“What are you gawking at?” A sharp voice snapped.
Conrad flinched as though he was struck. He jerked upright, turning to see Obergefreiter Harless crouched over a small fire. The man squatted on his haunches with his helmet pushed back on his head, mustache curling over a face carved with perpetual irritation. His hands fussed with a battered pot perched too close to the flames, coaxing the coffee inside to a boil. Harless’s eyes, hard and skeptical, drilled into Conrad.
Conrad straightened stiffly, fighting the urge to stammer. “Apologies, Obergefreiter. I was… I hoped to catch sight of the Sturmwolfe.”
Harless exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a scoff, then returned to his coffee pot. “I understand the curiosity,” he muttered, tone dry as stale bread. Then, louder, “Very well, Happe. Look on behalf of the rest of us and tell us what you see.” The words balanced between command and mockery.
Conrad hesitated, unsure if he had been given permission or a rebuke, but when Harless flicked his hand in irritation, he eagerly returned to peering through the fence.
Behind him came a grunt. “I swear, you Volkssturm twitch like rabbits,” Harless said with a derisive chuckle.
Conrad ignored the jab. His pulse beat quicker in anticipation. Rumor spread fast in the village last night. He had been asleep when it happened, but word carried. A hybird, a living weapon from the Reich’s secret labs, had arrived. Carrying a bound man on her back, some said, blood-soaked and wearing green. American? Russian? No one seemed sure. The very idea had set his comrades whispering into the dark like boys trading ghost stories.
Bootsteps crunched on gravel, pulling Conrad’s attention. Two men approached from the perimeter, their breath white in the morning air. They stiffened, almost raising their hands to salute, until Harless shot them a glare sharp enough to cut steel. The hands dropped.
“Good,” Harless said flatly. “Seems you’re learning.”
“Apologies, Obergefreiter Harless,” one of them mumbled. Conrad recognized the voice. Karl Brenner, hardly older than himself. The boy’s helmet was too big, sliding low over his brow. The other was a Schütze whose name Conrad could never recall.
Karl glanced at Conrad and then at the fence. “What are you looking at?”
Before Conrad could answer, Harless cut in, voice pitched with annoyance. “Our eager Volkssturm thinks he’ll spy a glimpse of the Sturmwolfe. One of the wolves of the Reich.”
That was all it took. Karl and the nameless Schütze hurried over, shouldering Conrad aside to press their faces against the gaps. Harless let out a huff that might have been amusement if not buried under disdain.
“Do you see her?” Karl whispered, voice tight with excitement.
Conrad shook his head. “Neine. I think she is still in the medical building with Stabsarzt Krüger.”
The Schütze dug his bayonet from his belt and jabbed the handle against a knot in the wood, popping it out to widen their view.
“like schoolboys peeking after the new Fr?ulein,” Harless muttered with a dry laugh. “Funny.”
Then the door of the medical building swung open. Every breath at the fence seemed to hitch, drawn tight with expectation. But instead of a wolf, a weary man stumbled out carrying a heavy crate. The tension collapsed in a sigh of disappointment as he shuffled away down the road.
“Come, Bauer,” Harless called as someone approached, his voice warming just slightly. “I’ve made coffee.” Metal clinked as the man set out cups.
A soft sigh answered. “I am fine, Obergefreiter.”
Harless sniffed, unimpressed. “More for me, then.”
He poured the steaming liquid and looked up at the fence watchers. “Come, pause your gawking and get some coffee.”
Karl and the Schütze hesitated only a moment before grabbing theirs and hurrying back to their post. Conrad lingered, tempted, then finally tore himself from the fence. The thought of a hot beverage was too hard to ignore. He accepted a cup, the metal stinging his cold fingers through his gloves.
Gefreiter Bauer sat perched on a crate, grinning at the trio like a man who had seen this play before. Conrad turned his attention back to the coffee, raised the tin to his lips and grimaced as the bitter sludge hit his tongue. The taste was foul even for Ersatz coffee, acrid and burnt. Karl and the Schütze mirrored his expression.
“A thank you would be appreciated,” Harless said sourly, eyeing their reactions.
Conrad cleared his throat. “Thank you, Obergefreiter.” The other two muttering something similar.
Bauer chuckled. “You three know,” he said, nodding toward Harless, “the Obergefreiter here was transferred from France, all because his dreadful coffee offended the wrong man.”
Harless glared daggers at him. “You say that again, Bauer, and I’ll…” He tipped half his cup onto the dirt at Bauer’s feet.
Conrad bit back his own smile and looked down, hiding it behind the rim of his cup.
Then, the sound of a door opening froze them all. Conrad whipped back to the fence, hot liquid spilling over the rim and scalding his wrist. He ignored the pain, pressing his face so close to the gap that his glasses nearly scraped the wood.
Stabsarzt Krüger stood in the doorway, speaking low to someone inside. Conrad’s pulse thumped in his throat. He pressed harder, straining for the view.
“What’s this?” Bauer asked, amused.
“The werewolf,” Karl breathed. “The Sturmwolfe.”
Gefreiter nodded, gazing into the fire. Harless eyed his cup of coffee as if he was willing himself to drink it. "You were on watch that night Bauer? Did you see her?"
Bauer nodded. "Ja, I only saw as she entered the Medical building. It's the man she carried I'm most curious about."
This seemed to get Harless's attention. "Do you know who he is?"
Bauer shrugged. "Niene, the rumor is that he was a captured Russian. I've heard he's wearing an Eyepatch and bore horrid scarring on the left side of his face."
Conrad looked over to Bauer. "Russian?"
Buaur nodded. "Ja, he was wearing a green uniform is all I know for sure. Though the Americans wear green as well. But I can’t imagine why one would be all the way out here..."
"I see her!" Karl said suddenly.
Conrad jerked his head back to the fence post, his eyes widening in shock as he saw a figure step from the building.
Conrad’s breath caught. She was tall, taller than Krüger, her frame unmistakably feminine yet inhuman. The head of a wolf, white fur dirtied and matted, and ears that flicked toward every sound. A tail twitched from the back of her trousers, restless and alive.
She limped faintly as she followed Krüger, disappearing into another building down the lane. Conrad’s jaw slackened. His heart hammered like he had glimpsed a figure from a folktale stepped into the world.
Behind him, Harless’s voice carried a sarcastic lilt. “Was it everything you hoped for?”
Conrad pulled back slowly, rubbing his aching nose where the fence had pressed. Karl looked pale, eyes wide. “How is such a thing possible?”
Bauer leaned back, savoring their awe. “A very great breakthrough,” he said, pausing for dramatic weight. The others leaned closer unconsciously, hungry for an answer.
Bauer’s mouth split in a grin. “A true son of the fatherland fucks a wolf.”
The laughter burst from him, crude and unrestrained, while Harless’s face twisted into a grin, the man stifling a laugh. Conrad frowned, heat creeping into his ears. He turned from the fence and sat back by the fire, cup warming his hands as he stared into the flames. The awe still gnawed at him, quiet and unshaken.
Eira limped after Stabsarzt Krüger, carrying a satchel of bandages and medicine he had handed her earlier. Her worn boots crunched against the thin layer of frost blanketing the ground. The morning air bit at her fur, carrying the faint smell of coal smoke and engine oil that hung over the quiet village. A few windows flickered with weak candlelight, shapes moving behind the frosted glass.
Krüger moved ahead at a brisk pace for a man his age, his breath coming in visible puffs as he adjusted his cap and rubbed at his eyes. “You’ll be traveling to Frankfurt an der Oder,” he said, voice roughened from lack of sleep. He stifled a yawn and fished a small, dented cigarette tin from his pocket. “I imagine you’re eager to rejoin your kind.”
Eira adjusted the strap on her shoulder. “Ja, quite, Stabsarzt Krüger.”
The man nodded absently, selecting a cigarette and rolling it between his fingers. He hesitated. “Would you like one, Oberschütze?”
She gave a faint smile. “Neine, but thank you, Herr Krüger.”
He gave a shrug that looked more like a shiver and placed the cigarette between his lips. “Probably for the best. Little coffin nails, these things. Still… they keep a man steady.” He struck a match and cupped it against the wind, the tiny flame illuminating the deep creases around his eyes. “You know,” he added between drags, “Command was rather eager to have you on the road. I argued you needed another day or two, but they want their Sturmwolfe back.” He looked over his shoulder as they walked, as if confirming she was still following. “At least you’ll have a proper wash and clean clothes before your journey.”
She inclined her head politely. “I appreciate your concern, Herr Krüger.”
He slowed, studying her as they neared the end of the street. His eyes lingered briefly on her, as he rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “It’s funny,” he said after a pause, “you’re the first of your kind I’ve ever treated. Hopefully my efforts were… adequate.”
“They were,” Eira said softly. “Thank you, Stabsarzt Krüger. I will see to continued care once I arrive.”
He seemed relieved by the answer and nodded. “Good. Just keep the wounds clean. And for heaven’s sake, don’t strain that knee.”
The narrow lane opened onto a small square where several trucks idled beside a stone building. Exhaust drifted through the cold air, mingling with the scent of fuel. Krüger turned the corner, leading her toward the nearest vehicle, a heavy transport with a sagging canvas cover. Three more trucks waited behind it, men in worn field grey milling about, their laughter fading as soon as they saw her.
Conversations halted mid-word.
Every eye turned.
The soldiers stiffened where they stood, their expressions a mixture of fascination and unease. One dropped his cigarette entirely in shock.
Krüger noticed, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in quiet amusement. “Seems they’ve never seen a Sturmwolfe either,” he muttered under his breath.
Eira ignored the stares. She was used to them. Despite the Reich making efforts to notify the troops of her kind’s existence. It seemed nothing could prepare them for the shock of seeing a wolf, walking like a man.
Krüger came to a stop beside the lead truck and gestured toward her uniform.
“Speak with one of those men,” he said, motioning toward a pair of soldiers leaning on a crate. “They can direct you to supply. Get a new uniform and… a wash, if possible.” His tone softened. “Will you need assistance reapplying the bandages?”
She shook her head. “I will manage, Herr Krüger. But thank you.”
He smiled faintly and nodded. “Very well. Be well, Oberschütze Eira. I’ll see to your… friend. He was in rather poor shape.”
Eira’s expression didn’t change, but her ears twitched at the mention. She inclined her head respectfully. “Thank you, Stabsarzt Krüger.”
With that, he turned and started back toward the heart of the village, boots crunching softly until the sound faded. Eira watched him go, his figure disappearing around the bend.
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She turned her gaze back to the truck rumbling behind her, then to the surrounding men who all seemed to have eyes on her. She adjusted her bag with a sigh and made her way toward the pair of soldiers still lingering by the crates. They straightened immediately when she approached, eyes wide and wary.
“Hello,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “I was told to speak with someone about acquiring a new uniform… and a bath.”
“Uh…” one of the soldiers stammered, his mouth hanging half open, as though his mind refused to accept that the creature before him had just spoken. The other man blinked rapidly, searching for words, then looked helplessly to his companion. Both of them shifted uneasily, boots scraping against the dirt.
Before either could muster a response, the sound of approaching footsteps cut through the moment. Eira turned her head to see a Feldwebel rounding the corner. His greatcoat was buttoned high against the cold, a wool scarf tucked beneath the collar. The man’s cap sat low over a pair of sunken eyes that looked like they hadn’t known sleep in days.
The two guards stiffened instantly. “Feldwebel,” one blurted, snapping to rigid attention. The other mirrored him in perfect, panicked unison.
Eira straightened as well, her instincts snapping into place before thought.
The Feldwebel gave her a curt nod, acknowledging her gesture without a hint of warmth. “Name and rank.” His voice carried the clipped edge of a man who had repeated the same orders a thousand times this week alone.
“Oberschütze Eira,” she answered flatly, her tone devoid of ornament.
He gave a halfhearted grunt, then flicked his hand to dismiss the two guards. “See that the recruits are situated. Schnell.”
“Jawohl, Feldwebel Falkner,” they barked in unison. They marched off in a hurry, boots crunching in the frost, obviously grateful for the excuse to leave.
Falkner turned back to Eira and studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable but not hostile. Finally, he sighed, tugging at the edge of his gloves. “Come. You’ll need a new uniform… and a wash.” His mouth twitched into a tired grin, seemingly more habit than amusement. “My apologies, Oberschütze, but your smell is… considerable.”
Eira’s lip curled faintly in amusement. “It has been a hard few weeks,” she replied, voice level and unbothered.
He nodded once, accepting that as reason enough. “I imagine there is a story there,” he said, though his tone carried no real curiosity. “Perhaps an interesting one.”
She followed beside him, her limp subtle but noticeable, adjusting her grip on the satchel she carried. “I was separated from my squad,” she said simply. “The man I brought in had initially captured me. I suppose you could say I returned the favor.”
“Hmm.” Falkner mulled the words over but didn’t press. His boots squelched through mud as he added, “No matter, I will likely have an opportunity to read your report. And regardless of what left you in such a state, you will be reunited with your kind soon enough.”
He slowed to a stop before a large canvas tent pitched against the side of a tired looking warehouse. The tent’s fabric flapped in the wind, its seams patched with mismatched cloth. A faded black eagle was stenciled across the side, its wings half worn away by grime.
Falkner raised a gloved hand toward it. “Inside, Unteroffizier Weissmann will see you outfitted. New uniform, and then a wash station. When you’ve finished, report back to the trucks. We leave within the hour.”
Eira inclined her head, grateful for the clarity of orders. “Thank you, Feldwebel Falkner.”
He returned the gesture with a small tip of his cap, the brim shadowing his tired eyes. “Don’t keep them waiting,” he said, already turning to bark at a nearby group of men dragging crates toward the trucks.
Eira lingered for a moment, her ears flicked at the distant cough of engines, the grumble of shouted orders, the endless rhythm of soldiers milling about. She exhaled sharply, squared her shoulders, and stepped toward the tent.
Inside, the air was close and heavy with the scent of oiled leather, damp canvas, and mothballs. Uniforms were piled in uneven stacks, boots lined against one wall, helmets hanging from nails hammered into the support beams. Unteroffizier Weissmann stood behind a crude wooden table, his posture stiff despite the sagging fatigue in his eyes. He looked up as Eira entered, his sharp, hawk-like face betraying only mild surprise before settling into routine efficiency.
Eira cleared her throat, adjusting her stance. Her boots scuffing against the wooden floor. “Unteroffizier Weissman.” She said politely. “I’m here to see about a new uniform.”
“New uniform, eh?” he muttered, as if confirming something to himself. He sized her up a brief moment then with a grunt he reached into a nearby crate and pulled out a folded bundle of camouflage fatigues, a belt, and a pair of scuffed but sturdy boots. “We have no Sturmwolfe issue,” he said, tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “But these are clean and intact. You’ll take them.”
Eira accepted the bundle without hesitation. The fabric was rough and stiff, the pattern made up of broken greens and browns. It wasn’t made for her kind. The sleeves would likely sit too short, the shoulders too narrow but it didn’t matter. They were clean.
Weissmann took a dull pencil and scratched her name into a battered ledger, the graphite barely marking the page. He gestured toward the back of the tent with a jerk of his head. “Bathhouse is behind the building. Cold water, unless the stove decides to cooperate. See yourself there. Quickly. The trucks will depart soon.”
Eira gave a curt nod and turned to leave, the bundle clutched under her arm. As she stepped outside, the dull light hit her fur, turning the edges of white to silver.
The bathhouse sat just behind the warehouse, a squat wooden shed patched together as if they could barely scavenge the materials to construct it.. A thin plume of smoke rose from a rusted tin chimney, fighting against the chill. The smell of soap and wood smoke hung faintly on the air, and Eira found herself curling her lip in quiet amusement, and anticipation.
She straightened her posture and stepped toward the shed. The door creaked open with a tired groan, and she disappeared inside.
Inside the bathhouse, the air was close and damp, thick with the scent of lye soap and smoke from the small iron stove that sputtered weakly in the corner. The place was crude, hastily built from rough planks that creaked with every movement that were warped and split in some places. A water basin beside her was rimmed with ice. Next to it sat a metal bucket, steam rising faintly from the surface within, likely warmed on the small, pitiful stove for the next individual. Above it a single ladle with a large scoop hung from a bent nail.
Eira let out a long, weary sigh and began to strip out of her filthy uniform. The fabric peeled away from her fur with an unpleasant tack, crusted with mud, dried blood, and soot. She tossed the garments into a heap near the door, where they slumped in a grimy pile. Her breath hitched slightly as she unwound the bandages around her ribs. Each movement tugged at half-healed wounds, the flesh beneath raw and tender. When the last strip came free, she dropped it to the floor and turned toward the cracked mirror fixed to a post beside the basin.
For a long moment, she simply stared.
The reflection that looked back at her barely resembled what she once was. Her once-pristine white fur had turned gray with grime, streaked with dried blood that had long since dulled to a rusty brown. Her muzzle and chest were smeared with dirt, her face and muzzle splattered with faint, reddish stains that hadn’t fully erased. Her blue eyes once sharp and proud looked hollow now, sunken beneath a film of exhaustion.
Her lip trembled, but she clenched her jaw, suppressing the feeling that rose in her chest. Self-pity was a luxury she couldn’t allow herself. She sighed and stepped into the basin of icy water, gasping as it soaked her fur.
Reaching for the ladle, she decided to save the warmer water for when she was finished washing away the initial filth. She clenched her teeth, and reached down to scoop up water, and poured it over her shoulders. It hit like a shock, ice biting into her skin. She hissed softly but didn’t hesitate. Scoop after scoop, she poured the cold water over herself, working it through her fur with her claws. The water darkened immediately, streaking down her legs in gray and brown rivulets. She scrubbed harder, clawing through the matted tufts where filth had clung for weeks. The stove crackled faintly behind her, a feeble whisper against the sound of splashing water.
The sting of the cold faded as she worked. The ache in her limbs dulled, replaced by a strange calm. Each motion became deliberate, almost ritualistic. Scrub, rinse, breathe. Scrub, rinse, breathe. The grime came away in layers, the water growing murkier until the basin looked like something dredged from a swamp. Yet as the filth washed away, the white returned. Patches of clean fur gleamed faintly in the weak lamplight.
Satisfied, she was clean enough, she began using the warmer water to rinse out the last of the grime. Returning some semblance of heat to her shaking body.
When she was done, Eira reached for the coarse towel folded on a stool. The fabric felt rough, as it drew loose fur from her coat. The act of drying off felt almost decadent after so many weeks of cold and dirt. She dragged the towel along her limbs, over her chest, across the curve of her muzzle, until only faint dampness remained in her fur.
Setting the towel aside, she drew out the fresh rolls of bandages from the pouch she had carried. Her claws worked deftly, movements practiced and mechanical. She started with her ribs, winding the fabric tightly around her chest, the white cloth pressing against the bruised flesh beneath. She winced as she pulled it snug but kept going, biting down the hiss that rose in her throat. The next length went around her upper arm, where a half-healed gash crossed the muscle. She tied it off with precision, tucking the end neatly beneath the wrap.
Then came her knee. The joint ached constantly now, a reminder of every mile walked through snow and mud. She sat on the edge of the basin and looped the bandage over the joint, pulling it tight with slow, deliberate strength. The pressure steadied her leg, eased the grinding pain that had followed her since Poland. When she was done, she flexed the knee once, testing the tension, then gave a small nod of approval.
Her bandages now restored, she reached for the bundle of clothing resting on a crate nearby. The undergarments were plain, coarse wool against her fur, but they felt impossibly soft compared to what she had worn before. The undershirt smelled faintly of soap and dust as she pulled it over her head, savoring the sensation of clean fabric against clean fur. Then came the fatigues. Stiff, and too tight in places, but mercifully intact. She buttoned the tunic and adjusted the belt until the fit felt proper
When she finally pulled on the new boots, she groaned softly in relief. The leather creaked, still stiff and a little too tight on her toes, but the weight of them felt right. Proper boots. Not the torn, soaked remnants she had been limping in for weeks.
Eira turned toward the mirror again. The reflection that met her gaze looked steadier now. Her fur, though still ragged in places, gleamed faintly white beneath the lantern glow. The blue of her eyes stood out sharply against her face, cold and clear.
She pulled her white hair back into its proper bun, using a length of twine to secure it. Satisfied, she adjusted the collar, squared her shoulders, and studied herself for one long, silent moment. Then she gave a curt nod to the figure in the glass.
Eira rode in the back of the truck as it rattled and shuddered along the mud-churned road. The vehicle pitched and bucked, its suspension groaning like that of some old animal in pain. She had tried to sleep. Tried and failed. Every time she went soft with exhaustion, the truck lurched, and her skull clipped the rough plank behind her head. Her bun took the worst of it, otherwise, she thought with grim amusement, her brains would’ve been pulp by now.
She braced her back against the splintered sideboard, fingers tightening around the rifle between her legs, its butt resting on the floor. The cold wood vibrated in her grip as the truck tossed them over another hollow. Around her, the men shifted and coughed, breathing cold air stung with diesel and damp wool.
The convoy crawled through the rutted countryside, headed toward Frankfurt an der Oder. Each mile felt slower than the last, the truck’s tires churning through mud that sucked and spat beneath them. Eira sat against the splintered wall of the truck bed, her rifle braced upright between her knees. The rhythm of the engine and the clatter of loose metal blended into a dull, mechanical heartbeat.
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to let her mind drift, but the pain in her ribs kept her tethered. Every jolt of the suspension sent a dull throb through her body, a reminder that she had no business being redeployed in her current state. A few days’ rest would hopefully be enough. Just a few days to let her body remember how to heal. But war was not a patient thing, and she suspected that she would likely be thrust into the fray not long after her arrival.
With a sigh she opened her eyes again and found herself studying the others crammed in the truck with her. Calling them soldiers felt charitable. They were boys mostly, barely old enough to shave. Wrapped in uniforms two sizes too large, collars swallowing their necks, helmets sliding down to their eyebrows. Some still had the roundness of childhood softening their faces, though the fear behind their eyes made them look older.
Amongst them also sat their counterweight. Men who had already lived their lives and had been pulled back from them. Old men with bent backs, hollow cheeks, and white hair curling out from under steel helmets. Their hands trembled when the truck hit a rut, knuckles pale against the worn stocks of their rifles.
Boys who should have been in school. Old men who should have been tending gardens. And here they were, packed together like cattle, staring at the dirt on their boots, on their way to whatever fight of the front still needed feeding.
Eira let her gaze settle on one of the younger ones. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. His eyes darted up, meeting hers by accident. For a moment, he froze like a rabbit caught in a snare. Then, color drained from his cheeks, and he quickly looked away, fumbling with the strap of his rifle. His fingers twitched nervously, tangling in the canvas sling.
Beside him, an old man sat hunched in silence, staring at nothing. His lips moved faintly, shaping words she couldn’t hear. Perhaps a prayer, perhaps a name. The lines on his face were deep, carved by years of labor and loss. He clutched his rifle in both hands, not out of readiness, but because it gave him something to hold onto.
Eira’s ears flicked at the sound of coughing from somewhere near the tailgate. The air in the truck was thick with the stink of diesel, sweat, and wet wool. She took a slow breath, her nostrils twitching. Even her heightened senses were dulled by exhaustion.
She leaned back against the cold wood, her claws absently tracing the grain. “Is this what the Reich has become?” she thought. A nation so starved it had begun to feed on itself. The pride in her country that had once burned bright inside her flickered low, simmering into something quieter and harder.
She forced herself to focus on something else, and her mind drifted back to Emmett Granger. The name alone made her jaw tighten. She pictured him as he had been when she left him, bandaged, restrained, furious. She should have felt triumph, but what she felt was quieter, more complicated. For a brief moment, guilt flickered somewhere deep inside, unwanted and irritating. She forced it down and exhaled sharply through her nose, annoyed with herself for even entertaining it.
Leaning her head back against the boards, she closed her eyes. His voice echoed in her mind, rough, and furious. I’ll find you, Eira.
She had almost laughed when he said it. Almost. It had seemed like such an impossible thing, the last threat of a man who was left humiliated.
Her thoughts shifted to one of their final conversations, trudging side by side through snow. The cave long behind them as the bodies of the Russians cooled in the snow. He could barely stand then, sustained by the pervitin and whatever willpower he could muster.
We hit the German lines, I circle around, keep moving until I find the Allies.
She scoffed shaking her head. Maybe he would have kept walking. Maybe. But she doubted it.
If she had believed him, if she had truly thought he would turn away once they reached the German lines, perhaps she would have let him go. But Emmett Granger was not the kind of man who stopped. Not after everything he had endured.
He would have done something reckless. Shot her legs out the second she turned, dragged her bleeding to the Americans. That was who he was.
So, she had made her choice.
She turned him over instead.
It was the logical move, a tactical decision. He was a danger, and she could not risk him. But still, she could not deny the faint satisfaction that had stirred in her chest when she handed him off to Krüger. After everything he had done to her, after everything he had taken, she had earned that small, bitter victory.
Her claws flexed against the wooden bench, scraping a claw against the material digging a small channel.
He would be interrogated, just like she was going to be. Maybe he would be traded when the war finally broke, sent home to the Allies as a bargaining chip. But the thought rang hollow. She knew what likely awaited him. Men like him wouldn’t be treated as a prisoner of war. They would take what they could from him, wring him dry for information. And when he was no longer useful, they would put him against a wall.
The faint pang that followed irritated her. Guilt had no place in her chest, not after everything. Had he delivered her, she would’ve been caged for life. Poked, studied, dissected. Emmett would have delivered her into a prison she’d never leave. What she had done was necessary. The only move that made sense.
What was done was done. She had survived him and her revenge taken. The rest of it, whatever happened to him no longer mattered. And most importantly.
And she would never see him again.
Eira opened her eyes, her gaze falling to the rifle between her knees. Her fur still felt damp from the wash, and her breath fogged faintly in the cold air. She leaned her head back once more, staring through the open canvas flap. The gray light of dawn was spreading across the fields, pale and thin, painting the mud and frost in shades of steel.
She told herself she felt relief, that it was over now, that everything she had endured was behind her.
But as the truck rattled deeper into the frozen horizon, a thought lingered like smoke at the edge of her mind.
Somewhere far behind her, the one-eyed man she had handed over to the Reich was not finished yet.
Wei?er Wolf.
Wei?er Wolf in minor roles.
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Conrad Happe comes from Pope4007, who runs an account on Archive of Our Own. Go check him out and give his work a read. Pope’s been a huge help catching typos and one of the key reasons I felt confident making this recent narrative shift.
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Obergefreiter Harless comes from Elevating-Stairs, who’s been an incredible historical reference. Yeah, I know my story has Nazi wolf hybrids, but I still try to keep things historically grounded where I can. Elevating-Stairs has been a big part of helping with that.
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Varan (upcoming) comes from Snud, from his original work Echoes of Shelling on Archive of Our Own. Definitely give it a read. Snud’s been a damn good friend, and his feedback has been massively appreciated.
Wulden, who’s been an absolute machine tearing through Wei?er Wolf, catching mistakes, and offering feedback that’s made the story stronger. Check out his original work on Royal Road.
- SABLE