Eventually, sleep crept in. Not peace, not comfort, but the kind of sleep that comes from pure physical collapse. Their bodies still trembled. Their minds still churned.

  But they slept.

  Eira woke to the sound of her own stomach growling, a low, curling ache that clawed at her from the inside. Hunger had been no stranger. But this morning, it was worse. Sharper. Her body felt hollow. Weak.

  The lean-to creaked faintly overhead, snow pressing down like a suffocating blanket. Pale filtered light spilled through a thin crack in the packed pine and snow above them. The world outside remained cold, white, and silent, but it was morning.

  Her eyes drifted downward to Emmett.

  He lay just inches from her, shivering in his sleep, arms pulled tight around himself. His breathing was ragged and shallow. She studied the left side of his face. The jagged scars that ran from beneath the patch, to his jaw. Ugly things. Pink and puckered and seemingly still healing. Her ears twitched as she stared at them.

  She knew one of her kind had done that.

  When he'd been unconscious back at the river, She’d lifted his eyepatch out of curiosity. Just to look.

  What she saw beneath it had stayed with her. That hollow. That void where an eye had once been.

  A smirk tugged faintly at the corner of her mouth now as she murmured under her breath in German, “Half ruined, aren't you?”

  She sat up slightly, letting the boughs she had used for insulation fall free. Her stomach growled again. Louder this time, an angry protest. She winced and pressed a palm to her belly. Her body could hold out longer, of course. It had been bred to endure. But it didn’t make the gnawing any less brutal.

  And soon, strength would begin to fade. It always did.

  She pulled herself to her feet with a quiet groan, ducking under the low edge of the lean-to and stepping into the morning light. Her breath fogged before her as she took in the forest. It was still. Too still.

  As she inhaled deeply through her nose, she caught a scent on the wind. And then, movement. Just a flicker. A shape gliding silently across the snow, lean and graceful.

  A wolf.

  Eira froze, every muscle going still.

  It stood less than ten yards away, thin and lean, fur dusted with frost. Its ribs showed beneath its coat. It likely smelled them and had hoped for scraps.

  Its golden eyes locked onto hers.

  They stared at one another for a long moment. The wolf didn’t run. Didn’t flinch.

  There was a strange stillness between them. A recognition. As if the beast saw something familiar in her.

  And then, a thought entered her mind unbidden.

  Food.

  Her mouth went dry. Her jaw tightened. Her muscles tightening

  And then.

  CRACK!

  The shot exploded beside her like a thunderclap.

  Eira flinched violently, her right ear ringing like a bell had gone off in her skull. “Schei?e!” she snarled, clapping a hand to the side of her head as the sharp pain reverberated deep into her jaw.

  The wolf yelped. A pitiful, animal cry and dropped instantly. Its body twitched in the snow, legs kicking out in a slow death spasm as blood steamed in the cold.

  Emmett came out of the shelter like a man possessed, crawling low across the snow on all fours. Pistol still clutched in his hand. His breath ripped from his lungs in ragged clouds. He reached the wolf with quick, efficient movements and knelt over it, grabbing it by the scruff and tilting its head. The beast gave one last convulsion, and then it was still.

  He held it a moment longer, fingers locked tight in the fur, then finally released it with a long exhale.

  Eira was still rubbing her ear, her face twisted in irritation as the ringing roared on.

  Emmett straightened up, reholstering his sidearm. His face unreadable.

  “Well,” he said flatly, “looks like I shot your cousin.”

  “You Schweineficker,” she spat, her voice cutting like a blade, eyes narrowed in fury.

  He glanced sideways at her, utterly unbothered.

  “Good morning to you, too,” he muttered sarcastically, and turned, trudging back toward the lean-to with practiced indifference. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he moved, the tail of his coat fluttering behind him in the morning breeze.

  “We’re moving,” he called over his shoulder. “I don’t want to stick around to find out if someone heard that gunshot.”

  Still holding her ear, Eira glared after him, her lip curling back over one fang. But she knew he was right. As much as she wanted to claw his throat out, now wasn’t the time.

  She moved to strap on her snowshoes, fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold. She glanced once more at the dead wolf. Its blood was already freezing in the snow, and her jaw clenched. She hated how her ears rang, especially her right ear, but a part of her was grateful.

  They had food now.

  And that meant a few more days they might live.

  She finished tying the last strap and stood. Emmett was already packed and ready, gathering what few supplies they had, which were now in his pockets.

  “We’ll find a place we can cook it,” he said simply. “I’m not eating it raw.”

  She huffed, checking the straps on her snowshoes once more, and followed.

  The wolf’s body had grown heavier with every mile they carried it. But the promise of a meal was all they needed to push past their exhaustion. They hadn’t said a word since they had set off. Hauling it through the snowbound woods, wordless in their desperation, their shared understanding that this animal, skinny as it was, would keep them fed.

  They found shelter near a rocky outcrop, tucked beneath a shallow ledge that would block the worst of the wind, and hopefully hiding them from view. Maybe they wouldn’t be noticed. Or maybe they’d just die with hot meat in their bellies.

  Emmett worked in silence, stripping the hide with methodical drags of his knife. Eira helped, her claws proving to be quite useful in freeing the pelt. They kept the heart, the liver, and tongue. Everything else was tossed aside, either buried in snow and left for scavengers. No stomach, no kidneys. Neither of them felt brave enough for that gamble.

  Now, several sticks were propped over the fire, with thick chunks of dark meat, sizzling and popping above the low flames. The fire was bigger than it should have been, but caution had lost the argument against hunger.

  Emmett crouched low, his one eye flicking over the skewers, watching fat drip into the embers. The scent was… repulsive and divine all at once. Burnt hair. Iron-rich blood. But it was food.

  His stomach growled so loud he grimaced.

  “Never eaten wolf before,” he muttered, nudging the cooking heart with his knife where it rested on a hot slab of stone.

  Eira was sitting opposite him with her arms folded and eyes locked on the roasting meat. She didn’t respond. The temptation to insult him danced on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t spare the energy. All she could think about was food. Getting it in her mouth and into her gut.

  When the meat had cooked through. At least as far as either of them cared, Emmett pulled a skewer from the fire, held it up and sliced a strip free. No pink. That was all he needed.

  He didn’t bother letting it cool.

  He bit into the strip like a starved dog. Tough. Chewy. Burnt around the edges and dry inside. But he didn’t care. He chewed, tearing off another bite.

  Eira snatched one of the spits and did the same, her jaw working as she chewed through the gamey flesh. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even bad. It was just food. Her teeth scraped bone, and she cracked it to suck the marrow. Her mouth burned from the heat, but she didn’t stop.

  It was her third bite before she said, flatly, “Almost feels like cannibalism.”

  Emmett huffed, licking grease from his fingers as he eyed the heart. “Could’ve given me your portion.”

  “As if I would,” she snapped, yanking the last chunk from her skewer and swallowing it whole.

  Emmett sliced the heart in half with a flick of his knife and handed her a portion without a word. She took it with a muttered thanks, chewing slower now. The liver followed. Split between them, greasy and dense.

  Soon, they were leaning back, bellies full for the first time in days. Two more spits of meat were left. They wrapped them loosely in cloth and tucked them away in their coats.

  Eira sat back on her elbows, letting the warmth of the fire wash over her legs. For a moment, the silence was almost tolerable.

  Then.

  “Tell me something,” she said, her voice low, almost casual.

  Emmett’s eye flicked toward her, already narrowing. “No.”

  She let out a sigh, stretching her legs toward the edge of the fire. “Of all the Americans, I get trapped with the most miserable of them all.”

  “Lucky you,” he grunted, pulling his dry socks back on with slow, deliberate effort.

  She stared at him, brow furrowed, then sat up straighter. “Fine,” she said sharply. “Then I will talk.”

  Emmett glared at her like she’d just threatened to set him on fire. “You better not,” he warned, his tone sharp as a blade.

  Eira’s ears flicked backward in irritation. “Surely the silence is driving you mad as well?”

  Emmett pulled his socks from where they had been drying by the fire and yanked them on. “I prefer the quiet. You should try it. Might suit you.”

  He picked up a jagged chunk of stone, flinty and sharp, and tossed it with a hard flick of his wrist. It landed near her feet with a dull thunk.

  “You need to talk?” he growled. “Tell it to the damn rock.”

  “I will talk to the rock, then,” she said dryly, brushing snow off her boots. “It is likely a better conversationalist.”

  Emmett stood and kicked snow onto the fire, dousing the flames with a harsh hiss. Smoke rose in a single angry coil.

  “Let’s get going,” he barked, already strapping on his snowshoes and checking the wrapped meat tucked into his coat.

  Eira stood, brushing soot from her coat, and muttered, “Miserabler Schwein.”

  He turned at that, lips pulling into a flat line. “You keep saying that like it’s supposed to offend me.”

  She didn’t respond. Just smiled sweetly and rose to her feet, testing the straps of her snowshoes.

  Emmett didn’t slow and didn’t look back.

  As they trudged into the fog-veiled forest, Eira began to hum. A soft, almost wistful tune. Something old. German. The melody floated into the still air like smoke.

  Emmett glanced back once, his eye narrowing.

  He didn’t say a word.

  They had bedded down that night under the bent boughs of a fallen pine. Snow gathered in quiet drifts around their shelter, and while the warmth of full bellies helped, the sleep that followed was only marginally less tortured than the nights before. Still, it was something. A few precious hours of blackness left them better rested.

  Morning came with a soft snowfall and the groaning creak of tree limbs overhead. Emmett stirred first. He moved with the stiff, mechanical slowness of a man waking to find his joints frozen in place. His breath fogged in front of him, and his fingers trembled as he retrieved a strip of meat from inside his coat, tearing off a bite with tired efficiency.

  Eira was slower to wake, her ears twitching at the shift in the air before her eyes opened. She rubbed her temple, groaning quietly, and reached for her own saved meat. They chewed in silence, gnawing through tough sinew and cold grease, each bite dragging their bodies one inch closer to functionality.

  They rationed carefully, agreeing with a look more than words. A little now. A little later. With luck, it would last into the next day. Emmett stuffed the remaining bit of meat back into his coat and stood, his joints cracking as he stretched.

  “We move,” he muttered.

  Eira gave a curt nod, not arguing. Her legs ached, her stomach grumbled, and her body burned from the cold despite the layers and her fur.

  Eira followed behind him, her breath fogging the air in long, steady clouds. Her legs ached with the dull, persistent burn of travel. Each step in the snowshoes tugged at tendons and taxed weary muscles. She missed the gear she’d lost during her capture. A combat knife, flint kit, rations... even the small vial of iodine. Gone. All of it buried beneath snow, stripped from her body by the bastard stomping ahead of her now.

  She missed her gear. More than she’d ever admit to him.

  But the thing she missed most was her rifle. A Kar98, customized for her build, for her sightline. A part of her. And now it was rusting somewhere in a nameless drift.

  She’d asked him about it once.

  “Buried it. All of it,” he’d said, his voice tinged with a smug sort of satisfaction. “Even the lint in your damn pockets.”

  She’d wanted to rip his throat out.

  But that was the old Eira. Before the frostbite, the starvation, the nights spent curled next to the same man who had captured her. Before the truce. Or whatever passed for a truce between them.

  She wondered if Dieter had gone looking for her with the others. The idea made her smirk. If she smelled them coming, she wouldn’t warn him.

  She’d let them tear him apart.

  She patted her pocket. Just a brush of her palm, a quiet reassurance. The little surprise she’d kept hidden from him. Something she almost never checked, and only when she was certain his attention was elsewhere. He hadn’t seen it. Not yet. He would only know when it was too late.

  She exhaled in relief and picked up her pace again, just as the wind shifted.

  Her nostrils flared.

  Something… wrong.

  “Emmett,” she hissed sharply, crouching low.

  His foot froze mid-step. In a smooth, well-practiced motion, he knelt and drew his pistol, scanning the treeline. His lone eye locked on her. Questioning. Alert.

  She sniffed again, slowly, carefully. Her ears perked, turning slightly as she angled her head into the breeze.

  “Smells like the Russians,” she said quietly, pointing westward. “That direction.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Emmett nodded once, his jaw tightening. “How far?”

  “A mile, maybe less. Hard to tell with the wind.”

  He moved behind a thick pine and pressed his back against it, motioning her over. She joined him quickly.

  “Keep me updated,” he said in a low, even voice. “You’ve got the nose. Use it.”

  Then he surprised her. He reached into his coat and held out his compass.

  She blinked. “You want me to lead?”

  “You smell them. I don’t.”

  She took the compass, muttering “Danke,” under her breath, and slipped ahead.

  As they cut through the woods, each crunch from their snowshoes felt too loud. The trees seemed too open. Too thin. They needed to move, fast. But not fast enough to leave an obvious trail.

  Eira adjusted course as the scent grew stronger to the west. Another patrol? Or a convoy?

  Then she heard it. A low, distant grumble. Familiar to her ears.

  Engines.

  “Trucks,” she whispered when Emmett crouched beside her again. “Sounds like… maybe six or seven. They’re not far, but not close either and they sound like their moving slow.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. “Convoy,” he muttered. “Probably moving south, or west. You lead. Find us a spot to hunker down. We’ll wait it out.”

  She nodded and cut east, deeper into the trees, her pace quick and deliberate. The terrain grew uneven, but she used it. Emmett had silently followed her lead, doing the same.

  After nearly twenty minutes of fast, tense movement, she stopped and pointed.

  There. A cluster of fallen trees. Natural. Concealed. Deep snow already covering parts of the trunks.

  “This’ll do,” she muttered, and they dropped low into the cover.

  They crouched behind it while Eira kept sniffing the air, and listened intently. Emmett watched her, his pistol resting on his knee, finger off the trigger but ready.

  Then, without a word, he reached to his belt and pulled his dagger. He held it out to her.

  Her eyes widened.

  “I want that back,” he said flatly.

  She nodded and took it, surprised by the gesture and the unspoken trust behind it.

  They sat like that in silence, the occasional snap of a branch in the distance keeping them alert.

  Finally, after the wind shifted again, Eira exhaled.

  “They’re gone,” she said. “Nothing on the air now. Not even fuel.”

  Emmett held out his hand.

  She hesitated, then placed the dagger in his palm.

  He sheathed it with a grunt and stood. “Let’s move.”

  They pressed forward, trudging through thickening snow. And then they found it.

  A road.

  Eira was the first to spot it. Rough, frozen mud, deep tire tracks scored along its length. She stood at the edge, narrowing her eyes.

  “Heavy traffic. They’re heading toward west.” she muttered.

  She looked to the southwest, grimacing. Emmett stepped up beside her, studying the churned mud.

  “Let’s stay off the road,” he said. “Too open. Too visible.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” she replied, glancing sideways at him.

  He tilted his head up, scanning the sky. The clouds had thickened again. A dim, bruised gray hung overhead, heavy with snow.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “We need to find a place to bed down before dark.”

  Eira nodded, and without another word, she turned. Moving toward the far side of the road and into the trees beyond. The snow was falling harder now. Wet flakes clung to their coats and lashes. The world turned quiet again. Just the sound of snowshoes squelching into the frozen mud, the groan of worn leather, and two bitter souls moving deeper into the trees, always westward.

  The lean-to they had setup that night was pathetic. Just enough of a slope to keep most of the falling snow off them, the walls propped with scavenged branches, bark, and packed snow. It was no fortress, barely even a proper shelter. But it held back the wind, and at this point, that was all they could hope for. They hoped that as the snow fell, it would further insulate it.

  The forest creaked around them as the wind slid low through the trees, dragging with it the promise of another bitter night.

  They sat close by the dying glow of a shallow smoldering fire. The last spits of wolf meat smoking faintly as they reheated them. There wasn’t much anymore. Charred strips with the toughness of boot leather and a faint tinge of ash. They had eaten half of what they had left. The portion to small to truly ease the ache of hunger.

  Eira turned a half-cooked chunk over in her fingers. Her stomach growled, loud and angry, and for a moment she considered just chewing it down. But she didn’t. She wrapped it in cloth like it was a precious gem and tucked it carefully into her coat.

  She let out a long sigh through her nose.

  Across from her, Emmett said nothing. He just laid down stiffly, facing the other way, arms pulled tight against his chest. His coat shifted with the motion, a loose thread on the collar fluttering in the breeze sneaking through the cracks in the shelter. He let out a huff. Soft and tired.

  Eira stared at him for a moment. Her ears twitched. She hated this. Hated how quickly the cold brought them back together. Like animals. She didn’t want to crawl next to him again. But the frost clawed at her skin, crept under the coat like a patient killer. If she didn’t move close, she’d regret it by morning.

  Grumbling something bitter in German under her breath, she lowered herself beside him. Close enough that her body could leech off the warmth he stubbornly gave off. She pulled her tunic tighter and felt her bones protest as she settled in.

  Emmett’s eye was already shut.

  “Miserable arrangement,” she muttered, her voice flat. Tired.

  He huffed again. A bitter, tired sound.

  She closed her eyes.

  Sleep came faster than she expected. Hunger made her weak. Cold made her still. Exhaustion took care of the rest.

  The snow crunched beneath their feet, each step pressing into the thick blanket covering the forest floor. A thin mist drifted through the trees, curling between trunks like ghostly fingers. The wind was soft but biting, carrying with it the faint creak of ice-laden branches swaying overhead. Visibility was decent, but the world felt muted, blanketed by white and silence.

  Emmett led the way, his snowshoes kicking up small puffs of powder with every stride. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, his gloved hand gripping the compass tightly as he glanced down at it now and then, keeping them heading west. Despite the exhaustion weighing on him, he pressed on with a pace that would have left most men struggling. Eira, following a few paces behind, keeping up with relative ease.

  The forest stretched around them in a sea of frost-laden branches and snow-draped ground. The only sounds were the wind whispering through the trees and the steady crunch of their passage. For a time, they moved in silence.

  Eira’s gaze drifted upward, watching the soft sway of the branches above, the mist curling lazily through the canopy. The monotony clawed at her, setting in like an itch she couldn’t scratch. Without thinking, she began to hum softly. A tune faint in her memory, familiar yet distant. The melody floated through the cold air, filling the emptiness between them.

  Emmett’s shoulders stiffened. His steps didn’t falter, but the muscle along his jaw tightened.

  After a few moments, Eira’s humming shifted into quiet singing, her voice low but clear.

  “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to work we go…”

  Her voice, though quiet, carried in the stillness of the forest. The cheery tune was absurd against the bitter backstop of the frozen forest. She sang more for herself than anything else, the upbeat rhythm a welcome distraction from the never-ending march.

  Emmett’s response was immediate.

  Without breaking stride, he glanced over his shoulder, fixing her with a murderous glare. His single eye narrowed beneath his furrowed brow. “What the fuck are you singing?” he snapped, his voice cutting through the cold air like a blade.

  Eira grinned, teeth flashing. “Heigh-ho. You really don’t know it?” she asked, feigning surprise. “It’s from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. A masterpiece. Anyone who’s seen the film would know the song.”

  He let out a long, exasperated groan. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head as he turned his focus back to the path ahead.

  “It’s a wonderful movie,” Eira continued, undeterred, clearly enjoying herself now. “A gem of the film industry. All animated. Very impressive work. There are seven dwarfs,” she added helpfully. “Happy, Sleepy, Bashful, Doc…”

  “Jesus Christ, I don’t care,” Emmett growled, his words sharp enough to cut.

  She ignored him. “…Grumpy, Sneezy, and Dopey.”

  He huffed. “Whoever came up with those names had no imagination.”

  “More than you, Ja?” she shot back with a grin. “Actually…” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “You remind me of two of them. Dopey and Grumpy.”

  “Keep talking,” Emmett growled, “and I’ll stitch your damn yap shut.”

  Eira laughed, the sound echoing through the trees. “You truly are an Esel,” she quipped. “A stubborn donkey.”

  He faced back toward the path with a snarl. “You’re a damn child,” he muttered.

  “I am not a child.” She retorted, sounding legitimately aggravated.

  Emmett stopped suddenly, boots crunching into the snow as he turned to face her. His single eye burning. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re not a child. You’re an immature, mad-scientist’s nightmare.”

  Eira’s gaze lingered on his face, and a slow, wicked grin spread across her lips. “And you,” she said sweetly, “look like Frankenstein’s monster.”

  His glare deepened, but he turned away without another word, pushing forward through the snow.

  Still grinning, Eira called after him, “Have you seen it? Frankenstein?”

  “What?” he barked, not slowing down.

  “The movie,” she said. “It’s supposed to be quite good. I’ve always wanted to see it. I have seen Nosferatu. Terrifying film.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Emmett snapped.

  Eira laughed again. Clearly enjoying herself. “Why would I? When aggravating you is so very entertaining.”

  He ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. God, he wanted to shoot her. Just one bullet. Peace and quiet.

  Then he stopped. His arm shot out to halt her without thinking, and his voice dropped to a sharp whisper. “Shut up. Get down.”

  Eira’s amusement faded instantly. She crouched low, sliding behind a fallen log as Emmett did the same. The forest stretched out before them, silent and still. Except for the faint silhouette of structures ahead.

  Emmett pulled out his binoculars, grimacing as he raised them to his face. The one of the lenses was cracked. Forcing him to awkwardly align the left lens with his remaining right eye.

  Through the glass, two buildings emerged from the mist. A barn, weathered and leaning with age, and a decaying house that looked ready to collapse under the weight of the snow.

  Eira crouched beside him. Her gaze sharpened on the distant shapes. She sniffed the air, taking in deep inhales of the cold air through her nose. Her ears flicked toward the structure. “There are animals,” she said quietly, her tone calm. “But… no people. None I smell anyways.”

  Emmett tilted his head, squinting at the barn. “Alright,” he said finally, standing and brushing snow off his knees. “You stay here. I’ll go take a peek.”

  Eira shook her head, her tail flicking in annoyance. “Nein, I come with.”

  Emmett turned and shot her a look that could melt ice. “No, you’re not,” he growled. “If there is anyone in there, it’ll be easier for me to talk my way out of it. If you’re there, it’s a different story. You’re wearing a damn kraut uniform and…” he gestured vaguely at her, “…looking like a damn werewolf.”

  Eira smirked, crossing her arms. “And what will you tell them, hm? what excuse will you make?”

  He shrugged, nonchalant. “I’ll think of something. Now fucking stay put.” Without waiting for a reply, he started toward the barn, moving cautiously across the snow towards the structures.

  The farm was a relic of better times. The barn leaned precariously, its wood weathered and faded, but it still stood. Emmett could hear the faint clucking of chickens as he approached, the sound strangely comforting.

  He slid the barn door open just enough to slip inside, the scent of straw and livestock hitting him immediately. His eyes scanned the dim interior, taking in the scattered hay, the makeshift nesting boxes, and four skinny chickens pecking lazily at the ground. No people. So far, so good.

  Emmett noticed a set of crates nearby and calmly walked over, his movements careful. His eye widened when he saw resting within ontop of dirty hay was a small clutch of eggs within the crates, most cracked from the cold, but seven remained intact. Grabbing a nearby wooden bucket, he lined it with a rag and placed the eggs inside, handling them as delicately as precious jewels.

  His stomach growled as he worked, and for a moment, he considered cracking one open and drinking it raw, right here and now. But hunger had taught him patience, so he set the bucket aside and turned his focus to the chickens, now huddled on the far side of the barn, clucking like they knew what was coming. Their beady eyes glittered with suspicion, heads jerking in quick, nervous motions.

  Emmett clucked his tongue softly, easing a step to the left so he wasn’t bearing down on them. They shifted as a group, shuffling sideways along the wall until they bottlenecked against a hay bale. Two skirted around the far side, one flapped clumsily over the top, but the fourth tried to double back.

  He lunged, hand snapping out to catch it by the wing. The bird let out a shrill, panicked screech, kicking and thrashing, but Emmett straightened and caught it by the head. One sharp twist and its limbs went limp, eyes dulling in an instant. He tossed it to barns center, the carcass landed with a soft thump in the straw.

  He didn’t waste time. Three more went the same way, his movements quick, efficient, almost mechanical. When the last bird stopped twitching, he stuffed it into a burlap sack already heavy with the others.

  With the sack slung over his shoulder and the bucket of eggs in hand, he slipped back out into the cold, scanning the farmhouse. The windows stared back at him, dark and lifeless. No signs of anyone. With a huff, he approached the dilapidated building.

  Emmett’s boots creaked ominously on the warped porch boards as he approached the worn door. His pistol was drawn, held low but ready as his good eye scanned the doorway. The paint had long since peeled away, exposing weather-beaten wood beneath. He paused at the threshold, listening. Nothing but the faint moan of the wind slipping through the broken shingles overhead and the occasional distant caw of a crow.

  With a breath, he nudged the door open with his foot. It swung inward with a drawn-out groan, the sound echoing in the hollow house like a dying breath. Cold air whooshed past him, bringing with it the musty scent of rot, mold, and old ashes. His gaze swept across the entryway. The remnants of a tattered rug lay curled and moth-eaten on the floorboards, and what might have once been a coat rack hung crookedly from the wall, a single broken peg dangling. His trigger finger twitched slightly as he stepped inside, setting the bucket with the eggs and the burlap sack near the entrance.

  Each board beneath him creaked a protest, the noise grating with every room he cleared. He moved past a shattered mirror in the hallway, catching a fleeting glimpse of his scarred reflection. He had lost weight, his cheeks gaunt and his eye sunken.

  Yeah, you’re a real sight, he thought bitterly, pushing the thought aside.

  He entered what had been the living room. Furniture lay splintered and overturned. Chairs broken at the legs, a table split down the center like someone had taken an axe to it. Rat droppings littered the corners, and two fat rodents scampered across the debris, their beady eyes gleaming briefly in the dull light.

  Emmett’s nose wrinkled at the smell of damp and decay. No food. No tools. Not even scraps of fabric worth taking. Anything remotely useful had been stripped away long ago. It was as if the house had been gutted, then abandoned to rot.

  His boots crunched across scattered glass shards as he checked the kitchen. Cabinets hung open, doors wrenched from hinges, shelves bare save for a few broken jars and dust. Emmett let out a low exhale, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Fucking useless place.

  He made one more sweep through the remaining rooms. Bedrooms with stripped mattresses, dresser drawers yanked out and left to rot, and a fireplace blackened with soot but empty of anything burnable. It seemed that whoever had lived here, hadn’t just left. They’d fled. And scavengers since then had picked the bones clean.

  With nothing to show for it, Emmett holstered his pistol and turned toward the door, the silence of the empty house pressing in on him like a weight. His boots thudded across the warped floorboards, each step a dull echo in the emptiness. Emmett bent over, picking up the bucket and the sack, examining them for a moment.

  At least the damn chickens didn’t up and die.

  Snowflakes swirled inside as he pushed the door back open and stepped out, the cold air hitting him like a slap to the face. He didn’t bother looking back.

  Eira perked up when she saw him approaching, the sack over his shoulder and the bucket in his hand. He tossed the sack to her feet with a triumphant grin.

  “Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

  Eira raised an eyebrow as she opened the bag, peeking inside. “Four chickens,” she said, mildly impressed. “And eggs, I assume?”

  “Yep,” Emmett replied, setting the bucket down.

  Eira’s gaze flicked toward the farmhouse. “Nothing else?”

  “House is picked clean,” Emmett grunted. “Place’s been looted six ways from Sunday. Not even a damn scrap of cloth left.”

  Eira sighed through her nose. “Ja, of course.”

  Emmett crouched next to her, stretching his shoulders with a wince.

  They wasted no time cracking the eggs into their mouths, each one savoring the taste despite being raw. Emmett polished off three, while Eira, her appetite more ravenous, downed four. The rich yolk fueled their empty stomachs but left them hungrier than before. They stood, gathering their things, and went to find a place to cook their food.

  The snow crunched beneath their boots as Emmett and Eira moved away from the farmhouse, putting distance between themselves and any prying eyes. The forest thickened around them, skeletal branches creaking overhead as the wind whispered through the trees. Their breath hung in the frigid air, visible puffs that quickly vanished into the cold.

  “Here,” Emmett muttered, halting beside a thick spruce tree that offered partial shelter from the wind. He glanced around, scanning the area with a practiced eye before kneeling in the snow. He pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands together, his fingers red from the cold.

  Eira folded her arms, watching as he began to scrape away the snow with his hands, exposing the frozen ground beneath. Finding a flat rock nearby, Emmett used it to dig a shallow pit. His breath grew heavier with effort, his shoulders tense with the strain of chipping away at the frozen ground.

  Eira crouched beside him, her sharp gaze flicking between the pit and the surrounding forest. “Hurry,” she muttered, glancing skyward. “I’m eager to…”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Emmett cut her off, voice rough. He worked faster, scraping away the last of the frozen dirt. Satisfied with the depth, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his flint and drew his dagger. Sparks leapt into the dried grass and pine shavings he had gathered, smoke curling upward before the faintest flicker of flame took hold.

  Eira tossed a few small twigs onto the growing fire, her breath quickening as the warmth spread. The pit fire soon glowed with soft orange light, the crackle of flames breaking the oppressive silence of the woods.

  Emmett sat back on his heels, rubbing his hands in front of the fire. “Gimme the sack,” he said, nodding toward the burlap bag containing the chickens.

  Eira passed it over, her claws grazing the rough fabric. Emmett pulled out two of the birds and dropped them onto the snow. Feathers fluffed under his hands as he gripped one tightly. Without ceremony, he began plucking the bird, white and gray feathers flying as he worked.

  Eira watched for a moment before reaching out for her own bird. Emmett hesitated, his gaze hard. Slowly, he reached into his coat and pulled out his penknife. “Try anything,” he warned, voice low and edged, “and I’ll gut you before you blink.”

  Eira rolled her eyes but accepted the blade. “Ja, ja. Your threats are becoming tedious.”

  Her hands made quick work of the second bird, deftly stripping the feathers away. She worked with focused efficiency.

  Feathers drifted around them like dirty snowflakes, sticking to their coats and the surrounding ground. With the feathers cleared, they set about gutting the birds. Blood steamed against the snow as they slit open the carcasses, warm entrails slipping free with a wet sound.

  Eira set aside the edible innards on a flat rock near the fire. Emmett grunted approval but said nothing, focusing on cleaning out the last of the cavity. “Don’t waste anything,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

  “I know what I’m doing,” Eira snapped, wiping her bloodied hands on the snow. Her tail flicked in irritation as she cleaned the bird’s cavity thoroughly. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the earthy aroma of pine and smoke. The cold air bit at their exposed fingers, but neither paused.

  Once the chickens were cleaned, Emmett retrieved a few sturdy sticks he’d stripped earlier. He sharpened the ends with his dagger, creating makeshift skewers. “This’ll have to do,” he muttered.

  Eira, sitting back on her heels, handed the penknife back with a grunt. “No funny ideas,” she said mockingly, echoing his earlier warning.

  He snorted. “You ain’t that special.” He wiped the blade clean on his pant leg and sheathed it.

  Soon, both chickens were skewered and roasting over a low fire. The other two birds were set aside for later. Eira stared at her bird with a predatory gleam in her eye, her tail flicking impatiently as the smell of cooking meat filled the air.

  They sat in silence as the chickens cooked, each watching their meal with desperate focus. Emmett finally gave in first, pulling his skewer from the fire and tearing into the bird with feral hunger. Eira followed soon after, and the two ate with a ravenous intensity, stripping the chickens down to the bone, and eating their share of the roasted innards.

  The last scraps of roasted chicken had been stripped clean from the bone, the greasy warmth settling heavily in their stomachs. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering orange light across the snow and the worn lines of Emmett’s face. The wind hissed through the trees, a constant reminder of the freezing world beyond their small pocket of heat.

  Emmett sat closest to the flames, his face partially illuminated by the orange glow. He pulled off his boots with a grunt, wincing as the cold air hit his damp socks. With deliberate care, he peeled the stockings from his feet and set them on a flat rock near the fire. His boots joined them, the leather practically creaking as they steamed in the heat. He stretched his legs out, letting the fire lick warmth back into his toes. His breath plumed in the chilly air as he worked his feet, flexing and rubbing them.

  Across the fire, Eira sat cross-legged, watching him with a mix of amusement and contemplation. Her ears twitched as she tilted her head, lips curling into a half-smile.

  “You look like an old man,” she commented, eyes gleaming in the firelight.

  Emmett shot her a look but said nothing. His gaze shifted back to the fire, preferring the silence.

  Her gaze drifted to his face, specifically the eyepatch and the scars that spidered out from beneath it. With food in her stomach and the cold momentarily at bay, curiosity gnawed at her.

  “How did you lose it?” she asked, voice casual but edged with interest. “Your eye, I mean. I know it was one of my kind.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I would like to know how it happened.”

  The words hung in the air like a blade. Emmett’s jaw clenched, and he slowly turned his head toward her. His expression darkened, the warmth of the fire paling against the cold fury in his gaze.

  “Ask me that again,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “and I’ll gouge yours out. Drop it.”

  Eira’s lips pursed, but she raised her hands in mock surrender. “Very well, seems a sensitive subject” she muttered under her breath.

  “Damn right,” Emmett growled, returning his focus to the fire.

  For a moment, silence returned, punctuated only by the crackle of burning wood and the occasional gust of wind. Eira sighed heavily, shifting in her spot.

  “You are a miserable man,” she said, exasperated. “We can hate each other and still talk, ja? What else is there besides starving, freezing, and walking through endless snow?”

  “Enjoy the quiet,” Emmett grumbled. “Before I make it permanent.”

  Unfazed, Eira leaned back on her hands, her gaze drifting upward to the gray sky beyond the treetops. “When I was young…” she began, her tone thoughtful, “they had us read many things. The Bible was one. I found some parts curious. Like…”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Emmett cut her off, his tone flat and final.

  Eira glared at him but quickly shifted gears, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “If you die,” she asked, “may I eat you?”

  His head snapped toward her, his glare sharp enough to cut. “If you die,” he shot back, “I’m skinning you and wearing your fur.”

  She laughed, a genuine, hearty sound. “A fair agreement.”

  Pulling off her boots, she placed her clawed feet near the fire, sighing as warmth began to creep back into her limbs. “Much better,” she murmured.

  The firelight flickered across her face as she glanced at Emmett. “Ask me something,” she said suddenly. “Anything you want. I will answer if I can. In turn, I will ask you something.”

  Emmett glared at her, lips tightening. “No thanks.”

  “Oh, come now,” she coaxed. “Curiosity must be in there somewhere behind that scowl.”

  He rubbed his face with a groan, anger momentarily outweighed by a flicker of curiosity. “Fine,” he muttered, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Who the hell made you? What egghead decided to play god?”

  Eira’s expression shifted to something unreadable. She stared into the flames for a moment before answering. “His name is Friedrich Vollmer,” she said. “A pleasant man. Friendly. He was… involved in our lives. More than most of the others.”

  Emmett’s brows drew together at that but he didn’t press further. “Figures,” he muttered.

  Eira straightened. “My turn,” she said. “Your family. What of them?”

  His body stiffened instantly. “You don’t get to ask about that,” he said, voice cold as ice.

  She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off with a raised hand. “Pick something else.”

  With an annoyed huff, she sat back. “Very well,” she grumbled. “How many others did you begin this mission with?”

  A pause stretched between them. Emmett’s gaze dropped to the fire. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “Nine.”

  “And what happened to them?” she pressed.

  “No idea,” he said flatly.

  Eira studied him for a moment, noting the tightness in his jaw. “So,” she said slowly, “your mission was to walk into a warzone, capture one of my kind, and drag them to your leaders...why? For what purpose?”

  “Got no damn clue,” Emmett replied. “Curiosity? Orders? Fuck if I know. I just do what I’m told.” He of course knew the reason, but she didn’t need to know that.

  Eira sighed, rubbing her face with her hands. “You are impossible,” she muttered. “I could have a better conversation with a stump.”

  “Then find one,” Emmett shot back.

  He tugged his socks back on, the fabric warm but still damp. His boots followed, feet sliding into the semi-dried leather with a grimace. Without another word, he scooped a pile of snow and dirt onto the fire, snuffing out the flames. Smoke hissed and coiled upward before being swallowed by the wind.

  “Get up,” he said. “We’ve got a few hours before nightfall. I want more miles behind us.”

  Eira glared at him but complied, pulling on her stockings and boots. Rising to her full height, she dusted snow from her coat and looked down at him.

  “You are a dreadful man,” she said flatly.

  Emmett adjusted his gear and gave her a sideways glance. “And you’re a goddamn headache. Let’s go.”

  They walked in stubborn silence, the only sounds the crunch of snow beneath their boots and the faint rustle of wind through the trees. Emmett led the way, shoulders hunched, muttering to himself every so often. Small curses or grumbled complaints that Eira couldn’t quite catch. She kept her questions to a minimum, sensing his foul mood was worse than usual.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, the temperature began to drop. The chill crept in slowly at first, then seemed to claw at them with every step. Snowflakes drifted down lazily, dusting their shoulders and collecting in their hair clothes.

  Eira scanned their surroundings, her sharp eyes catching sight of a large fallen tree partially buried in snow. Its massive roots jutted upward, creating a natural wall against the wind. She pointed toward it. "There," she said. "That should work for the night."

  Emmett glanced over, gave a short grunt of approval, and trudged toward it. Together, they set about constructing a crude shelter. Eira gathered sturdy branches while Emmett dragged over pine boughs. They laid the branches against the fallen tree at an angle, creating a slanted roof, then piled the boughs on top, followed by snow for insulation. More boughs formed a rough bedding beneath.

  Emmett used his gloved hands to shovel snow against the makeshift walls, packing it down to block the wind. Eira joined him, moving quickly despite the cold stiffening her fingers. They left one side open just enough for them to slip inside, hoping the falling snow would continue to build up and insulate the shelter further.

  Emmett inspected their work with a critical eye, grunting as he tossed a few more boughs over the top. "Good enough," he muttered. Without another word, he ducked inside the low entrance, maneuvering his frame into the cramped space. Eira followed, pulling the remaining branches into place behind her.

  The air inside was marginally warmer, but it was still bitterly cold. Eira sighed heavily and shuffled closer to him. Emmett, whose teeth had begun to chatter uncontrollably, didn’t protest. Once again, survival outweighed pride or hatred.

  Their breath mingled in the confined space, the air thick with the scents of sweat, pine, and the lingering remnants of their earlier meal. Emmett’s body trembled against hers, his jaw working as he fought the shivers racking his frame.

  Then, to her surprise, he broke the silence. "I’d kill you for a bottle of whiskey right now," he muttered through clenched teeth, voice muffled against his scarf. "Just to chase away this goddamn cold."

  Eira huffed a soft laugh, breath warm against the side of his neck. “Luckily for me, that is not an option.”

  He gave a shaky snort but said nothing for a while. The silence stretched between them again, broken only by his ragged breaths.

  "You strike me," she said after a beat, "as the type who drinks too much and makes a fool of himself." Her tone was half-teasing, half-curious. An attempt to fill the suffocating quiet.

  For a long stretch, he didn’t answer. His shuddering breaths were the only response. She thought he would ignore her entirely, but then he sighed, his voice a low rumble in the dark.

  "And you strike me," he said, "as the type who wouldn’t know how to have fun if it bit her in the ass."

  Eira shrugged, though her body fought to suppress its own shivering. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But then, I have never had alcohol. So perhaps I’m just unfamiliar with your brand of “fun.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nein,” she said. “They did not allow us... distractions.” Her voice wasn’t bitter. Just stating a fact. “Dulling one’s senses seems... foolish.”

  He scoffed. “Sometimes dulling the senses makes the most sense,” he muttered, voice growing softer as fatigue seeped into his bones.

  She glanced toward where she imagined the horizon lay beyond the shelter walls, snow still falling in a slow, steady curtain outside. “I wish we could build a fire,” she murmured, her breath fogging the chill air.

  For a long while, he didn’t respond. The wind howled beyond their little haven, and the cold seemed to creep in anew despite their shared warmth. She thought he’d fallen asleep. His breathing had evened out. But then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, he said.

  “I know.”

  And with that, the conversation ended. The storm outside raged on, but inside the shelter, two enemies huddled together. Bound by cold, necessity, and the grim knowledge that come morning, they’d have to endure another day of the same hell.

  Wei?er Wolf one day. Part of the reason I’m releasing it here on Royal Road and AO3 is to refine it long before it ever lands on an editor’s desk. That means you’re part of this project.

  -SABLE