Emmett adjusted the canteen beneath his coat, listening to the wet slosh of half-melted snow. It had become something of a ritual. Snow into water. Snow being the only thing they had in abundance. And now, with the additional canteen they'd salvaged from the dead man, they didn’t have to share. That small luxury felt like a godsend.

  By midday, Emmett slowed and cast a glance back at her. He pointed to a small clearing tucked in a pocket of dense pines. “We’ll eat here,” he said, voice low and scratchy.

  Eira nodded without protest and turned to the clearing, already reaching into the burlap sack with the remaining chickens.

  Emmett used a branch and a flat stone to carve a shallow pit into the frozen earth. He packed snow around the rim, forming a crude windbreak. Then, from his coat, he drew out the dry kindling he’d saved. With a few flint strikes and a muttered curse, the fire sputtered to life. Small, weak, but warm.

  Eira knelt close to the fire, her breath visible in the cold as she fed it twigs and splintered wood with quiet patience. Each stick she added caught quickly, the flames growing with a steady hunger until it settled into a low, focused burn. Hot enough to cook, subtle enough not to give them away. She took a moment to warm her hands, The white fur singeing in a few places as she held them close.

  Emmett handed her one of the chickens, and they quickly plucked, gutted, and skewered the half-frozen birds.

  Propping them over the flames they watched as the fat hissed and popped, sending up thin wisps of smoke that mingled with the scent of the forest.

  Eira slowly turned hers, eyes fixed on the cooking chicken as if considering eating it at that same moment.

  Emmett sat across from her, staring into the fire. His jaw clenched tight, the flickering light casting sharp shadows across his scarred face. The meat crackled on the spit, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were on the pistol now resting on her hip. He’d given her the weapon out of sheer pragmatism, a calculated move to stave off an argument he just didn’t have the energy for. It had also made tactical sense. If they ran into the Russians, at least they'd both be armed. But it gnawed at him all the same.

  What ate at him deepest though was the missing tranquilizer pistol. His one true trump card, gone with the dead man’s Griswold bag. If it had been there, he would've used it without hesitation. Shot her then and there, bound her up like cargo, and dragged her south through the snow, same as before. No need for this mockery of a truce. No need to gamble on mercy from someone who wasn't even human.

  Without it there wasn’t going to be any clean resolution. When the time came, it would be a fight. And he doubted he'd be able to take her alive.

  She was stronger. Faster.

  He glanced at Eira across the fire. She was crouched low, ears twitching slightly, eyes still on the cooking chicken.

  Maybe… maybe if he was lucky, he'd be able to knock her out.

  He grinned bitterly. And maybe pigs would fly in formation over Berlin.

  He leaned his skewer against a nearby rock, suspending the chicken over the flames, and pulled the map from his coat. Unfolding it across his lap, eyes tracking lines and symbols. He found a small village, marked with ink.

  He thought about what she had said in the clearing. Until Berlin.

  “What does ‘Until Berlin’ mean to you?” he asked suddenly, voice quiet. He didn’t look up.

  Eira blinked, surprised by the question. “It means,” she said slowly, “the moment we reach German lines. Then we settle things.”

  Her voice wasn’t mocking. Just matter of fact. As if she were stating the time of sunset.

  Emmett grunted. “Figures.”

  He turned the map toward her and tapped a mark. “This village. Supposed to be under German control. Least, it was when this intel was fresh. You recognize it?”

  Eira leaned in. Her brow furrowing. “I passed through sometime before… before you captured me.”

  She smirked. Emmett didn’t.

  “Stayed one night. Had food. Slept in a barn with the others. It was quiet.”

  He narrowed his eye. “Nothing’s quiet out here anymore.”

  She shrugged. “It was then.”

  Emmett huffed, and turned his attention to his chicken which seemed cooked.

  They ate in silence, tearing into the roasted meat with the ferocity of starving dogs. It was dry, tough, half-burnt but warm, and gone much too fast.

  Emmett licked the grease from his fingers and rose to his feet.

  He stomped out the fire with a heavy boot, snow hissing as it smothered the last of the flames. “Let’s move.”

  He didn’t look at her. He just started walking. Wanting to get this whole thing over with.

  If she shot him in the back now, he supposed it would save them both some time.

  By the time they reached the village, the sun had dipped low on the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the snow-laced countryside. The temperature dropped with it, sharp and unforgiving, biting through their clothes like knives.

  Emmett crouched low just inside the tree line, pulling the battered binoculars from his belt. Once again, awkwardly aligning the left lense with his good eye.

  The village looked deserted. The streets were dead. No movement, no sound. Just smoke curling somewhere deeper in from some unseen source.

  Ravens wheeled overhead, black silhouettes circling, their caws sharp in the still air.

  "Nothing," Emmett muttered, lowering the binoculars. His voice held no relief. Only suspicion.

  She frowned, taking the binoculars from him to see for herself. The broken lens made it difficult, but what she saw matched his words. The streets were barren, the buildings dark and lifeless. Empty streets, dark windows. Just abandoned stillness.

  "Where is everyone?" she murmured.

  "Let’s find out," Emmett said, rising to his feet. He grabbed the binoculars from Eira, returning them to their pouch and drew his pistol. "Let’s make this quick, if your countrymen left I’m betting the Russians aren’t too far behind."

  They moved cautiously from the treeline, boots crunching softly on the hard-packed snow. The silence was wrong, like the town was holding its breath. Emmett scanned every window, every dark doorway, every stretch of rooftop. His hand tight on his weapon.

  They passed a half-collapsed cart in the road just on the outskirts of town. A dead horse still hitched to the shafts. Rigor mortis had stiffened the beast, one eye pecked hollow by birds. A single neat bullet hole marking its skull. Blood frozen in a line from the wound.

  Eira wrinkled her nose, the metallic tang of blood hitting her. She pressed on, eyes scanning. Emmett followed, stepping carefully around the horse.

  They climbed over a low stone wall and moved to a space between two of the homes.

  Then he stopped.

  His arm shot out.

  "Wire," he hissed.

  A nearly invisible line stretched low across the alley mouth, just above the snow. A tripwire. Had they not seen it, it would’ve taken a leg clean off.

  “Seems your countrymen wanted to leave us a few presents.”

  She didn’t respond. Just lifted a leg and stepped lightly over the wire, her movements fluid and precise. Emmett followed suit, eye flicking up to the surrounding buildings.

  As they pressed deeper into the village, the signs of violence mounted. Bullet holes riddled walls. Windows smashed. Doors torn off their hinges. Overhead the ravens screamed louder now, as if aggravated by the two intruders.

  Eira slowed, her posture tense. She sniffed the air, and Emmett could tell even she didn’t like what she smelled.

  He caught it too. The metallic bite of blood.

  They reached the main street. Blood smeared the snow in long, dark stains. Shell casings littered the ground like brass confetti. Emmett crouched and picked one up, turning it between his fingers.

  German.

  He glanced at Eira and tossed it aside. Continuing on.

  Emmett reached the corner of a building and stopped, back pressed to the wall. He peered around it slowly, and his body went stiff.

  "What is it?" Eira whispered behind him.

  He didn’t answer. Just motioned for her to halt.

  Eira’s brow furrowed, ears twitching. Her fingers tightened around her pistol as she crept closer, driven by a dangerous mix of concern and curiosity.

  "Emmett," she whispered, sharp but quiet. "What do you see?"

  His eye flicked to hers, jaw clenched. For a moment, he just stared at her. Not with anger, but with the heavy stillness of someone who'd seen too much. Then, without a word, he turned the corner.

  Emmett stood still, staring into the village square. His breath fogged the air in short, bitter clouds. What lay before him wasn’t surprising, not to him. He had seen this before.

  The square was a butchered tableau. Bodies lay strewn like discarded trash. Frozen in grotesque stillness. Men, women, children. None had been spared. A few hung from streetlamps, stiff and swinging slightly in the wind. Crude signs dangled from their necks, marked with words like Spion and Verr?ter in rough, angry scrawl. Others were heaped in smoldering piles, their flesh blackened and curling. The snow here was no longer white. It was painted in frozen blood, soot and grim. The air stank of smoke, char, and death.

  "Eira," Emmett said. His voice was flat, empty. "Come here."

  Eira hesitated, her expression shifting between curiosity and unease. But as she moved from behind the corner and stood beside him, the sight before her made her freeze. Her eyes widened in horror, her breath catching in her throat.

  She stepped forward, her boots crunching softly in the snow as her gaze swept over the carnage. Her mouth partly open. Her eyes sweeping over the carnage with disbelief.

  Then she saw something that made her heart drop. Her legs felt like lead as she walked toward a small body lying crumpled in the snow. She knelt, trembling, and with shaky hands, she rolled the figure over.

  The pale, frozen face of a little girl stared back at her. Her face was lifeless, eyes glassy and staring at nothing. Blond braided hair, stained with her own blood. Her little hands still clutching a small ragged doll as if unable to part with it. Even in death.

  Behind her, Emmett's heavy boots crunched closer. He stopped a few paces away, standing over her as she knelt by the young child’s body. His face was unreadable, his single eye fixed on her.

  Eira felt the sting of tears welling in her eyes. “This… this couldn’t have been us,” she whispered, almost pleading. “Not Germans… not my countrymen.”

  Emmett crouched down beside her, his movements slow and deliberate. He looked at her for a long moment before speaking in a low, emotionless tone. “In 1942 I was sent to France. Worked with the French Resistance. The Partisans. Training, sabotage.” His voice hardened as he gestured to the carnage around them. “There was a village. Saint-étienne-des-Bois. Good people, hardworking folks. Gave us food, shelter, never raised a weapon against the Nazis.”

  He sniffed, his face tightening into a bitter expression. "Summer of ’43, we went back, and the place was gone. Burned to cinders. Every man.” He pointed to the child at Eira’s knees. “Every woman. Every child.”

  Eira stared at him, shaking. His words striking like hammer blows.

  Emmett’s eye bored into hers. “Ask me again why I hate you so much. You and your ilk.” His voice was cold, devoid of anger but filled with a quiet, cutting disdain. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

  She shook her head, pressing the palms of her hands to her temples. “It’s not fair to say!” she shouted, her voice trembling with emotion.

  Emmett stood, his boots crunching on the frozen ground as he moved toward a row of bodies. “Life’s not fair,” he shot back without looking at her.

  Eira stood, fists clenched at her sides as she followed him. “How can you say this about Germany when your Americans and British bomb our cities?” she demanded, her voice rising with frustration.

  He crouched beside another corpse, rummaging through its jacket. “Very different from lining people up against a wall and shooting them,” he snarled, “But, what do you care? You ain’t even human.”

  He pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes, lit one with numb fingers. The smoke curled upward, bitter and sharp.

  Eira wanted to argue, to say something to justify what she had believed her whole life. But the sight of the bodies around her robbed her of words. She looked at the little girl again, her knees trembling.

  “Wars hell.” He said bitterly, not bothering to look at her. “And as I recall, it was your precious ‘führer’ who started this shit in the first place.”

  “That’s not true!” Eira snapped, her voice breaking. “Germany was enslaved after the Great War. We were paying for sins we didn’t commit!” She realized she was slipping into German, the words tumbling out faster and more passionately than she intended.

  Emmett smirked grimly, walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps. He stopped in front of her, cigarette smoldering between two fingers.

  "Say that again," he said, soft and vicious. "While looking into that little girl’s dead eyes."

  Eira’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her lips quivered, and she looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

  Satisfied, Emmett turned and walked toward one of the nearby buildings. “Stay here,” he said flatly, his tone making it clear he didn’t care whether she obeyed or not.

  Eira didn’t move. Couldn’t. The world tilted. Everything she believed cracking under the weight of the carnage surrounding them.

  She looked at the bodied. At the broken homes. The blood in the snow. Her breath coming in shallow bursts.

  She clenched her fists, her claws digging into her palms as a bitter thought crept into her mind: Maybe they’re all monsters.

  And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she meant the Americans, the Russians… or the Germans.

  Emmett stormed through the village, his mood as foul as the stench of death clinging to the air. He felt anger, for her, the krauts… and himself. What maybe made it worse, was the feelings of hypocrisy. He thought of what he had said to Eira, his mind inevitably turned to that train… his own sins started to creep back in.

  He had killed woman and children too.

  “Warum?” The German soldier had asked. Clutching his dead daughter to his chest. He pushed the memories down and moved further down the street.

  The cigarette clenched between his teeth burned low as he kicked open the door of a dilapidated building. The impact of his boot sent splinters flying. The hinges groaned in protest but still held. Inside, the room was dark and suffocating, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the lingering acridity of smoke.

  The body of an older man slumped over a desk, still sitting in a chair. His graying hair matted to his scalp. His face, locked in a grotesque mask of despair, stared unblinkingly at nothing. Emmett didn’t hesitate.

  “Sorry, old man,” he muttered, his tone void of sympathy.

  With a hard shove, he pushed the man’s body aside, the limp form collapsing to the floor in a heap. The chair clattering beside him. Emmett’s hands worked swiftly, pulling open the desk drawers. He sifted through a mess of papers and envelopes, tossing them aside with a growing frustration.

  “Fucking useless,” he growled. His anger rising like boiling water in a pot.

  He seized an empty drawer by the handle, yanking it free of the desk and hurled it against the wall. Wood splintered upon impact, fragments scattering across the room.

  Emmett shook his head and stepped over the man’s body as if it were an inconvenient obstacle, moving to a nearby chair. He dragged it beneath a rafter, its legs scraping against the wooden floor. Climbing onto the chair, he stretched upward, his fingers brushing against something metallic.

  “Gotcha,” he murmured, pulling down a dented metal can. The faded label was written in Polish, the letters barely legible.

  “Mystery meat,” he muttered sarcastically, tossing it into his bag without a second glance. He hoisted himself higher, his fingers brushing against another can tucked into the rafters. When he dropped back down to the chair, he examined it briefly before stashing it alongside the first.

  He moved methodically, throughout the building like a predator stalking prey. He walked to an open door and paused when he noticed tripwire stretched across the threshold. The thin metal cord barely was visible in the dim light, situated just beneath his knees.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Emmett snorted, stepping carefully over it.

  “Amateurs,” he muttered under his breath.

  In one corner of the room, a body slumped against a closed door. The man’s head lolled awkwardly, his lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.

  Emmett grabbed him by the shoulders and unceremoniously shoved him aside. The body hit the floor with a wet thud as Emmett opened the door and stepped through.

  The air inside was thick with smoke, the smell of burning wood and fabric stinging his nostrils and eyes. He pulled a rag from his pocket, tying it over his mouth and nose as he moved cautiously. His boots crunched over broken glass and debris.

  He climbed a steps to the upper floor and upstairs, the source of the fire became evident. Curtains hanging by a window were engulfed in flames, the heat radiating outward as the fire crept along the walls. A discarded torch lay nearby, its charred end smoldering.

  “Fucking idiots,” Emmett muttered, shielding his face as he moved further into the room.

  A body lay on the bed, an elderly woman with wide, glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling above. She had died with her hands clasped together, as if in prayer. Emmett didn’t pause to consider her fate. Instead, he scanned the room, searching for anything of value.

  A loose floorboard caught his attention. The creak beneath his boot was sharper than the others, its tone hollow. He crouched down, running his fingers along the edge of the board. He used the edge of his knife for leverage, and with a grunt he pried it free, revealing an old dust-covered, double-barrel shotgun and a small box of shells.

  “Well, ain’t that a sight,” Emmett said with a grim smile.

  He tucked the weapon under his arm and pocketed the shells, standing as the fire crackled menacingly behind him. He moved swiftly, moving downstairs and slipping out of the house. The stench of smoke clung to his clothes as he made his way to another building.

  He found a machine shop that was partially intact. Inside, most of the tools were broken purposely. But one caught his eye. A hacksaw with a blade still sharp enough for his purpose. He mounted the shotgun’s barrel into a vice, gripping the saw tightly as he began cutting. The blade screeched against the metal as he worked. When he was finished, the barrels were a clean 16 inches.

  “Much better,” he said, inspecting his handiwork.

  He loaded the shotgun with two shells and tucked it under his arm, gathering any additional supplies he could find from the surrounding buildings. A few more cans of food, a battered lantern, and a length of rope, and other items that would be immensely useful. By the time he was done, his bag was noticeably heavier. The excess he placed in a burlap sack which he carried over his shoulder.

  Emmett walked back to the village center, his boots crunching over the frozen ground. Eira still sat beside the little girl’s body, her expression distant and haunted. Emmett tossed the bag beside her, the sound startling her from her thoughts.

  “We’re leaving,” he said coldly, not waiting for a response.

  He turned and began walking west, his pace steady and unrelenting. Eira stared at the bag for a moment, her hands trembling as she reached for it. The strap felt heavy in her grasp, and she forced herself to stand.

  She followed after Emmett, her steps hesitant. Though taller than him, she felt small in that moment. Diminished by the weight of the horrors she had seen and the cold detachment of the man ahead of her.

  Emmett didn’t look back, his focus fixed on the horizon. His cigarette burned low, the ember glowing faintly in the pale light of the dying day.

  Emmett sat cross-legged on the cold, cracked floor of the ruined building, his back resting against a charred support beam. The flickering firelight cast long, restless shadows that danced along the pockmarked walls, barely illuminating the space around him. A half-burned cigarette bobbed between his lips, its faint glow lighting the rugged lines of his face.

  In front of him, a small metal pan balanced precariously over hot coals. The wax from a melted candle pooled inside, shimmering with heat. Emmett’s hand, steady despite the chill in the air, dipped a battered spoon into the liquefied wax. With practiced care, he poured measured amounts into the open tops of the shotgun shells he had scavenged earlier.

  Birdshot was practically useless for what lay ahead. But with wax binding the pellets together, each shell would slam into a target like a crude slug. Not pretty, but effective. Pragmatic. That was what mattered. And for the first time since he had lost the Greasegun, he had something other than a pistol.

  He moved methodically. Scoop, pour, set aside. Nine shells. Not nearly enough, but more than they had before.

  Across the fire, Eira sat on a half-collapsed log, her posture slumped in an unfamiliar show of vulnerability. An open can of food rested in her hands, but she hadn’t taken a bite. Her gaze was fixed on the flames, unfocused, the reflection of the fire dancing in her blue eyes. The smell of charred wood and salty canned meat hung between them, but her mind was miles away. Still trapped in that village, among the bodies.

  Emmett noticed her demeanor. The way her fingers clenched the can tightly. He thought about saying something. Telling her to eat, to pull herself together. But the words curdled in his throat.

  Let her stew.

  He turned back to his work. The rhythmic scrape of metal against metal filled the space as he filed down the sharp burrs on the shotgun’s cut down barrels. Further refining the now more deadly weapon. But even as his hands worked, his mind wandered.

  The polish village. Then the train. The faces.

  Warum? The German soldier had pleaded, arms clutching the broken, bloodied body of his daughter.

  Emmett clenched his jaw, filing harder. He tried to push it away. The guilt, the hypocrisy. He’d stood in that village acting like he was so damn high and mighty.

  But what about him? What about the train?

  His mind dragged him back. He was there again, boots crunching over gravel. The air thick with smoke, and dirt. Bodies lying around the derailed train. And that man… that goddamn man...

  “Warum?”

  The Wehrmacht soldier’s voice trembled as he knelt in the debris, his child limp in his arms. Tears streaked the grime on his face. His eyes… those haunted eyes locked with Emmett’s. Not with anger, not with hatred... just a desperate plea for an answer.

  Emmett remembered the weight of the revolver in his hand. The cold steel.

  But his finger had already curled around the trigger.

  "I’m sorry."

  The shot echoed through his skull again.

  “Were damned for this Emmett.” Henri had said.

  Emmett knew it, he was damned. For the train, for the countless people he had killed. For almost killing Adele… his child…

  He inhaled sharply, pulling himself back to the present. His breath hissed between clenched teeth as he shoved the memory down. Back where it belonged.

  And then…

  “What’s your last name?”

  Eira’s voice, quiet and subdued, slipped through the silence like a breeze. Not probing. Not mocking. Just… asking.

  Emmett’s hand paused mid-motion, the file hovering over the shotgun’s metal. For a beat, he considered ignoring her. Pretending he hadn’t heard. But the question lingered, filling the space between them like smoke.

  He cleared his throat, the gravel in his voice thick. “Granger,” he said finally. Flicking his spent cigarette into the fire, watching the ember sizzle out.

  Eira nodded, as if tucking the information away. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze still lost in the flames. Her tail, usually flicking with some form of irritation, lay still beside her.

  A pause.

  Then.

  “Tell me about Jimmie Rodgers.”

  Emmett froze. His hand hovered over the shotgun, fingers tightening around the metal. He wanted to snap at her. What does it matter? Shut the hell up. But the words… wouldn’t come.

  Why that question?

  His shoulders sagged. After a moment, he pulled the crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped another one out, lighting it with a match that flared briefly against the cold. The first drag burned his lungs in a way that felt… grounding. Real.

  He exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the air between them. His mind, still turbulent, clung to the warmth of the fire and the fleeting comfort of nicotine.

  Eira waited, patiently. Not pushing.

  Goddamn it, Emmett thought.

  He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Jimmie Rodgers, huh…”

  Eira nodded, adjusting her stance. Emmett sighed heavily and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers rubbed wearily at his face, smearing soot and grime across weathered skin. The flickering flames danced in his single eye.

  “My folks…” he started, voice rough, “had this old radio back home. One of those bulky bastards that barely worked half the time. Damn thing would spit static more than music.”

  His lips tugged into a faint smirk. “But when the weather played nice, we’d catch the local station. Bunch of different music… but Jimmie Rodgers? Hell…” He paused, inhaling smoke from his cigarette before exhaling slowly. “Somethin’ about his songs stuck with me.”

  Eira remained quiet, her gaze never leaving the fire. Her face was calm. Reflective.

  Emmett cleared his throat and looked at his feet.

  “He… sang about folks like me,” Emmett continued, his voice dropping softer. “Angry kids thinking the world owed them somethin’... only to find out it don’t give a damn.” His jaw clenched.

  “Back then… I was just another pissed-off kid in Montana. Workin’ cattle, fightin’ every other boy in town for lookin’ at me wrong. That music? It was like he was singing about me.”

  Eira’s ears twitched slightly, catching the weight in his words. She hadn’t expected that kind of honesty. Not from him.

  A long moment stretched between them, the fire crackling and popping in the cold night air. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but clear. “Could you share one of his songs?”

  Emmett’s gaze snapped toward her, his brow furrowing. “I ain’t a damn radio,” he grumbled, smoke curling from between his cracked lips.

  She nodded, unfazed. “I am not asking you to sing,” she said simply. “Just… describe it to me.”

  He sighed, glancing back at the flames. His cigarette dangled between two fingers as he considered. “Damn pushy,” he muttered, but there was no real venom behind it.

  Resting his forearms against his knees, he let the fire’s warmth seep into his bones. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. Almost like he was talking to himself rather than her.

  “There’s this one…” He paused, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “In the Jailhouse Now. Songs about this fella. Ramblin’ Bob. Bob’s the kinda guy who thinks he’s slick. Cheating folks at cards, making trouble in every town he strolls into.” His smirk widened. “He figures he’s smarter than the rest, y’know? Always thinkin’ he’s two steps ahead... until he isn’t.”

  Eira’s gaze remained locked on the fire, her features unreadable. But he noticed her ears tilted toward him, picking up every word.

  “Bob gets caught,” Emmett continued, “ends up in the jailhouse just like everyone knew he would. Song’s got this kinda... bouncy tune. Real easy to tap your foot to, even if the stories about a fool gettin’ what’s coming to him.” He chuckled under his breath. “Hell, when I was younger, I was Bob. Thought I could outrun the world... outsmart it.” His smile faded a little. “World don’t care how fast you run.”

  Silence settled between them again, heavier now.

  Emmett leaned back, the tension in his shoulders easing for a fleeting moment. He glanced at her, then away like he was fighting himself. With a quiet sigh, he hummed a few bars under his breath.

  And before he could stop himself.

  He sang.

  Had a friend named Ramblin’ Bob… Who used to steal, gamble and rob… Thought he was the smartest guy in town

  His voice was rough, yet, it carried a warmth. A flicker of something softer beneath all that grit.

  Eira’s ears perked, subtle but noticeable.

  But I found out last Monday... That bob got locked up Sunday… They’ve got him in the jailhouse way downtown. Emmett gaze fixed on the flames, distant. Haunted. He’s in the jailhouse now...

  The last note trailed off, swallowed by the cold night air.

  He sat there for a long moment, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, his mind lost somewhere far away.

  Emmett took another drag, exhaled, and stared into the fire like it held the answers to questions he’d stopped asking years ago.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the whispering wind threading through the trees and the soft crackle of the fire consuming the last of the kindling.

  Then Eira cleared her throat, breaking the silence with a soft, almost hesitant voice. “Danke,” she said quietly. Her gaze remained fixed on the flames. “For sharing that… song.”

  Emmett grunted, noncommittal. He didn’t say anything further, just flicked ash from his cigarette and stared into the flames.

  Eira finally lifted her gaze from the fire, looking at him for a beat before sighing softly. Her expression was tired. Less of her usual bite, more… human. Vulnerable, even.

  “We had a theater,” she said after a pause, her tone contemplative. “At the facility where I was raised. Not like the grand ones you would hear about in Berlin, or the ones in America with their velvet seats and golden curtains.” She huffed, a small, dry laugh escaping her lips. “No, ours was clinical like everything else there. A room with metal chairs that dug into your back. The air always smelled faintly of disinfectant and damp concrete.”

  Emmett didn’t interrupt. Something about the way she spoke. The quiet nostalgia made him let her talk.

  Eira’s gaze drifted upward, her eyes reflecting the firelight as her mind traveled far from the snowy woods. “As I’ve told you, they would show us films sometimes.” Her voice softened. “I sang a song from it the other day. Driving you mad.”

  Emmett shifted, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She continued, undeterred.

  “Schneewittchen und die sieben Zwerge,” she said, lips curling into the faintest smile. “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.” She glanced at him, half-expecting a jab or sarcastic remark, but Emmett just grunted, adjusting the cigarette between his fingers.

  “Vollmer was the one who showed it to us,” she continued. “He… was fond of it. Said it was a marvel of human creativity.” Her gaze drifted back to the fire. “And it was.”

  Her voice grew softer, distant. “I remember sitting there. Younger, curious. The screen flickered to life, and there it was… color. Bright, vivid color. The characters so full of life. Drawn, yet… alive.”

  Her eyes glistened with the reflection of the flames. “It was like seeing another world open up before me. The forest scenes… the sparkling gems in the mine. I remember thinking how can this be? How can something hand-drawn feel so real?”

  She paused, breathing in the cold air, exhaling slowly. “The music... It was beautiful. I still remember how it felt when Snow White sang to the birds. Or when the dwarves marched with their pickaxes, singing. I…” She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I was enchanted. For a little while, I forgot where I was. Forgot what I was.”

  Emmett leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he listened. His face remaining unreadable.

  Eira sighed, the smile fading into something more wistful. “You have not seen it, I know,” she murmured. “But… it truly is a wonderful film.”

  Emmett, eyes still fixed on the fire, exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said gruffly, though there wasn’t much bite in his tone.

  She nodded, accepting that. The fire crackled, filling the ensuing silence with its steady, comforting rhythm. For a long stretch, neither of them spoke.

  Eira suddenly let out a sound. Part choked sob, part groan that barely made it past her throat. She clenched her jaw and stared into the fire as if it were the only thing tethering her to the present. The flickering light danced in her eyes, and for the briefest moment, Emmett swore he saw them rimmed with unshed tears. But she didn’t let them fall. Instead, she blinked rapidly, sucked in a sharp breath through her nose, and cleared her throat.

  For a long moment, she said nothing. Just sat there, her hands clasped tightly. Her claws digging into her own palms. Her tail remained utterly still beside her.

  “We passed through that village on our way to the Eastern Front.” her German accent curling around the words, making them feel heavier.

  Her gaze remained locked on the fire as she spoke.

  She exhaled, slow and measured. “Our command… they usually kept us out of sight from the general public. As much as they could. What we looked like. Perhaps they feared what we might provoke in people.” A mirthless smile tugged at the corner of her lips before vanishing. “But this time… this time they did not care. Or perhaps they wanted to make a point. I do not know. Either way, we marched straight through the center of that village.”

  Emmett took a slow drag from his cigarette, his single eye watching her carefully as she spoke. She wasn’t looking for pity. That much was clear. And she sure as hell didn’t need him interrupting.

  “The people…” she continued, her voice thinning slightly, “reacted as you might expect. Horror. Disgust. Some of them turned their backs. Some stared, but not for too long. Just long enough to confirm what they had seen, as if their eyes were betraying them. And the few who dared to watch us openly?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “They looked at us like we were monsters. As if they had seen some terrible nightmare crawl out of the woods and into their streets.”

  Eira sniffed, a wet sound, and shook her head. “But that girl…That little dead child.” Her voice softened, almost disbelieving. “She was not afraid.”

  She let the words sit there for a moment, her ears flicking as if hearing something only she could hear. “While the rest of the village cowered, while the mothers clutched their children and the men glared at us from their doorways, she walked toward me. Right up to me. Not frightened. But curious.” Eira’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile once, but now only held pain. “She was so small. A little thing, no older than five or six. Her hair blonde, tied in little braids. And her eyes blue. So very blue like mein own.”

  She swallowed hard, her throat working around the lump forming there. “Her mother was calling for her. Almost screaming, her voice so desperate, but she did not listen. The woman… Gott, she was too afraid to come for her child herself. And I… I did not move. I did not want to scare her away.”

  Eira’s gaze flickered upward, staring into the fire as though searching for something within the flames. “She reached out, you know?” Her voice barely above a whisper. “Her tiny hand.” Her claws tightened around the can, the metal creaking under the pressure.

  A heavy breath left her lips, her shoulders sagging as if the weight of that memory alone was too much. “And in that moment, Emmett,” she said, her voice unsteady, “I felt something… something wonderful. Something beautiful.” She let out a shuddering breath, shaking her head as if she still didn’t quite believe it. “For the first time, someone looked at me not as a monster. Not as an experiment. But with wonder.”

  She gave a hollow laugh, though it held no real amusement. “Her mother was hysterical, crying for her to come back, and then our Feldwebel, the man who led my unit.” Her voice softened further. “He knelt, spoke to the girl gently, kindly. He took her little hand in his, led her back to her mother. And just before her mother snatched her away, the little girl turned back and waved at me.”

  Eira closed her eyes for a long moment, her ears drooping slightly. “And now… she is dead.”

  Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The fire crackled, popping softly as the wood split from the heat.

  Eira took a breath, steadying herself. When she spoke again, her voice was raw, quiet. “My own countrymen killed them all. That village, those people, the children… her.” She swallowed hard. “I do not know why. Perhaps there was a reason. Perhaps not. But I cannot understand it. I will never understand it.”

  Another pause.

  She tilted her head back slightly, staring up at the dark sky above them. “I tell you this, Emmett,” she said finally, her voice barely more than a whisper, “because there is no one else to tell it to… and I must tell it.”

  She turned then, her blue eyes locking onto his. Emmett could see moisture in her eyes. Her expression heavy with sorrow.

  “Damn you,” she said softly, but there was steel beneath the words. “Damn you for being the one I tell this to.”

  Her gaze lingered on him for a long moment before she turned back to the fire, staring into the flames as if willing them to burn away the ghosts in her mind.

  Emmett didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only took a slow, steady drag of his cigarette, watching as the ember flared and dimmed, the soft glow barely illuminating the hard set of his jaw.

  Finally, he sighed and began gathering their gear, movements methodical and practiced. His boots crunched softly in the snow as he kicked dirt over the dying fire, embers hissing in protest. “We should bed down,” he muttered.

  Eira nodded, her head hung low. Pulling her jacket tighter against the creeping cold.

  They moved deeper into the woods, toward the shelter they’d scraped together earlier from whatever they could scavenge in the village. A patchwork cocoon half-swallowed by the forest. Just a tarp stretched over a fallen log, reinforced with branches. Covered in snow, and dead leaves. From a distance, it looked like nothing more than another windfallen heap.

  Inside, Emmett had laid pine boughs for bedding, a blanket stretched over them, and another folded on top. Eira ducked in first, lowering herself onto the rough bed. Emmett followed, settling beside her and pulling the cover over himself, leaving a deliberate hand’s-width between them. The cut-down shotgun lay within easy reach. Resting in the space between.

  He gave it one last glance before taking off his eyepatch, revealing the hollow beneath, and closed his remaining eye. Sleep seemingly took him quickly. His breathing deep, even, and slow. The lines in his face easing as the day’s weight bled away.

  Eira stayed awake.

  She rolled onto her side, ears flicking at every faint creak of trees, every gust that set snow sliding from the branches above. Under it all was Emmett’s breathing, steady and untroubled.

  She hated that sound. How easy rest seemed to take him.

  How could he carry so much venom, so much anger, and then slip into sleep as if none of it mattered?

  Her gaze lingered on his face. Without the scowl, without that hard-edged stare, he looked… different. Softer. Human, almost. The left side of his face however… Stubble shadowed the lines around his mouth, scars cut jagged paths across his cheek, and the empty hollow where his left eye should have been, appeared as a void. Like something that swallowed the light and refused to give it back.

  She turned away, lips pressing together in frustration. How could he just shut it off? How could he push aside what they’d seen. The blood, the bodies, the little girl with the doll, when her own mind kept replaying it in endless loops?

  That girl. Those bright eyes. That small, curious smile. Her mother’s voice, sharp and frantic, calling her back. The way she had laughed softly instead, stepping closer, tiny hand reaching out. And now… she was nothing but a crumpled shape in the snow. And for what?

  Eira swallowed against the tightness in her chest. She’d been forged for war, trained and sharpened to kill without hesitation. That was her duty, her design. And yet, she wished she’d never set foot in that village. Wished she could still believe what she was raised to believe. That they were soldiers, not butchers. But that lie had cracked wide open today, and she didn’t know if she could face what was behind it. She exhaled deeply and forced down the misery. And turned her thoughts to her current situation.

  Her hand moved without thinking, brushing the pocket where the small, sharp thing waited. She felt it through the fabric. Cold, certain, a promise she’d been carrying since the moment their truce was made.

  Her gaze slid to Emmett. He was close enough now that she wouldn’t even have to shift her weight. Just one motion. Quick. Clean. They were close enough to the German lines. She didn’t need him anymore.

  Her fingers curled tighter around the shape in her pocket.

  He lay there, utterly still save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. His breathing was deep, unguarded. The kind of breathing that said the man was gone, sunk into a place she couldn’t follow. The scarred side of his face was turned toward her, that hollow where his eye had been dark as pitch.

  She pictured it.

  The twist of his body, the sudden stiffening, the way his breath would catch just before it ended. How she would see the terror in his remaining eye before she gouged it out. Her pulse quickened. She told herself this was the moment. This was what she’d been waiting for.

  But she didn’t move.

  Her grip slackened, just slightly. And then that other thought slid in like a blade between ribs. He’d had a life before this. A home. A family. A childhood. She’d had nothing but orders and her kind.

  The question tangled with something she refused to name, and for a moment, the urge to kill him twisted into something else. Something messier. She was jealous of him, in a way.

  She tightened her grip again. One sharp breath. One decision.

  But it didn’t come.

  The wind rattled the shelter overhead, snow sliding loose with a soft hiss. She let go of the pocket. Slowly. Quietly. Her hand lay still against her side, but her jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

  I hate him, she told herself. But in the dark, with the sound of his breathing steady beside her.

  Her hand slipped from the pocket at last, the cold lump of metal and intent left behind. She let her eyes close, though her jaw stayed tight.

  “I wish I was never born,” she mouthed into the darkness, the words silent but heavy enough to settle over her like a weight.

  Beside her, Emmett’s breathing stayed slow and even.

  Unseen by her, his fingers tightened around the grip of his 1911, the leather flap of the holster already unfastened. He cracked his eye open, just enough to watch her through the dim glow that bled in from the shelter’s edge.

  A faint sigh left him, the kind that could be mistaken for a dreamer’s exhale, and his eyelid slid shut again. His breathing evened out once more, but his hand never left the pistol.

  -SABLE