The cold morning air bit into Eira as she limped away from the cave, clutching the canteen in her clawed hands. She paused, fingers brushing over Emmett’s pistol at her hip, the weight of it reassuring. She patted it once, as if to remind herself it was real, her breath misted in the frigid air. She winced in discomfort as her side ached, slowly exhaled, then resumed walking.

  As she limped along every step sent sharp reminders of her battered body. She felt as if her ribs might crack under the strain, and her legs trembled with exhaustion. The stream she was traveling to wasn’t far at least. She could hear its steady flow in the distance, but even the short journey felt grueling.

  She reached the stream, a ribbon of icy water cutting through the snowy landscape. Eira knelt by the bank, wincing as her knees protested the movement. She dipped the canteen into the icy current, she watched the water swirl and bubble, the faint gurgle almost hypnotic. For a brief, fragile moment, the forest felt distant. Her bruises, her exhaustion, even the gnawing cold faded beneath the rhythm of the stream. She tilted the canteen to her lips, swallowing greedily until water spilled from the corners of her mouth and ran down her fur.

  Wiping her face with the back of her sleeve, she topped off the canteen and clipped it back to her belt. Then, cupping both hands, she splashed her face with water from the stream. The shock of cold chasing away the haze clinging to her mind. She rested there a moment, staring into the water. The snow began soaking through the knees of her trousers into the fur beneath. It was miserable, yet grounding. Reminding her she was at least alive.

  Pushing herself upright, she fished out Emmett’s compass and unfolded the map. Turning west, she tried to gauge the distance they’d covered last night.

  She had barely paid attention in the chaos, her focus locked only on escape. Her eyes caught on the red-marked village to the east, and her hand clenched involuntarily around the compass. The memory pressed in unbidden. Smoke, the stink of charred flesh, the little girl lying in the snow. Still clutching the small doll.

  Her people… her countrymen had done that… why… had her kind been involved?

  The thought chilled her more than the wind ever could. If she’d been there… if the orders had been hers to follow…, would she have done the same?

  Her claws trembled against the edge of the map. With effort, she forced the thought back down, jaw tightening.

  This wasn’t the time.

  She steadied her breath, ears rotating as she listened to the forest. The sigh of wind through snow-heavy branches. The crunch of ice beneath her boots. A bird’s thin call high above.

  And then… something else.

  Eira froze.

  It was faint at first, but the sound was steady, repeating. Not the random noise of nature. Rhythmic. Deliberate.

  Her ears flattened, her eyes narrowing as the realization slid cold into her gut.

  Footsteps. Multiple footsteps.

  Eira darted behind a tree, her pulse hammering in her ears. She drew a slow breath, flaring her nostrils, but caught nothing beyond the sharp bite of pine and the stale reek of her own sweat and blood. She was downwind.

  “Schei?e,” she muttered, lips peeling back from her fangs. Her ears strained at every sound. She didn’t need to guess who they were, of course they hadn’t surrendered the hunt.

  Her hand checked the pistol on her hip. She eased the slide back just enough to confirm a loaded chamber. Two spare magazines. A knife. And if it came to it, her teeth and claws.

  For a heartbeat she considered turning back, warning Emmett, dragging him deeper into hiding. But the thought collapsed under its own weight. He couldn’t move. At least not well, and certainly not fast enough. He’d only slow her down in his current condition.

  Does she leave him?

  She thought about it. Honestly thought about it. She knew they were close to the German lines. Maybe a day or so. She could be rid of him, rid of the leash of this truce. He was injured, but she had no doubt he was still dangerous. Leaving him now would be the simplest choice.

  But then…

  Her lip curled, a growl rumbling in her chest. No. Not like this. If anyone was going to decide his fate, it would be her. Not them. Not after everything she had gone through. She needed to make some part of all this worth it.

  Adrenaline flushed through her veins, hot and steady. She crouched low, moving quickly towards the sound. Her body screamed at her with every step, ribs aching, knee flaring with pain. But the rhythm of the hunt dulled it all. She pressed forward, breath slow, and deliberate.

  She stopped suddenly, the motion making her right knee ache in protest. She could hear voices.

  She froze, letting her body still until even her heartbeat seemed too loud. At first her own ragged breathing drowned it out. She forced it calm, forced it shallow, and the words bled through. Russian. Three distinct voices.

  “…Still don’t see the purpose in this,” one man complained, his tone edged with anxiety.

  “Shut up,” another hissed. “The werewolf might hear you.”

  The first grumbled, annoyed. “You saw them fall. They might’ve…”

  A sharp smack cut him off, followed by a pained grunt.

  “I said shut up,” the second snapped, his voice hard with fury.

  A third voice rumbled with low amusement. “Viktor is right. Silence, idiot.” His words carried the smug ease of someone enjoying the tension.

  At least three.

  Eira’s ears angled forward, her claws flexing against the tree’s bark. Perhaps there were more in the treeline but she was certain of only three.

  Eira guessed they were at least 140 meters away. Best she could figure. That gave her just enough time to set the board, but only if there were three. If more lingered beyond them, her plan would have to change.

  And quickly.

  Slipping back onto a narrow path, she dragged her boot with every step, worsening her limp. The snow gave way in long furrows beneath her left foot, a wounded animal’s trail written plainly across the ground. She hated what she did next, but it would sell the ruse. Hopefully making them bold, and careless.

  She holstered the pistol and drew her knife. The sting came sharp and hot as she slit the inside of her palm, blood welling immediately and dripping into the white snow, a crimson breadcrumb trail. Her teeth clenched against the hiss of pain.

  Let them think her weak. Let them come hungry.

  She quickened her pace, if only a little, and snatched a fist-sized stone from the frozen earth, which she tucked into the pocket of her tunic.

  Minutes bled away. Then… A sharp intake of breath behind her.

  They’d found her trail.

  Her heartbeat drummed like a metronome. Steady, controlled, deliberate. She let her pace quicken, to maintain a fair distance. Behind her, she heard their pace quicken.

  At the next bend, she cut hard off the trail and slipped into the trees. Her ribs screamed, her knee nearly buckled, but she didn’t falter. She doubled back, melting into the shadows of a great fir whose boughs swept low, its trunk broad enough to hide her completely.

  She slowed her breathing, pressing her back against the bark, the cold seeping through her coat. The forest grew quiet. Then they emerged from around the bend.

  Three men. Heavy coats of drab brown, scarves wound tight against the cold, bayonets fixed to their rifles. Their eyes roved the treeline with the nervous sharpness of men who expected monsters behind every trunk. The leader wore a battered ushanka with the ear flaps pinned up, his mustache bristling like a frost-caked broom. The second had his scarf wrapped so high only his eyes showed. The third wore a steel helmet, used by the Soviets.

  Eira eased her head back behind the tree. She exhaled slowly, forcing her pulse to calm. Her fingers found the stone in her pocket, drawing it free. She turned it over in her palm, its rough edges biting into the cut she had made.

  Her eyes softened for a moment, and another forest rose up in her mind. Not snow, but summer grass. Not rifles, but laughter.

  Dieter stood before her, grinning, a stone in his hand. He turned it over as if inspecting it like one might an apple. Searching for bruises. Then his body coiled, and he whipped his arm back and hurled it. The rock smacked against a stump with a loud, satisfying crack.

  “That’s four, little sister,” he crowed, fangs flashing in his smile.

  Eira had scowled at her own stone, her ears hot with frustration. She wound up, ready to prove herself, when his hand slipped into her view. “You’re holding too long,” he said with a laugh. He scooped another stone, sent it spinning, and it struck nearly the same spot. Always the same spot.

  Her scowl deepened, but she nodded, rolling her shoulders before launching her own. The stone sailed wide, disappearing into the brush. Dieter had clapped her shoulder, laughter rumbling from his chest. “Again, little sister. Again.”

  The memory bled away.

  Eira blinked, the icy woods rushing back into focus. She was back in the snowy forest, the stone sat heavy in her palm. Her lips twitched into a smile. The Russians were right behind the tree now. Eira glanced at the stone in her hand, the edges biting into her cut palm, and huffed out a low, humorless chuckle.

  She exploded from cover in a blur of motion, the snow spraying beneath her boots. Her arm whipped back, muscles screaming, then snapped forward with all the force she could muster. The rock cut through the frozen air with a sharp whistle, striking the man in the ushanka squarely in the skull. The sound was sickening, an audible crack followed by a strangled gasp as his head snapped forward. He collapsed face-first into the snow, body twitching violently.

  The others barely had time to turn.

  Eira was already on them. She crashed into the first with bone-rattling force, her shoulder slamming into his chest. His eyes went wide, a startled yelp bursting from his throat as he toppled backward into his comrade. The two of them went down in a tangle of limbs, their rifles slipping from their hands as curses tore from their lips.

  She didn’t give them time to recover.

  Eira landed atop the first, knife flashing in her grip. The blade plunged deep into the man’s throat, a wet crunch followed by a hot spray of red across her hand. His eyes bulged, lips moving soundlessly as blood welled up between her fingers. She ripped the knife free with a snarl, her ears twitching at the sound of the second man fumbling for his weapon.

  The second man scrambled to bring his rifle up, but she was already there, seizing the barrel with one clawed hand. With a feral snarl, she ripped it from his grasp and slammed into him, knocking him back into the snow. The knife flashed again but he caught her wrist, both hands clamped tight around hers.

  His teeth were bared in terror as he forced the blade aside, fighting with the strength of desperation.

  Eira’s snarl deepened. She didn’t pull back. Instead, she opened her jaws and sank her teeth into his throat.

  The man let out a shriek. High, and terrified before it broke into a bubbling gurgle. Hot blood filled her mouth, metallic and thick. His hands flailed, clawing for her eyes, but she slammed his arms into the snow, pinning him down as her jaws tore deeper. Flesh parted. The copper taste of blood drowned her tongue.

  Movement.

  She wrenched her head up, muzzle dripping crimson, just in time to see the mustached soldier. The one she’d felled with the rock fumbling blindly for his rifle in the snow. His right eye was grotesquely swollen, blood leaking from his nose.

  Eira’s gaze narrowed.

  She shoved herself off the gurgling man beneath her and seized his skull in both hands. With one savage twist she snapped his neck clean, a sickening crack echoing through the trees. His body convulsed once, then sagged into the snow.

  She rose slowly, blood still dripping from her muzzle, and turned toward the last man.

  The soldier was on one knee, his breath ragged, his left eye wild with terror. He reached for his rifle with trembling hands, but she slapped it away and with a snarl and shoved him flat. He gasped, chest heaving, eye flicking wildly as if searching for escape.

  She lifted his own rifle, a Mosin-Nagant. The bayonet gleaming at its tip. Her arm was steady as she angled it down and drove it into his chest with a single brutal thrust. The man’s mouth opened in shock, a ragged exhale escaping as his hands weakly clutched the steel. Then his grip slackened, eyes dimming. Eira planted a boot on him and shoved, yanking the rifle free. Her breath came fast, hot clouds spilling into the frozen air. The clearing was silent but for the wind whispering through the trees.

  As her breathing steadied, she heard a faint rasp that drew her attention.

  The first soldier, the one she had stabbed in the neck still lived. He lay half-submerged in the snow, both hands clamped to the gash, blood pumping between his fingers. His wide brown eyes locked onto hers, horror brimming in their depths. He knew. He knew he was dying.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  For a moment, Eira’s rage faltered. He was young. Too young. Barely more than a boy, the scarf that had covered his face had fallen free. His cheeks still soft and free of stubble.

  Her grip tightened on the rifle.

  With a sigh, she stood beside him, angling the bayonet toward his chest. “I’m sorry,” she murmured in Russian. The boy’s eyes widened at the words, a flicker of realization flashing.

  The steel slid through him in one smooth thrust. His body jerked, a shuddering gasp tearing loose before he sagged into the snow. His hands fell away from his ruined throat, crimson staining the ground.

  Eira pulled the bayonet free and wiped it on his tunic, her expression unreadable.

  She detached the bayonet from the Mosin’s muzzle and slipped it into her belt, its weight heavy against her hip.

  As she was sheathing her knife the forest shattered with sound.

  Two thunderous booms echoed in the distance. Distinct, close. A shotgun.

  Her ears flattened, eyes snapping toward the direction of the cave.

  Her chest clenched, a cold spike of fear piercing through the haze of battle. Her hand closed on the rifle’s bolt, opening it just enough to confirm a round in the chamber. She hissed between her teeth, then broke into a sprint, snow spraying in her wake.

  He can’t die… the thought burned in her mind, sharp and unbidden. Not after everything. I’ve done too much to keep that idiot alive.

  The cave was still, save for the faint crackle of the dying fire. Shadows stretched long against the walls, the weak glow painting the stone in restless flickers. Emmett sat propped against the wall, his chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. Every breath was a knife to his ribs, but he kept his ears tuned to the silence outside.

  Eira had gone to fetch water. That left him alone. With the fire, the cold, and his thoughts.

  Christ, what a mess.

  His whole body throbbed like a sack of broken glass, and his mind wasn’t much better. He let his head tilt back, closing his one eye for just a moment, trying to blot out the ache in his bones. He was running on fumes, and he knew it. They couldn’t stay here forever. Sooner or later the Russians would pick up their trail, and when that happened, he wasn’t sure he’d be ready. Not in this condition. He needed time, and time wasn’t on his side.

  His jaw flexed as his thoughts drifted to her. To Eira. The truce had carried them this far, but the end of it was staring him in the face. Once they hit the German lines, the gloves came off. And he was in no shape to fight her. She was stronger, faster. Even beat to hell, she’d put him down before he could draw breath. Best case? He’d drag her with him into the grave.

  But his mind kept circling back to the same damn thing. Why had she saved him at all? Why not leave him bleeding in the snow? And that morning. God, why the hell had he opened his mouth? Confessing about the train like some drunk in a bar. His jaw tightened, pulse spiking with a hot flash of anger. He wanted to curse, to slam his fist against the wall, to rage at himself. Then fizzled just as fast. Too damn tired to hold onto it.

  A groan rattled out of him as he slumped lower against the cave, staring at the ratty blanket draped over his lap. His thoughts circled like vultures until, slowly, a new one broke through.

  Convince her to come with me.

  The words slipped out, barely above a whisper, like he didn’t even believe them himself. His eye opened wide at the sound of his own voice.

  “Christ, I gotta be losin’ my goddamn mind,” he muttered.

  But he realized it made a cruel kind of sense. The Reich was finished. The Russians were driving from the east, the Allies pressing from the west. Germany wasn’t falling. It was already in pieces. Anyone clinging to it would drown with it.

  Sooner or later.

  And Eira… she’d seen the village. Seen what her people had done. That had cracked something in her. He could see it in her eyes, no matter how she tried to hide it. She didn’t trust him, she hated his guts, but she wasn’t blind. Maybe that was the one card he had left.

  His thoughts cut off suddenly.

  The birds had gone quiet.

  The forest outside had stilled, as though the trees themselves were holding their breath. Emmett’s brow furrowed, his pulse steadying, sharpening.

  Then he heard it.

  Soft, deliberate. Footsteps in the snow.

  At first, he thought it was Eira returning. But something about the rhythm was off. The weight, the drag of boots against frost.

  Too cautious, too many…

  Emmett’s hand slid beneath the blanket, brushing the cold steel of the shotgun. His pulse ticked in time with each crunch of snow outside the cave. Please don’t let this be what I think it is, he thought grimly. But he already knew.

  The whispers confirmed it. Low voices in Russian, muffled by scarves but laced with confidence. More than one. Too close.

  His thumb flicked the safety off. He ran the math in his head. Two shells, and probably three or more men. Not enough ammo, and no room to maneuver. He was a cripple propped against a wall. Options thinned to one.

  A shadow cut across the cave mouth. A head leaned in, eyes squinting into the gloom. Emmett stilled, letting his grip relax off the stock. He was too slow to level it, for now he would have to wait. At least it was concealed beneath the cover.

  He sucked a breath through clenched teeth, ignoring the fire that shot through his ribs. Then let his head slump to the side. Jaw slack. Eye glazed. A corpse propped against stone.

  Play dead, Granger.

  Low whispers could be heard as the men outside argued amongst themselves. They seemed anxious.

  Nervous.

  The figures slipped inside one after another, rifles forward. There were three of them. Shapes against the firelight, moving with the cautiousness of men who expected a trap.

  “Look at him,” one murmured in Russian. “Is he dead?”

  “Looks dead to me.” Another replied in a wary tone.

  Their shadows jittered across the walls. The first stepped closer, boot scuffing the dirt floor, barrel hovering over Emmett’s chest. The man smirked and seemed to relax as he looked over the pale figure slumped against the wall. Firelight flickered across his sweat-slick brow, his hollow cheekbones. Easy prey.

  “Look how white he is.”

  The rifles muzzle tapped his boot.

  The second grew bolder, lowering his rifle to peer into Emmett’s face as the third poked at the fire with his boot, scattering embers.

  “Think the mutt left him?” The man by the fire muttered. “Or perhaps she stalks us now.”

  The taller one shrugged, helmet hanging from his belt.

  Then the first soldier made a mistake.

  He reared his boot back and kicked Emmett’s stitched thigh.

  White-hot agony flared through him, nearly tearing a snarl from his throat. He crushed it down, muscles practically trembling under the weight of stillness. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

  The man laughed sharply. “He’s already gone.”

  The second edged even closer, rifle drooping now, his confidence swelling. The air inside the cave was as taut as a wire, the silence cut only by their boots on dirt and the faint hiss of burning wood. None of them noticed the growing malice in Emmett’s eye.

  The fire popped suddenly, loud in the silence. All three flinched, eyes snapping between the flame and the mouth of the cave.

  Emmett’s lip twitched, curling into the barest trace of a grin.

  Bingo.

  Before the man could react, Emmett snapped the shotgun up from beneath the blanket in one fluid motion. The wool dropped away, and the stock slammed against his bruised shoulder as if it belonged there.

  The cave roared with thunder. The first shot ripped into the soldier standing nearest the entrance, the wax and birdshot punching through coat and bone, spraying blood and wool into the air. He stumbled backward with a strangled cry before collapsing flat, smoke curling from the ragged hole that had been his sternum.

  The man closest to Emmett jolted, rifle swinging toward him, but much too slow. Emmett seized the barrel with his left hand and wrenched it aside as his boot drove into the man’s knee. Bone popped with a sick crack, the Russian crying out collapsing, as Emmett swung the shotgun’s second barrel toward the soldier beside him.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The muzzle flash lit the cave like lightning, and the third soldier’s chin all but evaporated. Blood, bone, and teeth sprayed against the wall as the man collapsed back in a twitching sprawl, his head a ruined mess, his legs spasming.

  The shotgun clattered to the floor, smoking and empty. Emmett didn’t miss a beat. His fist rammed into the groin of the man with the broken knee, doubling him over with a strangled wheeze.

  Emmett fell on him like a starving wolf. One hand fisted in the man’s hair, yanking his head back by the nape. The other drove his knife upward in a vicious arc, punching through the soft flesh beneath his chin. Steel burst through the roof of his mouth.

  The soldier’s eyes bulged wide, hands clawing uselessly at Emmett’s arm as blood bubbled past his lips. Emmett twisted the blade cruelly, watching the man choke on his own blood with a cold, mocking smile.

  “Dumbass,” he muttered with a low chuckle, breathless but gloating.

  He ripped the knife free, then rammed it in again, the soldier’s body jerking once more before going slack. Emmett shoved him away, letting the man sprawl against the dirt floor, crimson soaking into the earth as his hands desperately tried to stop the flow of blood.

  For a moment, the only sound was Emmett’s ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire. Then the pain hit him. Sharp, unrelenting, clawing up his ribs and into his chest. He stumbled back against the wall, one hand clutching his side as his knife dripped red onto the blanket.

  He glanced at the entrance, at the body sprawled half-in, half-out of the cave, a thin curl of steam rising from the gaping ruin in his chest. A bitter, breathless laugh escaped him, jagged and ugly, before it broke into a cough that sent agony lancing through his ribs.

  The sound of crunching snow snapped him back to attention. Emmett’s eye shot open as his hand closed around a dropped Mosin-Nagant. He rolled flat, dragging one of the corpses with him for cover, just as gunfire ripped into the cave. Bullets bounced off the walls, shards of stone raining down across his face.

  “Fuck!” Emmett spat, shouldering the rifle. He squeezed the trigger, the weapon booming inside the narrow stone chamber, the concussion rattling his skull. He worked the bolt with practiced speed, leveled, and fired again. The incline of the cave and the limp Russian body shielding him offered some cover, though each round that smacked the walls felt too damn close.

  A barrel slid around the edge of the cave mouth. Then came the furious chatter of a submachine gun, fire spraying blindly into the dark. Emmett hit the dirt, teeth clenched as a storm of lead chewed the stone above, and around him, chunks of rock exploding free.

  He squinted through the haze, seeing a leg jutting past the entrance. He lined the sights, exhaled, and fired. The man let out a strangled scream and toppled forward. Emmett cycled the bolt again and planted a second shot square into the soldier’s chest. The Russian spasmed, back arching, before going still.

  The rifle’s bolt snapped open with a metallic ring, the empty casing skittering across the cave floor. Emmett’s lip curled as he saw there was only one round left in the internal magazine. He rammed the bolt shut, kept the muzzle steady over the corpse, and fumbled at the dead man’s pouch. His fingers found the leather tab, tugged it open…

  Then movement.

  A soldier burst around the corner with a raw, guttural roar. Emmett didn’t think. He fired.

  The last round punched into the man’s shoulder, spinning him sideways with a cry. The Russian collapsed to one knee, groaning as he clutched at the wound.

  Emmett cursed and tore the pouch open, pulling free an ammunition clip. His thumbnail scraped hard against the steel as he crammed the rounds down into the magazine, the rounds clicking as they fed into the weapon.

  The Russian snarled gutturally.

  “Cука!” he spat, bracing his rifle, dragging the barrel up to aim with one arm.

  “Fucking Russian junk,” Emmett growled at the stubborn action, flicking the clip clear and slamming the bolt home. He fired just as the Russian leveled his rifle, the shot cracking like thunder in the tight stone chamber.

  The bullet punched through the man’s chest, driving him flat on his back. His Mosin-Nagant clattered from his hands as his limbs kicked once, then stilled.

  Emmett sagged back, breath rasping. He reached into the deadman's ammo pouch, jamming another clip into his pocket. Fingers trembling as the ringing in his ears grew into a steady roar. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, the aftershocks of the rifle blasts hammering him senseless.

  Still, he leveled the weapon at the entrance and waited. His gut told him there were more. There was always more. And if they had grenades?

  He bared his teeth, spitting blood onto the dirt.

  “Fuck my luck,” he muttered, and tightened his grip on the rifle.

  Through the ringing in his ears, a single gunshot cracked. Emmett flinched out of reflex, then realized it hadn’t come from outside the cave. It was farther off in the trees. Another blast followed, then what might’ve been a gasp.

  Then silence.

  He strained, forcing himself to listen past the bells in his skull. And then cutting through the stillness Eira’s voice cut through.

  “Emmett! I’m coming in. Do not shoot me, you fool.” Her tone was sharp, more annoyed than anything else.

  Emmett let out a long sigh of relief and rested his head on the floor of the cave.

  The cavalry had arrived.

  A shadow crossed the mouth of the cave and Eira stepped inside, eyes sweeping the carnage. Her gaze lingered on the broken bodies littering the dirt before settling on him. Emmett lowered the Mosin with a crooked grin, blood staining his teeth.

  “Howdy,” he rasped, every syllable steeped in sarcasm.

  Her jaw tightened. She slung the rifle over her shoulder and moved closer, boots crunching over debris and empty casings. The fire’s glow caught her blue eyes as she knelt beside him. “Are you hurt?”

  “No worse than when you left,” he wheezed, the words cracking under the strain of his ribs. He groaned as he tried to shift upright, then added with a bitter chuckle, “Hell… feelin’ a little better, actually.”

  Eira muttered something in German under her breath, the tone making it obvious what it meant. “Idiot,” she then hissed, tugging the canteen from her hip and shoving it into his hand.

  Emmett raised it in a mock toast before drinking, the water running cold down his throat. With a groan he dragged himself over to the cave wall and leaned his head back against its surface. firelight flickering over the hollow exhaustion carved into his face. He rested a hand against his burning ribs, and huffed.

  “Hell of a morning,” he muttered, breath shallow. “They find you too?”

  She nodded once, sharp. “Ja. Three of them. They won’t be trouble anymore.”

  He let out a humorless laugh, his chest hitching. “Hell of a morning,” he repeated, eye flicking toward the corpses piled in the cave.

  Eira rested a steadying hand behind his shoulder as he tried to rise. Her gaze shifted over the carnage, the bodies slumped awkwardly in the firelight, shadows dancing long against the cave walls. “We should move,” she said quietly but firmly. “There might be more.”

  Emmett gave a short nod, but the moment he pushed off the wall, his body rebelled. Pain lanced through his ribs and side, and with a groan he collapsed back, teeth gritted, breath rasping. “I’m not going anywhere,” he admitted, voice low and edged with frustration. “Not like this.”

  For a moment, the fire crackled, and the silence stretched. Then he looked up at her, his brow raised, his voice rough but insistent.

  “Help me up.”

  Eira sighed but moved quickly, slipping her hands under his arms to haul him to his knees. Emmett groaned in pain, his movements sluggish as he leaned heavily against her for support. His hand shot out, grabbing the bloodied jacket of the nearest dead Russian, and he began rifling through the pockets with grim determination.

  Eira Sighed “I don’t think a cigarette is going to help our situation.” Her voice tinged with glum amusement

  Emmett let out a weak, pained laugh as he patted down the other man closest to him. “Not cigarettes,” he said, his tone laced with dark humor. “Phenamine, or… oh, hell, never mind. Even better.”

  From the soldier’s bloodied pocket, he withdrew a crumpled pack, marked with German lettering. The word “Pervitin” stood out in bold print across the front. Emmett’s grin widened as he quickly tore open the pack, working out two tablets with his fingers. He tossed them into his mouth without hesitation, chewing them dry before pausing briefly. Then popped a third for good measure. He leaned back against the wall, a wheezy laugh escaping him as he closed his eye.

  Eira stared at him, incredulous. “Three?!” she exclaimed, her tone sharp with disbelief. “You just took three?”

  Emmett huffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m an idiot,” he said simply, despite the obvious strain it put on his battered body. He reached over to grab his gear, pulling it toward him with a grimace. “But trust me… I’ll be feeling a whole lot smarter in about five minutes.”

  He tossed the pack to Eira, who caught it and inspected the label. Pervitin. She knew all too well what it was. Amphetamines. Infamous for its ability to keep soldiers awake and alert for days on end. Her kind was strictly forbidden from its use.

  “Take half of one,” Emmett said, his tone turning uncharacteristically cautious. “Just half.”

  “You took three,” Eira shot back, her blue eyes narrowing.

  Emmett shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah, well. I’ve made worse decisions.”

  Eira rolled her eyes but couldn’t deny the allure of dulled pain and renewed energy. She broke a tablet in half with her claws, hesitating briefly before popping it into her mouth. The bitter taste made her wince, but she swallowed it quickly. For a moment, she considered leaving it at that but with a resigned sigh, she tossed the other half in as well.

  By the time she glanced back at Emmett, he was already at work. The shotgun lay discarded and in its place, Emmett had picked up a Russian PPSh-41 from one of the dead soldiers. He groaned audibly as he strapped on the accompanying magazine pouch, his movements slow and deliberate as he slung his gear across his shoulder.

  “This thing’s got a hell of a fire rate,” he muttered, inspecting the weapon. “It’ll do.”

  Eira knelt by the bodies, searching through their belongings. She found additional ammunition for the Nagant she had acquired, some food rations, and a battered canteen that smelled faintly of vodka. She stuffed everything into a pack she also salvaged, sparing a glance at Emmett, who was leaning against the cave wall and testing his footing.

  “You ready?” he asked, his voice tight with effort. He took a hesitant step forward, his right leg trembling slightly before he managed to plant it firmly. Letting out a low groan of pain. He shook his head, placing a supporting hand against the cave wall. “Feels like my body’s made of glass but fuck it.”

  Eira nodded, adjusting her gear. The dull ache in her muscles was still there, but the edges of her pain had already begun to blur, a creeping energy spreading through her veins. “Let’s go,” she said, her tone steadier than she felt.

  Together, they stepped out into the cold morning light, leaving the blood-soaked cave behind. The air bit sharply at their skin, but neither hesitated. With Emmett leaning on Eira for support, they trudged forward into the snow-covered woods, their breaths rising in clouds of steam.