Dieter watched Eira as she slept against the cracked stone wall, curled slightly beneath her worn poncho. Her breathing was steady, though every so often her ear flicked at some distant sound beyond the courtyard. Even in rest she was braced for danger. It made his chest tighten.

  Tomorrow hung over him like a storm cloud. The plan, if one could call it that, was little more than a desperate roll of the dice. A last, questionably sane attempt to slow the Russian advance. Berlin was encircled, crushed from every direction. The Fatherland was collapsing under the weight of armies that seemed endless. From the west the Americans and British pressed in. From the east the Soviets were tightening the noose. Dieter could not imagine how the Reich expected to survive any of it.

  He couldn’t.

  He turned his gaze toward the others. Rainer sat on a broken crate, chewing loudly on his ration. The dry bread crackled with every bite. Rainer tore off a chunk, shoved it into his mouth, and chewed with the enthusiasm of one desperate for anything resembling normalcy. The sound grated on Dieter’s nerves, but he forced the irritation aside.

  As he sat there against the wall he found himself wondering how Rainer and the younger ones made sense of all this. They had none of the perspective that Eira or the handful raised by Vollmer possessed. These new soldiers were true children of the Reich. Molded, not taught. Blindly loyal to the party, indoctrinated so thoroughly that questioning orders would never cross their minds. Their faith in Berlin’s survival was not hope. It was doctrine.

  In a strange way, Dieter envied them.

  They saw a world painted in bold, simple strokes. Victory or death. Loyalty or betrayal. No nuance. No moral rot creeping in from the corners. They did not see the cracks widening beneath their feet threating to swallow them whole.

  He did. And the full picture left him anxious, tired, and bitter to the bone.

  His concerns for the future of their kind weighed heavier than any Soviet artillery shell. They were infertile. Every single one of them that he knew of. Their survival had been placed entirely in the Reich’s hands. A leash disguised as necessity. A promise that only the party could grant them a future.

  Now the party was sinking fast. And there were no lifeboats for the Sturmwolf. Either the Third Reich survived this onslaught, and they would continue as a species. Or they would simply cease to exist.

  Dieter drew a long breath through his nose, then released it slowly. The bitterness knotted in his chest loosened only slightly.

  He remembered the day it had happened. He had been young then. Barely past childhood. And terrified. Needles had always made him flinch. The gleam of metal, the cold sharpness against his skin. He hated it all.

  He had received so many injections over the years that keeping count was impossible. Each time they shaved a patch of fur. Each time the needle slid into his skin. He had been told the injections were to help him. Make him strong. Keep him from sickness. Many of them probably did exactly that.

  But the day they prepared him for the procedure that stole his future, he remembered every second.

  He lay on the medical table, staring at the ceiling tiles. His stomach churned with fear. Vollmer had stood nearby, hands folded behind his back. The man looked as though someone had carved grief directly into the lines of his face. He tried to maintain composure, but the sorrow was obvious. He looked lost. Torn. Miserable.

  As a boy, Dieter had taken comfort in that. Vollmer’s pain meant he was not alone.

  Dieter remembered the needle that delivered the numbing agent. Cold. Heavy. A creeping frost under the skin. He remembered the faceless doctor in a cloth mask, explaining nothing. Just stating procedures, terms, protocols. There had been no gentle tone. No compassion. Just another task on a list.

  Vollmer had spoken afterward. Softly. Voice cracking. He told Dieter not to worry. Told him it served a purpose. Told him it would help the future.

  Dieter had believed him then.

  Years later he understood the truth.

  It was theft. Plain and simple.

  What had been stolen from him was not merely the ability to sire children. It was the thread that bound a being to time itself. The chance to carry part of himself into the generations beyond.

  When his body finally collapsed into the soil, that would be the end of Dieter. His name, his blood, his triumphs and his failures would vanish with him. His corpse might nourish the earth, give strength to roots and weeds, and perhaps feed some plant that would never know it carried the remnants of a hybrid soldier. But more likely he would end up stripped bare by rats and crows, another carcass in a city that would forget he ever breathed.

  He stared at Eira again. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her brow creasing as if haunted by whatever dream held her. Dieter’s jaw tightened. His protective instincts flared like embers in his chest.

  His claws curled into his palms until the sharp tips bit his flesh. Their very existence was a contradiction, an error made flesh, a species with no purpose beyond serving a machine that was now sputtering and dying. They did not belong here. This world still belonged to humans.

  The humans who survived this war would stumble back into towns and cities and rebuild. They would marry. They would have children. Their world would remain their own. Men would pass their names forward. Women would pass their songs and lullabies along to the next cradle.

  His kind had no such cradle.

  His kind had no such tomorrow.

  His ears twitched with irritation as he reached into his coat. He yanked out a dented cigarette tin with more force than intended. The lid flew open and several cigarettes scattered across the floor. He exhaled sharply, then crouched to gather the strays one by one. His large fingers were surprisingly gentle as he picked them up and returned them to the tin. When he seated the final one between his lips, he closed the case with a tired click.

  He turned the tin over in his hands, feeling the metal cool beneath his fingertips. His claws tapped lightly against the dented surface. He remembered the weight of the pistol in his hand. He remembered the spray of blood. Then he saw the cigarette tin and then felt the urge to take it. Taking something that was forbidden for his kind, amongst so many other things.

  He shifted his gaze back to Eira across the narrow room. She lay curled against the cracked plaster, her rifle clutched in her hands even in sleep. Her ears twitched and she huffed softly, some dream rattling behind her closed eyes. She looked peaceful, but Dieter could see the tension beneath it. Her fingers flexed once against the weapon before finally relaxing.

  As he pulled a lighter from his pocket, he thought of the boy who had spoken with her earlier. To the words that had made Eira go rigid. The same man she had delivered for interrogation having escaped.

  Emmett Granger.

  He was not certain how he felt about any of it. There was something unreal about the idea that one lone human, even if trained or tempered by hardship, could unsettle someone like Eira. Yet her concern had not been forced or theatrical. She had tried to hide it, but Dieter knew her too well. If she feared something, then it was worthy of attention.

  Dieter drew the cigarette from his lips, letting it dangle between two fingers. Smoke trickled out of his nostrils, thin and ghostlike. He muttered a quiet curse under his breath.

  Footsteps approached. He looked up to find Varan ambling toward him, the bare patch on her muzzle catching the firelight. She scratched it absentmindedly. He gave her a tired half smile as she eased herself down beside him.

  "Are you even aware of your fidgeting?" he asked, tucking the cigarette between his fingers and giving her a curious glance.

  Varan froze for a heartbeat, then smirked. "Unfortunately, not always. It is what they call a nervous habit."

  Dieter lifted a brow. "Do you remember when it started?"

  "A few months ago." She rubbed the spot again, tail flicking once. "I suffered an injury. The scab festered and itched without mercy. I resisted the urge to scratch, until I could not. Now it is a foolish habit." Her gaze drifted toward Eira, and she tilted her chin toward the sleeping hybrid. "Seems Snow White sleeps soundly."

  "Indeed," Dieter said. A genuine smile crept across his face. "She loves the story you know. Snow White. You were too young, but Vollmer showed us the American film when we were children. She was infatuated with it and sang every song from it."

  His smile widened at the memory. "I swear she drove many of us mad with that incessant humming."

  Varan chuckled. "I have read the story. The Brothers Grimm version but I don’t recall any singing within the pages."

  Her voice trailed off, and Dieter sensed the weight behind her silence. Something gnawed at her thoughts.

  "What are you thinking?" he asked quietly.

  Varan plucked a loose thread on her sleeve, eyes narrowing. "I am thinking of what that boy said. The one who delivered the rations."

  Dieter nodded slowly. "I was as well."

  "What happened exactly? To her, I mean. When she was separated from you in Poland? There are rumors. I have tried asking her, but she refuses to speak of it."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Dieter tapped ash from his cigarette before returning it to his lips. The ember glowing as he inhaled. Smoke filled his lungs before he pushed it out in a slow deliberate stream.

  "Unfortunately, it is not my place to say."

  Varan leaned closer. "But you do know what happened, yes?"

  "I do." He flicked the cigarette once more. "All that matters is she brought an American agent for interrogation. And as the boy said, that man escaped."

  Varan’s ears flattened slightly. She stared at Eira’s sleeping form and exhaled through her nose. "Is it something to worry about?"

  Dieter shook his head slowly. "Not tonight. Not here. But if you happen to see a man with one eye, do not dismiss him."

  Varan let out a quiet huff that could have been amusement or resignation. "Very well."

  Dieter smirked faintly, eyes lingering on the glowing end of his cigarette. "Indeed."

  Eira felt something touch her shoulder, a gentle shake that rippled across her awareness like a pebble breaking the still surface of a pond.

  “Wake up little sister,” Dieter whispered. His voice was warm, familiar, and impossibly young. A blanket slipped away from her as he tugged it aside.

  Eira groaned softly and blinked. Her eyes adjusted to the dim room and she stared up at Dieter. He stood beside her small bed, not as the hardened soldier she knew in waking life, but as the lanky adolescent she remembered. For a moment her instincts recoiled, sensing something was wrong, as though her mind had stitched two realities together with crooked thread. The doubt evaporated as dreams often encouraged it to. Her mind accepted the lie as truth.

  She was young again. Dieter was young again. There was no war, no Russians, no ruins, no dread creeping along the edges of her thoughts. None of it existed here.

  “What time is it?” she muttered, her voice scratchy with sleep. She stretched her thin furred arms. Her ears drooped lazily against her head as she yawned, exposing her sharp teeth in a wide canine gape.

  “Much too late, little sister. Come, you will miss breakfast,” Dieter chirped. His tone carried a cheerful impatience she had not heard in years. He grabbed her wrist with childish authority and tugged.

  Eira braced herself for the tumble she expected from being dragged out of bed. Instead her vision flickered, as though someone blinked for her, and suddenly she was on her feet following him down a hallway. She stared in confusion at the walls. To her left, she saw cold clinical tile, sterile and humming faintly with electric lighting. To her right, the surface changed into whitewashed wood and plaster, like a lived in home. The two realities meshed seamlessly, both wrong and entirely correct.

  In the dream, her mind accepted the contradiction without complaint.

  “I want molasses on my pancakes,” Dieter called. He was already in the kitchen, though he had been just ahead of her a heartbeat ago.

  “Patience, Dieter,” came Vollmer’s voice.

  Eira reached the end of the hall, and the world settled into the glowing warmth of the scene before her. The kitchen was small, cluttered in a comforting way. An old stove popped and hissed as something cooked on the burner. Dieter sat at the table, grinning wide enough to show every tooth, his mouth opening as though laughter was about to spill out.

  Vollmer stood near the stove, appearing just as she remembered him from childhood. Now donning an apron. His manner awkward, his shoulders slightly hunched, his expression paternal and earnest. He turned toward her with a soft smile, lips beginning to form a greeting.

  Eira blinked.

  And then the kitchen vanished.

  Warmth evaporated. The smell of butter, flour, and something sweet dissolved into the metallic taste of winter air. She stood alone in a forest. Snow drifted in a steady curtain from a sky swallowed by night. The cold bit into her through her thin nightdress and she hugged her arms to her chest.

  Pale trees surrounded her in every direction, their branches stripped bare, skeletal fingers clawing at the heavens. The forest was silent in that unnatural dreamlike way, where absence of sound became a presence of its own.

  She breathed in sharply and the shock of cold stabbed her lungs. Her heart quickened. Her ears flicked as she turned in place. Nothing moved but the snow.

  She thought of looking at the sky, and the stars appeared as if summoned by the whim of her curiosity. They burned with impossible clarity, more vivid than any sky she had ever seen. She felt small beneath that cosmic canopy, insignificant and yet chosen to witness it. Wonder filled her chest, brushing aside every fear.

  “Is this a dream?” she wondered aloud, though the question scattered from her thoughts the moment it appeared.

  Something shifted behind her.

  Eira turned, her posture stiffening in response. Between the trees moved a figure. Its form was dark, the edges indistinct, as if carved from shadow. It limped slightly and its movements were slow, deliberate. No features could be seen save the reflection of one eye. A single, glinting green eye.

  Curiosity bloomed where fear should have taken root. Even so, she backed away, her instinct urging caution. The figure neither hurried nor crept. It simply followed, maintaining a respectful distance as Eira moved through the endless rows of trees.

  Perhaps it has the same destination, she thought. Perhaps it knows where we are.

  On impulse she straightened to her full height and turned to face it. Snow crunched beneath her bare feet. The figure halted in kind.

  “Excuse me,” she called out. Her voice echoed strangely in the trees. “Where are you going?”

  A soft chuckle rolled across the snow, quiet and rough like gravel slipping over stone.

  “Berlin,” the figure answered. A man’s voice. Calm. Unbothered. “I am trying to find someone.”

  Eira blinked, then lifted a clawed finger toward a nearby tree. A sign hung crookedly from the trunk, as though it had always been there. The word Berlin was carved deep into its wooden surface.

  “Should be that way,” she said with a shrug. “But I do not know how far. Be careful. I think there are wolves in these woods.”

  The figure laughed softly. Not mockingly. Almost fondly.

  “There are far worse things in these woods than wolves, Eira. Remember that.”

  The wind stirred around her. Snowflakes began to spin faster, as if the world itself inhaled.

  She nodded, feeling the forest tighten around her, the trees rising like ancient judges. Her voice sounded small in the vast winter silence.

  “I am not traveling to Berlin,” she said quietly. “But may I travel with you for a time? At least until we leave these woods.”

  The figure’s posture shifted. The stiff outline softened, as if her request had eased something inside him. More of his shape emerged from the murk, though the darkness still clung to him like a second skin.

  “Course,” he answered after a long pause. The voice was unmistakably human yet hollowed by exhaustion. “Where are you headed?”

  “I do not quite know if I am honest,” Eira admitted. She rubbed her arms out of habit. There should have been cold. There was none. “I am confident I will know it when I see it.”

  The figure lifted a hand toward her. The limb emerged from the gloom, scarred and rough, the knuckles worn and weathered as if they had struck stone far too many times. She hesitated only a moment before placing her small, clawed hand in his.

  The moment she did, his face resolved out of the shadow. Two green eyes regarded her beneath the pall of night. Both eyes. That should have been wrong. Every memory of Emmett held only one. Yet here he stood, whole in a way reality had never allowed. His bitter smile carved lines across his face, folds of exhaustion etched into every contour. He looked like a man who had never known rest.

  Still Eira did not withdraw. She held his hand as they began to move through the woods, guided by the signs pointing towards Berlin. The snow whispered beneath their steps. The world felt impossibly quiet, as if breath itself had frozen.

  She lifted her eyes again. The stars churned like molten silver, constellations swirling in celestial patterns that seemed alive. Every star shone with impossible clarity, as if the heavens had moved closer just for her.

  “Look,” she breathed, her voice rising with childlike wonder. “Have you ever seen a night like this?”

  She expected some flicker of awe. A shared moment. Instead, Emmett kept his gaze pinned to the unseen path ahead. His jaw worked once in silence.

  “It has been a long time,” he said, sounding as if the words were dragged from a place that no longer had language for wonder.

  Eira stared at him, something sharp and disappointed stirring inside her. The beauty above demanded reverence, yet he refused to look. She opened her mouth to challenge him, to pull his attention skyward, but no words came. The resolve fled her tongue like mist.

  She gave a soft huff of frustration and turned back to the dazzling expanse. The sky seemed to pulse, constellations shifting like watchful eyes. She had never seen stars breathe, yet here they inhaled and exhaled with her. It felt as though creation itself was listening.

  She walked several steps before realizing the warmth at her side was gone. Her fingers clenched around air. Emmett’s presence had slipped away from her hand without her noticing. He was already ahead, moving faster now, as if the woods themselves urged him onward.

  His boots crunched with growing purpose. The distance between them widened. Eira hesitated, her own steps faltering, the stars above suddenly feeling colder.

  Then he stopped.

  He did not turn right away. The forest held its breath around them, waiting for the inevitable.

  “I wish you killed me, Eira,” he murmured. The words carried no anger, only truth worn smooth with regret. “Would have been easier for both of us.”

  She nodded without hesitation. Her voice that followed no longer belonged to her younger self. It was steady, adult, hardened by the years she could not remember accumulating.

  “I know, Emmett,” she replied. “It would have been.”

  In that instant her body changed. She stood taller, broader. She blinked and her uniform simply existed on her. No transition. No seam of time. It was simply so. It was immaculate, as if freshly issued, not yet stained by battle or burden.

  Emmett stood before her a heartbeat longer, the shadows feeding on him until he dissolved into them. His outline receded, swallowed by the night. Then he turned and walked toward the direction of the sign she had pointed out. Towards Berlin. Snow crunched under his steps. Each footfall sounded like someone walking away from the world itself.

  Eira shifted to follow, but the forest dissolved out from under her feet. Snow vanished in an instant. The cold disappeared. A warm breeze brushed her fur. She blinked, startled, and found herself standing in a vast green field.

  Summer.

  The sky glowed with soft amber light. In the distance windmills turned in slow, groaning circles. She could hear the rhythmic churn of mechanisms hidden inside their wooden and stone bellies. The sound was oddly hypnotic.

  Movement drew her attention. Before her a spindly horse trotted through the tall grass. Atop it sat a man clad in mismatched armor that might have once been noble. He gripped a lance in one hand, the point glittering like a star.

  He turned toward her, wild determination in his eyes. A gaunt face, wisps of grey hair, the unmistakable fever of a man at war with the world.

  “Look there, friend Sancho, thirty or forty hulking giants,” he declared with manic delight. “I intend to do battle with them and slay them!”

  He snapped his visor shut, let loose a hoot fit for a knight of old, and spurred his pathetic horse forward. The beast lurched and galloped toward the nearest windmill.

  Eira blinked at the empty field. Only four windmills stood before her, tall and solemn. No giants. No monsters.

  “They are only windmills!” she called after him, laughter bubbling up unbidden. It burst from her chest, raw and bright. Her sharp teeth flashed in the fading light as the absurdity of it struck her. “He charges windmills!”

  She glanced to her left, still laughing. A small girl stood there. Blonde hair tied in two neat tails, each one resting on her shoulders. Her expression was wrong. Not frightened. Not amused.

  Sad.

  Eira’s mirth evaporated. The world narrowed to the child’s blue eyes. The same blue that stared back at her from every reflection.

  Without thinking, Eira reached out. The girl accepted her hand with no hesitation. Eira knelt, wrapping her arms around the small figure. She pressed the child close, protective instinct flooding her from some place older than memory.

  “I am so sorry for what happened to you,” Eira whispered. The words fractured inside her chest. The breath she took in shook her ribs. She cupped the girl's cheek in her palm and met those familiar eyes. Her own eyes. A mirrored sorrow.

  The child leaned into her touch. Her lips parted, ready to speak, when something seized Eira’s shoulder.

  She jerked, startled. She looked up and saw Dieter looming above her. His mouth moved desperately. No sound reached her at first. His words echoed like distant thunder at the far end of a chasm.

  She turned back to the little girl. The child clutched a small doll, smiling as if nothing was amiss.

  The echo rippled closer.

  Eira could hear Dieter's voice now, as though her mind had finally caught up to the moment.

  “Eira! Wake up!!!”

  His features contorted with worry. His shout cracked the dream open like a struck mirror.

  Eira inhaled sharply as the world splintered. Light bled out of her vision.

  And she was yanked back into waking reality.