Cold Steel
Chapter
(Rundown Room)
???
- How long will I stay this time?
The girl carries a basin of bloody water, following behind the woman.
Water pushes in from all sides. A leaf wavers on the water, moving with everyone’s voices, never knowing which way it should flow.
(Village)
Just like being shoved around by a crowd.
Pleading Man
- She’s got nothing to do with me; she’s just a stray!
The crowd stands as sullen as gravestones, eyes peering out from lowered brows, as if keeping their gaze down might let them slip past disaster.
Like lambs casting their eyes away from the butcher, hoping that by looking away, they might be spared.
At the foot of the execution platform, the man weeps in a mess of snot and tears.
Bandit Chief
- Where is she? Bring her over and let me see.
The man who looks like their leader waves his broad hand. From outside the crowd, a massive figure carves a path.
Not one figure but two, two men “stitched” together, escorting a girl whose hands are bound behind her back, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Her steps are heavy, her cheeks are scraped with dirt, and her brow furrows as if holding back pain.
The two men’s faces are bruised and swollen. Their weighty steps fall uneven, adjusting to their newly mismatched limbs.
Bandit Chief
- Hahaha, bring her over!
They stagger toward the platform. The crowd parts, then presses in again, like grain parting in a sieve.
The gathering cannot help but sneak in a few curious glances.
Stitched Bandit I
- Move!
???
- Ugh!
The stitched man flings the girl onto the platform. Writhing along the ground, she eventually worms herself upright.
???
- …
She props her head up, lifting her dirt-streaked face, to meet the eyes of the bandit chief with a glare.
Bandit Chief
- Where are her fingers?
Stitched Bandit I
- Here.
One of the stitched bandits hands the chief a dripping red bundle.
Bandit Chief
- She used these two fingers to stitch you together?
He unwraps the cloth and pulls out a finger, grinning at his two men as if watching a comedy.
Stitched Bandit I
- Yes, boss. She crawled out from the paddock behind the tavern …
Stitched Bandit II
- Told you to watch that paddock!
Stitched Bandit I
- … Then we got stuck together.
The chief squats down, facing the girl. All trace of his grin disappears.
Bandit Chief
- Separate them.
???
- …
The girl stares coldly at his face, silent.
Bandit Chief
- Huh, is she mute?
He turns toward the man cowering on the ground.
Pleading Man
- No! She’s not! She can talk! … But I’ve got nothing to do with her! I don’t know why she was in my tavern!
???
- …
The girl turns her head toward the terrified man. Her icy gaze only makes him more desperate.
Pleading Man
- She’s got no parents, no one! Just another orphaned straggler.
Bandit Chief
- So, why did she protect you?
The girl’s nose twitches.
Pleading Man
- T-That’s because …!
His scrambled thoughts come out through blinking eyes.
Pleading Man
- How should I know? I didn’t ask her to!
The gun goes off. Gasps ripple through the crowd. The man collapses, his pleas fall silent.
Bandit Chief
- Separate them, or you’re next.
Blood spatters into the girl’s eyes. She tucks her face into her shoulder, wiping the blood clean as she returns an icy glare at the chief.
???
- I can cut them apart, but it’ll be straight down the middle.
Bandit Chief
- Don’t make jokes with me!
???
- I never joke.
Bandit Chief
- …
His hand tightens on the grip of the gun; the girl’s life hangs on a sliver of metal.
Another shot snaps the crowd stiff.
But it’s the chief who falls.
Stitched Bandit I
- Ambush! Ambush!
At the word, the crowd scatters.
The girl flattens to the ground, forcing herself over to the bundle, where she promptly stuffs her torn fingers into her mouth.
Bullets whistle overhead. She scrunches into a ball.
The barrage drags on unbearably long. She clings to the ground like an old tree root.
At last, boots crunch closer through the din.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Well.
The girl lifts her head, and now she sees a long-haired woman dressed in a guerrilla uniform.
She gives the bandit chief’s lifeless body a solid smack with her foot, then turns her gaze toward the girl kneeling on the ground.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Still kicking?
She crouches down, pulling the fingers from the girl’s mouth with a look of concern, though her tone stays flippant.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Oh come on, how did you get this hungry? You can’t eat these.
She turns toward her allies and shouts.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Shepherd! Get over here! Bring this girl something to eat!
At that, another guerrilla rushes over to untie the girl.
???
- You know nothing.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Huh?
???
- They’re my fingers.
The guerrilla fighter glances at the fingers, then at the girl. She hesitates, then stuffs the fingers back into the girl’s mouth.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- I’ve been all across Oreinósia, and not once have I seen anything like this.
The victorious guerrillas take over the bandits’ spot. A few of them sit around the execution platform, watching the girl fiddle with her fingers.
???
- Шев!
She brushes over the seam between the severed fingers and her palm, pulling them together with ease.
Though it leaves a visible line of stitching, her fingers begin to move freely, as though they were never severed.
Shepherd
- Y-you reattached them just like that?!
The scrawny youth nicknamed Shepherd leans in with wide-eyed shock, staring at her finger as if it were a magic trick.
Bearded Man
- Hahaha! Shepherd, go on, fetch your weeds. Let’s see which herb can do that.
The bearded man kicks Shepherd, who clutches his sore side and shuffles to give him space.
A small man tags along behind the bearded giant as he makes his way up to his boss.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- That trick’s pretty impressive. Can you heal others too?
The girl nods, then grabs a piece of hard bread beside her and wolfs it down.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Slow down, slow down. I’m afraid you’ll swallow those fingers of yours.
- Todor!
Bearded Man
- Here!
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Go on, Todor, fetch us a basin of water.
The man’s scowl is barely visible beneath his brown beard as thick as a lion’s mane. He leaves with his lackey.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Where did you come from?
She lowers her head, trying to keep her eyes level with the girl’s face.
But the girl keeps gobbling down food, ignoring her question.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Are you all by yourself?
Still no answer. Her cheeks bulge like a drum.
Watching this, the woman can’t help but pat the girl’s cheeks a few times.
???
- …?
The girl looks confused. It doesn’t feel like a strike of anger, more like a friendly greeting.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Hey, what’s your name?
Todor
- Water’s here!
The girl takes the basin full of water and plunges her head in for a gulp.
Shepherd
- N-no, don’t! That’s not for drinking!
From a distance, Shepherd shouts in panic but shrinks back under Todor’s glare.
He mumbles an explanation instead.
Shepherd
- I-it’s not clean …
???
- Ah …
The girl stops to stare at her reflection in the basin.
???
- I have no name, and I don’t know where I came from.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Then you can join us. You seem to be in need of protection, and we’re certainly in need of someone with your talents.
The girl’s ears twitch. She glances around the woman, then suddenly bolts.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Stop her!
But the entire square is filled with ragtag soldiers. She scarcely makes it two steps before the hulking Todor seizes her.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Careful with her hand!
Todor
- Right!
Despite her frantic struggle, she winds up bound and brought back to the guerrilla fighter.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- We’re not the bad guys.
???
- You’re no different from those bandits. You use guns to get what you want.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- That’s not true. I heard everything back there. You’re a stray, aren’t you? Just another victim of this damned war.
- We’re your people.
The girl’s face shows clear doubt. She can’t even begin to understand the claim.
The girl carries a basin of bloody water in her clean hands, following behind the woman.
She lowers her head, watching it ripple with each step she takes.
The water stirs up against the basin’s edge, splashing briefly, only to rebound and stir it even more.
???
- I won’t bleed for them! I protected that tavern keeper, and what did I get?!
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- I don’t need you to fight for them. I only need you to keep us alive.
???
- Why? Just so you can rip this land apart piece by piece?
- How are you any different from those bandits or the occupation’s forces?
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- This is our home.
- And it can be your home too, Iglika. You don’t have to wander anymore.
???
- Not “rat,” not “slave.” Iglika. That became my name.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- Wash the blood off your face and hands, then pour out that basin. Todor will fetch you some fresh water later so you can bathe.
Iglika sets the basin down on a crumbling table. Her shelter is an old gatehouse, damaged in some forgotten battle but still able to keep out the wind and rain.
Iglika
- I won’t go to the front. I’ll only treat the wounded you bring back. That’s our deal.
Shepherd lurks at a distance, both eager and fearful, eyeing the new “doctor” in their ranks.
Female Guerrilla Fighter
- I never break my word. But since you’ve joined us, you’ll follow the rules. And you’ll address me properly.
Iglika
- Yes, Captain Nusha.
Nusha
- We’re going to make a little home of our own here.
Corvus
- To a little girl who grew up displaced, who never knew care from anyone else, that promise almost felt real.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
It is a home, though it’s neither warm nor safe.
And after every skirmish, Iglika’s room would end up looking worse than a battlefield.
Nusha
- Aaaaghhhhh!!
The whole band squeezes in, soldiers spilling out past the doorframe and into the yard.
Her gatehouse is made for a cramped hospital, made even worse in moments like this when those who come along can’t bring themselves to leave.
Maybe it’s to witness Iglika’s miraculous “stitching” skills, but more than that, their comrades’ screams compel them to stay.
Nusha
- AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!
Iglika
- Stop it.
Todor’s curly face twists up with each scream. Step by step he positions himself behind his lackey Kiril, looking everywhere but at the scene.
Artilleryman Ivan
- Even your beard’s quivering.
Todor
- Shut up.
Shepherd
- W-when she fixed herself up, it didn’t look like it hurt that much …
Nusha
- Shepherd! Give me … give me something!
Shepherd
- Coming.
At his captain’s call, Shepherd fumbles out a vial of powder from his pocket and pours it into her mouth.
Nusha
- *cough* Gah!
The pain and powder cause her to hack up violently, yellow dust filling the room.
Iglika
- Stop moving, or the seam will be crooked.
In the chaos, Iglika alone stays calm—cold, even. Like an icon carved from stone, untouched by feeling, untouched by the cries around her.
She cradles her captain’s severed arm and stitches with precision.
Nusha
- Aaaaghhhhh!!
A spark flashes from Iglika’s fingertips, and the arm pulls back into place.
A ring of stitch marks remains around the joint.
Iglika
- Done.
With the treatment finished, she gestures flatly for the next patient.
Nusha staggers to her feet, pain eased but not gone, and two fighters rush in with a boy missing a leg.
Shepherd
- H-how are you, Captain?
Seeing her stumble, Shepherd hurries to steady her, only to get kicked away.
Nusha
- Ooo pos th pour on woon! Mh tum’s num!
(You’re supposed to pour it on the wound! My tongue’s numb!)
The troops clear space as they move Nunsha off the table, leaving Iglika holding the boy’s severed leg, measuring it against the stump.
Iglika
- This leg isn’t yours, is it?
Panicked Fighter
- What does it matter? A leg’s a leg!
Iglika
- No.
Panicked Fighter
- What do you mean “no”? It’s a leg! We’re running out of time.
Iglika
- No. He’ll die.
Iglika lands her cold eyes on the two frantic adults beside the boy.
Iglika
- You can’t just defile someone’s body like that. Death’s grip will come for him, seizing him with ice and fire until he breathes his last.
The two men look ready to argue, words tripping on their tongues, but in the end they swallow them.
Panicked Fighter
- What’re you all standing here for? Go find the RIGHT leg!
The guerrillas rush out, leaving only Iglika with a dead limb in her hands.
Iglika
- …
This is the last of the wounded. Everyone else has gone out to search for his missing leg.
Iglika seems to realize once again why she is always alone.
Nusha shoots Iglika a puzzled look, pulling a twig out from her hair and poking her with it.
Iglika
- Oh!
Her thoughts are broken by the childish prank, and she returns Nusha an annoyed glance.
Nusha
- So, the little doctor does feel pain. You didn’t show a single expression while you were stitching me … I couldn’t handle it.
She mutters to her men, waving them out of the room.
Nusha
- Go. If there’s any news, come back and tell me right away.
Even on calm days, Iglika’s gatehouse is never truly quiet. No amount of cold, detached glares seems to stop them from arriving.
Artilleryman Ivan
- When I was studying at the military academy, my hometown was raided. They said they’d keep me enrolled.
- The headmaster is still waiting for me to drive these bandits out so I can return. Do you know what rank I’ll get when I finish? Major!
Whenever Ivan gets to this point, he gets shifty, and the medals pinned to his chest jingle with the movement.
Iglika
- But we don’t even have artillery here.
Artilleryman Ivan
- Someday.
His voice drops as he strokes one of his medals with a finger.
Artilleryman Ivan
- You know, these medals, only top performers get them. This one’s for best trainee in camp, this one’s for class representative …
On sunny days, Ivan always drops by to greet her, and the conversation always circles back to that destroyed hometown.
Artilleryman Ivan
- Have you ever been up to the northwest?
Sometimes, the visitors are far noisier.
Todor
- The best place in the camp! Ha! I’m telling you, you got quite the setup.
Kiril
- My boss had his eye on this spot first, you know?
Iglika
- Shall I give it back to you?
She sits at the table near her bed like a sentry waiting to receive every visitor.
Todor
- Hmph! Keep it! I’ve already found a better one!
He folds his arms, playing at authority, pacing Iglika’s room and examining every object in it.
Gabriela
- Hey, Hydra, isn’t that mirror you dragged back from the battlefield enough to admire your beard? Why are you poking around in Iglika’s room too?
Gabriela’s clear, teasing laugh makes Todor’s face turn liver-red, so Kiril rushes to the doorway.
Kiril
- What are you saying?! Don’t talk nonsense! Go stitch up your uniform.
The little “Firefly” Kiril is always faster to react than his heavy-set boss.
Todor’s face flushes as he stuffs his big hands back under his arms, pacing circles on the floor.
Iglika
- But there isn’t even a mirror in my room.
“Bam!”
Todor pulls a small mirror from his coat and slams it down in front of her.
Todor
- I knew it! My little sister could never be without a mirror, and neither should you …
He stumbles over his words.
Todor
- She’s about your age. Just use it! Come on, Kiril.
Kiril
- *sigh* … Fine!
The two leave just as noisily as they entered.
Iglika
- His head looks like it’s about to explode.
Remembering Todor’s flushed face, she thinks he ought to look at it himself.
But the little mirror only reflects one of Iglika’s eyes—never the whole of Todor’s red, puffed-up face.
Iglika
- If it really does explode, don’t expect me to stitch it back together.
Sometimes, visitors come late at night, with Nusha always arriving in the glow of candlelight.
Nusha
- No patients tonight. Aren’t you bored?
She slips inside, one hand clutching a wine bottle, the other carrying a roast lamb leg, with a wolfish grin on her lips.
Iglika
- I’ve been busy.
Nusha
- What, they can’t fight without tearing arms off now?
Iglika doesn’t answer, only glancing at the pile of things stacked in the corner of the room.
Nusha
- Hah, you’ve got a stash here. Why not use some of it? What’s the point of letting it pile up?
Her words are always matched with action. Before the sentence is even finished, she’s already hauling the whole pile over onto the table.
Iglika
- Don’t. I don’t want them.
Nusha freezes, lowering her face close to Iglika’s, matching her hard stare.
She shifts back, keeping distance between them.
Nusha
- They gave these things to you. Why not use them?
Iglika
- Nothing comes free.
Nusha
- You call this free?
She points at her body. Her palms, arms, and calves are all marked with Iglika’s stitching.
Iglika
- …
- I don’t want to be involved in all of this.
Nusha
- Because we fight bandits or the occupiers? I didn’t think you’d care much about that.
Nusha’s teasing expression disappears from her face.
Iglika
- To throw away your life for people who have nothing to do with you … to trade your own body just so they can live in peace … do you really think anyone will thank you for that?
Iglika isn’t avoiding Nusha anymore. Instead, she presses all her pent-up frustration into her words.
Nusha sits down, planting both hands on the table between them; for a moment she takes on something close to the real authority that she claims.
Nusha
- What are you so angry about?
Iglika
- I …
Caught off guard by the question, Iglika falters.
She recalls the eyes of the villagers, their limp bodies, yet the strength and anger they showed when driving off starving refugees.
She remembers how they feared the guerrillas just as they feared the bandits.
All these memories churn, and a nameless rage surges up in her.
Nusha
- We’re not doing this for others. No. We’re doing it for ourselves.
Nusha lets the words sink in.
Nusha
- To reclaim what we’ve lost. Even if this war never ends, we still have to fight.
- Otherwise we’ll just keep losing until there’s nothing left.
Iglika
- And what have you actually gained from all this struggle? Would the people you’ve “protected” agree?
- Don’t try to rope me in with you. I don’t believe in this fight, and I don’t believe in allies either.
- You’re just a bunch of violent people thrown together by temporary interests. Call yourselves liberators, conquerors, or murderers; I don’t care.
That night ends on a bitter note.
Nusha
- Let me spell it out for you.
- Those guerrillas treat you well because, one way or another, this war has taken away their own children. You are a living reminder of why we fight.
- And look at these marks.
Nusha rolls up her sleeve, revealing the stitches Iglika left behind.
Nusha
- These stitches run deep. Whether you like it or not, you’ve already bound yourself up with us.
Iglika stares at the winding scars across her captain’s arm, a phantom itch prickling her fingertips.
Iglika
- A bond? The only thing holding us together is this room and the meals we share, nothing more.
- Not everyone is as naive as you, and I’m long past the age of believing in fairy tales.
- I only offer my skills because I want to be alive at the end of the day.
- It was never brotherhood that kept me alive.
Iglika looks up again, realizing now how close she has gotten to her.
She throws back her head in a laugh and carries on.
Nusha
- You smell like Gabriela. Did she wash something for you?
Iglika
- What?!
Nusha
- Don’t worry. It’s hardly the worst smell around here.
Iglika half-jumps as she sniffs her clothes, but Nusha stops her and soon after takes her leave.
Iglika
- Ridiculous.
- They throw themselves into danger and death chasing after a dream.
- A foolish excuse to pat themselves on the back.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
(Snowy Woodland)
Winter blows cold and quickly, the evening snow binding this poor town to the endless distant east.
Something faint and hard to name takes shape. Somehow, this day is special.
Nusha sits on a rooftop barking orders while her soldiers bustle in and out of the base.
Iglika leans alone against the guardhouse outside, watching them dress up the ruins around them with scraps of holiday cheer.
Iglika
- Regardless of the reason, their fight continues on over the next year, and over time their little force gains a new name.
- The “Tin Soldiers.”
- They had almost forgotten what death meant. No matter how deep the wound, as long as they were breathing when they reached my table, I could put them back together.
- My stitches spread over them until they each looked like patched-up tin soldiers. An “invincible army,” like something out of a myth.
- I only focused on the torn flesh in front of me. I never gave any thought to what it meant.
- That word, “invincible.” Turns out someone took it as a challenge.
Gabriela
- Try this pojas, Iglika.
Amidst the stream of people going in and out, a guerrilla steps out holding a red belt.
She gently wraps it around Iglika’s waist, studying her carefully.
Gabriela
- You should wear more red, Iglika. It suits you. Hm … a bit of white embroidery would look even better.
She unties it with a smile and slips away.
Iglika
- Now they’re out there celebrating Christmas Eve, like drunken fools.
Iglika
- So noisy.
- …
- It’s quieter here.
She brushes snow off a rock outside the courtyard and sits down.
After a while, the cold seeps in through her boots and into her flesh.
Gabriela
- Iglika!
The girl turns. Through the mist of her breath she sees a face, the red belt in her hand shining bright against the snow.
Gabriela
- What are you doing sitting out here?
Iglika stares out toward the town.
The guerrillas can’t risk staying in the town itself; there is always a risk that the occupiers might arrive. Instead, they set up camp in an old woodcutter’s camp on the side of a barren slope.
But for now, at the foot of the mountain, children walk house to house, singing carols.
Smoke curls from chimneys. Someone carries a bundle of straw to lay on the floor.
Gabriela
- Not a fan of the season?
She sits beside Iglika, holding the belt against her waist before pulling out a needle and thread.
Iglika
- I wonder why you are. Do you really believe in all that stuff about God?
Gabriela
- Sometimes I struggle to, but I believe even my doubts are a part of His will.
She folds her hands and bows her head in prayer.
Iglika watches the snowflakes settling in Gabriela’s messy hair.
Nusha
- You there! Todor!
Nusha’s voice rings from afar, and up the slope trudges Todor, a massive bundle of straw on his back.
Kiril
- Boss, hand over some of those. You’ve carried them all the way up here.
Todor
- You think you can carry it all yourself?
Even out of breath, Todor still finds the strength to kick Kiril aside. Kiril stumbles but follows, the two exchanging a brief greeting before passing by the two girls sitting there.
Gabriela
- I have to believe the Good Word could benefit even someone as thick-headed as “Hydra.”
Dusk falls. At the foot of the mountain, the carolers have already visited three homes, but they’ll never climb up here.
Behind them, Nusha’s voice keeps ringing out as she directs the squad. Iglika looks back, catching the scent of bean soup.
Iglika
- What about the captain then? Why’s she so fond of Christmas Eve?
Iglika looks back at Gabriela.
Iglika
- I don’t really take her for a true believer. She just wants to fight the occupiers.
Gabriela
- She thinks of it as a time to pull us all together.
Gabriela presses the needle against her lip in thought.
Gabriela
- To celebrate our heritage and remind us of where we come from.
- And to show those trying to carve us apart that even if they tear us away by force, our spirit will always bind us back together.
Her brows knit, carrying the same expression Nusha wears when barking orders.
Iglika
- Sounds like she made quite an impression on you.
Gabriela touches her ear, then nods.
Iglika
- Our spirit will always bind us back together.
The bean soup smell thickens, and Iglika lets out a sarcastic laugh.
Iglika
- You know what this reminds me of? There was a year that I wandered through a city. I found myself in a district celebrating Christmas Eve.
- That day, a group of kids led me to a big house where a woman was handing out food.
- We all waited in line forever, and at the end, each of us was served a thin bowl of bean gruel.
- The woman who passed out the bowls led us in a prayer of thanks to the Lord for our food. She made sure each of us said it too. Only then were we allowed to eat.
- I sat there mouthing the words as she went on and on. I can’t remember what saints she was talking about or why it should matter. But I remember the smell.
A pair of cold, reddened hands pat Iglika’s knees.
Iglika
- What is it?
Iglika’s gaze follows the hands up until she meets Gabriela’s eyes.
Gabriela
- That doesn’t sound like the best memory, but now you have something new to think about when you smell those beans again … Maybe that’s what Nusha was talking about.
Iglika
- Huh?
Gabriela
- My sister.
Gabriela’s face is cold, but Iglika can’t tell whose feels colder.
Gabriela
- Wait here for me, all right? The belt’s almost done.
The thread has run out, the needle dangling from the red cloth as her body shifts.
Gabriela
- I’ll be right back!
Iglika
- Ah.
She runs back, leaving Iglika only then aware of her warmth.
Iglika
- Brrr … It’s cold.
Night settles. The winter woods feel lonelier than ever.
Nusha
- Down! Get down!!
Nusha’s warning cuts through the air.
Iglika
- …
Iglika cannot make sense of any words that are said; the chaos around her comes as muffled noise rising up through silence.
Shards of brick smash into her back. She turns to see Nusha waving for Ivan to rush over.
Artilleryman Ivan
- …
Ivan gestures to her, but finding no answer, simply grabs Iglika by the wrist and pulls her into a run.
Iglika
- …
She tries to wriggle out of his grip but he simply pulls her tighter. Her words make no noise against the ringing in her ears.
Iglika
- …
Still she refuses to be dragged away, placing a hand on a tree and stitching herself to its trunk.
A shard of bark comes with her as she’s yanked down behind a deep ridge.
The night is silent, but the scene is unholy. The village is lit only by the dying flickers of flame.
Iglika arrives to find Nusha atop the ruins, grimly surveying the scene.
Others are digging through the rubble, searching for survivors. It seems not a single one escaped uninjured.
Shepherd hurriedly tends to the wounded, staunching cuts and bullet holes with rags that reek of his herbal medicine.
Iglika
- What happened?
Nusha doesn’t look up; she yanks a dirty cloth tight around a gash that runs down her arm.
Nusha
- The occupiers ambushed us. I still don’t know how they got through our sentries.
Iglika
- Where’s Gabriela?
Nusha
- There are people that need your help now.
The sharp ringing seems to return, rising in step with her frustration. The smell of that damned bean soup is still caught in her nose.
She runs toward her old guardhouse, in part out of duty, in part out of hope, scrambling past bodies still half-buried under rubble.
One—an arm with two stitch marks. Dimitar.
“Who rides faster than me? Look, she’s a beauty …”
One—a left thigh shorter than the right. Bilyana.
“Scum, wipe your damn face!”
One—thin arms, no wounds, but a tattoo. Kiril.
“Ouch, boss, ouch, boss …”
One—with a thick brown beard …
“Where’s my little sister …”
Nusha
- Iglika!
Iglika
- Why do I remember every word they said …
Nusha
- Iglika!
Iglika
- This one’s Todor …
Nusha rises, strides over, and drags her out of the ruins.
Iglika
- And Mihail … Mihail … Where’s Gabriela?
Nusha
- She’s gone.
Nusha offers her a blood-soaked red belt, crusted with sand and stone, the stains gleaming in the firelight.
Nusha
- Shrapnel. It went straight through her skull. Not even you can repair that.
Iglika
- Arghhhh!
Iglika collapses to her knees.
Iglika
- … I want …
Nusha
- Iglika …
Iglika
- I want a gun! Let them taste death too—I’ll stitch their faces to their damn BOOTS!
Sparks crackle at her fingertips, the air faint with the smell of burning.
Nusha
- That wasn’t part of our deal.
Iglika
- …
The sting on her cheek leaves Iglika dazed.
Nusha
- Now, if you don’t want to lose more comrades, you’d better go help Shepherd.
Iglika stares blankly toward the firelight. Through a blur of tears, she sees a dark figure rushing about.
Nusha
- If you have even a shred of sense left …
Nusha brushes her swollen cheek.
Nusha
- … You’d know these hands of yours weren’t made for killing.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Iglika
- She was right. By the end of that night we’d lost over half our men, and the enemy was clearly prepared to return.
Nusha
- We’ll fall back to Thermaniky.
Iglika
- On my knees in that snow and mud, stained black by fire and red with blood, Nusha spoke words that filled me with shame—at that moment I was sure I wanted vengeance.
- Thermaniky, “a rich and beautiful city,” at least by the standards of the time. Whenever I think back to it, I can still see the sunlight glinting off the sea.
- I think it must have been at dusk.
(Port City)
Iglika
- Now I know. It really is dusk.
Iglika perches on a roof beam, staring out toward the glittering sea. The winter sun leaves the water languid and tranquil, almost like it was made of ice.
She pulls the belt from her pocket; it is a travesty of bloodstains and dirt. But she can’t force herself to wash it.
Iglika
- I remember you said you’d like to visit “once we’ve won the war,” but you didn’t win, did you, Gabriela?
It was December 30th by the Julian calendar when Nusha brought what remained of their troops into the city.
Nusha disappeared; she said it was to report to “headquarters,” though the notion they had been a part of any formal army confused her.
She was left alone in the backstreets, watching countless unfamiliar faces pass below her perch.
???
- Iglika! Iglika!
Iglika
- I thought for a while that she must have run away, but two days later I heard her voice again.
Nusha looks rougher than she had before but nonetheless energetic as she rushes toward her.
Nusha
- Iglika! Iglika!
Iglika
- She was like some wild woman clutching a fat rabbit; only her catch seemed to be a stack of rolled-up documents.
Nusha
- We’re not beaten yet!
The words barely leave her lips before she begins to stumble and collapse.
Iglika
- While she rested in a hospital, I was tasked to begin recruitment.
- She directed me to a “station,” though it soon became clear it was far from anything I expected.
- I began to understand this organization was more secretive than I knew.
She finds herself in a church, surrounded by young men and women, no older than her. Some are younger. None of them look ready.
Solemn oaths are sworn, and the choosing begins.
Brave Male Guerrilla
- You, you, and you …
The chosen march proudly behind him, mimicking the older soldier’s steely and grim expression.
He leads them to a corner of the underground chamber, a spot where they can look out over the others, with a strange and dark sense of hostility.
Another steps up, her demeanor entirely different, though no less joyless as she begins her selection.
Nonchalant Female Guerrilla
- Arcanists, step forward.
Several of the young recruits obey. She quizzes each one about their arcane skills, then takes her pick from them.
Other commanders whisper and then, one by one, claim more recruits.
The numbers dwindle. Those left to be chosen stand awkwardly in the widening space.
Iglika
- …
In the silence, two of the elders presiding over the recruitment trade glances. One walks up to Iglika.
Old Man
- Which unit do you represent?
Iglika
- Nusha.
Old Man
- I see. These are your recruits then, girl. They’ll make fine soldiers, every one.
He beckons the shy youths forward.
Iglika
- No …
Iglika steps back, refusing to meet their eyes.
Iglika
- These weren’t soldiers. They were the walking dead.
- We weren’t marching to war or glory. Just to our graves.
- To blood-soaked snow and charred ruins.
- I’m not Nusha. I couldn’t take their lives into my hands. I couldn’t bear their deaths.
The elders falter at her rejection.
Iglika
- This was just a trick. From the very beginning she’s dragged me deeper into this mire.
- So, I would find myself bound to them, just like I was before … to make me care so that I might throw my own life away for them.
- Fine, I will.
???
- The rest of these recruits are mine.
She turns to face the doorway, where Nusha stands steadying herself against the frame.
Nusha
- For our homeland.
Iglika
- Nusha.
Nusha
- Come in.
Iglika
- These are the files you wanted.
Nusha
- Good work.
Iglika lays down the thick stack of papers but doesn’t leave.
Nusha
- What is it?
Iglika studies the woman. Calm, steady. Too calm—it only fuels her anger.
Iglika
- Why did you send me there?
Nusha
- I needed someone I could trust, that’s all.
Iglika
- That’s not it. I’m not going to be like you.
Nusha
- What are you talking about?
Iglika
- You think I don’t see it?
- You wanted me to get attached. So that I’d carry their lives with me, just like you do.
- Because now … now …
She sees a thousand stitches running from body to body, a homunculus of corpses wearing her seams.
Their quirks, their rambling words, their dreams, their homes.
Nusha
- Are you scared?
Iglika
- Scared?
Iglika lets out a scornful snort, then frowns at her own anger.
Nusha
- What is it you’re resisting?
Iglika
- …
Iglika
- If I took any lesson from her, it was cutting straight to the point.
Iglika
- Will I have to stitch myself together before you’re satisfied?
She takes a step back, avoiding her captain’s sharp glare.
Iglika
- I am afraid. Is that enough? I don’t want to start over; I don’t want to lose everything again.
- I doubt I’ll ever be able to feel warm on a Christmas morning again.
- Each body we found, each one sapped some warmth from me that I think I might never find again.
- And now we just do it all again?
- With kids—stupid kids that think war is a game. They have no idea what’s waiting for them.
Iglika draws in a deep breath and looks up at Nusha.
It feels as though she’s begging for their lives before an angry god.
Iglika
- Are you willing to watch them die?
For a moment, a flicker of pity passes through Nusha’s eyes, but it sinks back into the dark of her brow.
Nusha
- They chose to join us, and there’s no one else willing to fight.
Iglika
- I won’t watch them die.
Iglika rises abruptly.
Nusha
- Blame me if you like, but you want this too, Iglika.
- You told me then that you wanted to do your part. You chose to remember them—to avenge them.
Iglika finds herself at a loss for words. She slides down against the table leg until she’s seated on the floor.
Her pocket bulges with that red belt, drooping with her against the ground.
Nusha
- You will keep remembering them, and you’ll soon remember more. You’ll leave your mark on new bodies to keep them fighting.
- Tell me, do you really want to leave? Or did you come looking for the excuse you needed to stay?
Iglika buries her head in her arms. Tears drip into the dust.
Iglika
- I’m just afraid. Because …
- I want to train with the recruits … I want to …
I won’t bleed for them! I protected that tavern keeper, and what did I get?!
Iglika
- I put others’ lives before my own … I want revenge …
- I want to protect them.
Nusha
- Then you will.
Iglika
- Just like Nusha said, I remembered more and more people—but this time I saw their faces first.
- That made each loss even more vivid.
- I kept wishing I could mend that red belt, so I started wrestling with her old needle and thread.
- I guess I ended up with a knack for stitching of more than one kind. Eventually word got around. Until one day a shy recruit asked me to repair a hole in their pants.
- I unpicked the stitches and patched it up, no different than if it had been an arm or a leg.
- In that moment, I finally understood Gabriela.
From winter to summer, another kind of stitching began to spread across the recruits.
Something that brought people together in trust.
Iglika
- They left far better scars than the other kind.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Iglika
- Through long days of training and scattered skirmishes, I began to accept what I had lost and what I would lose.
- In the end I found my memories were like a hard stone. All I could do was wrap them in flesh and blood, leaving time and pressure to smooth their edges.
- But no amount of time could quiet the rage I felt at the occupiers who took them from me. This fight was never my cause, not until that cold Christmas morning.
- But soon, Nusha brought us good news.
(Outside the City)
Nusha
- The final assault is set for August! This battle will decide it all!
- If we take Czreszewo, we can build a home of our own!
All
- Freedom! Freedom at last!
Iglika
- Their young voices rose in unison, as if their cheers alone could rebuild their war-torn nation.
- We were to be embedded as a part of a larger attack group; the whole unit was preparing—gathering weapons, scouting terrain.
- But from the first gunshot, we all knew something was wrong.
- We were stopped outside the city, unable even to break the first line.
Nusha
- Take cover! I need those trenches reinforced. Where the hell is Third Company?
Broadcast
- No contact!
Amid the roaring bombardment, the only way to exchange information is to scream at full volume.
Nusha
- And the other companies?
Broadcast
- Second and fifth are cut off and under fire! Sixth told us they’re too busy to babysit humans!
Nusha
- Sh*t! Now of all the goddamned times, they want to bring up the human and arcanist divide?!
Iglika stands beside the captain, bewildered and shocked. She’s had limited contact with the other commanders.
Artilleryman Ivan
- They’re coming in heavy from the West, Captain.
Nusha
- Machine gunners!
Iglika
- We somehow forgot in all those years of fighting just why we had kept ourselves satisfied with ambushes and minor skirmishes. The occupiers were stretched thin, but they were disciplined, and they had heavy weapons.
- Our assault was shattered by a sudden counterattack. Ragged guerrillas proved little match for artillery and shock troops.
- But it somehow got worse. We soon realized we were surrounded.
Bullets skim just over their heads as Iglika and Nusha crouch in a shallow foxhole.
Iglika
- We can’t do anything as long as they have that artillery.
She can barely hear her own voice at a scream.
Nusha
- Find whoever you can and regroup here!
Iglika
- What?!
Nusha
- Humans, arcanists, whatever—everyone! The only way we survive is to end this.
- You, and you—pick two men of your own. We’re forming an eight-man assault squad.
She pokes her head up to call two veterans forward but is forced back immediately by gunfire.
Iglika
- What are you doing?
Nusha
- I’m taking care of that artillery!
As she moves to climb out, Iglika yanks her back.
Iglika
- How?!
In her panic, Iglika’s arcane skill sparks—binding Nusha’s collar to her hand.
Nusha
- Fix my clothes when I get back!
She rips free and crawls out of the crater, leaving only her words behind.
Nusha
- There’s an armory that way. Watch for smoke!
Iglika
- Wait!
But Nusha is already too far away to fall back.
Artilleryman Ivan
- What do we do?
Another blast rattles the ground as she stares out toward Nusha. Her little squad has assembled in the foxhole behind her.
Iglika
- …
She slams a fist into the muddy crater in frustration.
Iglika
- Advance, eleven o’clock!
(Village)
They crawl hundreds of meters beneath a storm of bullets, reaching the walls of a derelict slum.
Iglika
- Halt.
She signals a stop.
From the second floor of a ruin, a frenzy of shooting erupts.
Artilleryman Ivan
- What is it?
Iglika
- We need to get up there.
Iglika gestures for the few remaining recruits to flank left and right. They nod, moving with silent coordination toward the building.
Once in position, they await her signal.
Iglika
- Ready.
She mimics a throwing motion, then hurls a helmet opposite their approach.
Iglika
- Go!
The recruits charge into the ruin. Iglika and Ivan dart forward in the opening.
???
- “I-I’ll … I’ll take you all … with me …”
Iglika
- Shepherd?! You?!
On the second floor, the recruits pin down a thin man who refuses to drop his rifle.
At Iglika’s voice, his strength gives out, and they all collapse in a heap.
Shepherd
- Iglika, Iglika …
- They’re dead …
Beneath the pile, a muffled sob seeps out.
The recruits scramble up, revealing Shepherd sprawled on the floor in tears.
Around him lie empty rifles scattered across the ground.
Shepherd
- My herbs … they couldn’t stop the bleeding …
- They’re dead …
- Like you said, it’d be better to feed them to the sheep …
Iglika
- Where are the others?
Shepherd
- They went s-south … south of the city.
Iglika
- Come on. We’ll bring them back.
Iglika reaches out and pulls Shepherd to his feet.
Iglika
- Point the way.
Iglika
- So I did all that I could, rounding up our scattered comrades.
- Not many were crazy enough to join us. But by the time I reached the city limits, we were nearly at full strength.
(Outside the City - Night)
Iglika
- Shh …
Avoiding the searchlights, Iglika finds a blind spot.
In the distance, the waning battle groans with sporadic gunfire and constant shelling.
Artilleryman Ivan
- When will the captain signal?
Ivan crawls up from the rear, the searchlight sweeping across the brim of his cap.
Shepherd
- Surely she hasn’t …
Iglika
- Shut up!
Iglika yanks Shepherd’s head back down.
Artilleryman Ivan
- What’s next?
Iglika glances at Ivan and then over the small band of unfamiliar faces behind him.
Their faces blur in the shadows, but Iglika can feel it: they are waiting for her command.
She is the one who gathered them here, one by one—and once folded into a group, humans instinctively follow their leader.
And now she has already begun mapping out the battlefield in her head.
Iglika
- We need a squad to take that gun emplacement.
She points to the wall above.
Iglika
- Ivan, it’s been a while since you handled a cannon, hasn’t it?
Artilleryman Ivan nods, understanding her plan.
Gunfire rattles above them, freezing them in place.
Iglika
- Blind fire, that’s all …
She calms the others, then finishes assigning her assault squad.
Iglika
- …
Iglika slinks toward an opening in the fortress and peers in at the defenses inside.
Iglika
- You’re with me. Once you’re in, hold the corridor. The rest, follow.
- No shooting.
The others nod.
Iglika threads a line from her fingertip through a crack in the window, binding the latch.
*click*
With a faint sound, the window swings open.
Iglika
- Move.
The squad slips inside.
(Inside the City)
They swiftly take down a few careless sentries.
But just as they move to seize the infantry gun upstairs, the iron gate creaks open.
Officers step through. They meet terrifying strangers, their smiles vanishing.
Two shots ring out at once—a panicked young guerrilla fires and dies to the occupiers’ pistols.
Iglika
- Go loud!
The silence inside had lulled them; they had forgotten the danger they were in.
The sudden burst of gunfire jolts Iglika.
Iglika
- Upstairs!
Dodging shots, they cut down the guards and gunners by the artillery, holding off pursuers drawn in by the noise.
But on the terrace, Iglika sees it … the barrel of a cannon on a distant tower, turning their way.
*boom*
Iglika
- …?!
Something explodes in the distance.
*boom*
The explosions come one after another, too large and too frequent for an artillery barrage. It can only mean one thing.
Iglika
- Quick! Ivan!
Ignoring the quakes and the looming cannon, Ivan lunges for the tower’s own artillery.
He adjusts the barrel like he’d rehearsed a thousand times, seizes the enemy’s hesitation, and fires first.
Iglika
- Cover him!
She orders her squad to help Ivan take the terrace and lay down suppressing fire, letting him unleash volley after volley.
Seeing the enemy’s fortifications in flames, the Liberation Front rally and renew their assault; soon they storm into the city.
But Iglika doesn’t rush to join them. She turns back toward the blast site.
Iglika
- Comrade, have you seen Captain Nusha?
She moves against the flow, toward the explosions, shouting to every fighter surging into the city.
None stop to answer.
Iglika
- Comrades, have you seen Nusha? She should be here.
Chaotic footsteps stamp smoldering fires into ashes, as streams of victorious rebels leap over rubble to reach the city center.
Iglika
- Comrade … ah!
She trips. A foul, scorched stench hits her nose. She sees what she fell over and gags.
A charred corpse—no trace of humanity left.
Iglika
- Urgh …
She scrambles up, meaning to ask someone else.
Iglika
- Comrade …
- …
Iglika’s voice dies. The fighter she hailed hurries on.
Iglika
- …
- Nusha …?
Trembling, she steps back to the corpse, staring in disbelief at the unrecognizable remains.
All blackened, limbs severed. She fights against the thought that it could be her.
Iglika
- How … how could I even know … this body …
Is it?
She collapses to the ground.
Iglika
- But … these … the breaks in the body …
- They’re all …
Nusha
- Aaaaghhhhh!!
Iglika
- Stop moving, or the seam will be crooked.
Nusha
- You won’t! Aaahhh!! Why does it hurt even more?!
Iglika
- No … no …
She shuffles backward on the ground, horror on her face. Her palm brushes something familiar.
It’s Nusha’s collar, still stitched to her hand.
Iglika
- Nusha … Nusha …!
She recoils, resisting.
Iglika
- Nusha!
Her shout echoes in the ruins, drawing glances from passing fighters.
Iglika
- Nusha …
Her strength gives out. The name falls to a whisper.
Iglika
- I brought them all back. One by one … everyone …
She hopes somehow that she can hear her.
Iglika
- Your mission’s over … you did it … mine’s done too …
- Why …
Artilleryman Ivan
- Iglika …?
Ivan follows her into the ruins, stepping carefully over scorched ground.
Artilleryman Ivan
- Who … who is this?
His voice shakes. He knows Iglika wouldn’t kneel before just any corpse.
On the ground, she trembles, staring up at him, unable to speak a single word.
Iglika
- If it were the captain, what would she say?
- She’s … she’s …
Nusha
- Oh come on, how did you get this hungry? You can’t eat these.
Iglika
- She’s …
A name, a voice, a smile.
Iglika
- Did you ever even picture it would end like this?
In her mind, she laughs and grips Iglika’s hand, but urges her not to linger, to keep moving.
Iglika bows her head low. Covering her mouth, she forces herself to speak words she imagines Nusha would say.
Iglika
- She gave herself to this revolution …
Iglika’s nails dig hard into her cheek.
Iglika
- Let her rest …
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Iglika
- For a while after, I still tried to pretend that body couldn’t have been hers. It wasn’t grief—not really.
- It was because without her it felt like nothing could really change.
- And in the end, I was right. The flags were swapped, for a little while, but it all meant nothing.
- We held the city for all of six days.
- The counterattack began the next morning—fierce, unrelenting. The occupiers had pulled up every reserve from across their domain.
- The so-called provisional government didn’t even get to hold a vote. They were too busy fighting for their lives.
Artilleryman Ivan
- Captain! The occupiers have broken through on the south side!
Iglika
- There’s no sense wasting our lives here—retreat!
Iglika
- The only thing we got out of that city was Ivan’s artillery gun.
- He made good use of it, just like he said he would.
Artilleryman Ivan
- Someday.
Iglika
- We returned to Thermaniky in shame.
- But I never expected that I would admit defeat …
- Our cause was already fractured, but by the time we had settled in, they were turning their guns on their own.
(Guerrilla Base)
Iglika
- What happened?!
Shepherd
- At the d-docks. Just a scuffle, but it turned ugly.
Humans and arcanists, they had kept an uneasy coalition up until now.
After the failure in Czreszewo, their hatred only deepened. Each blaming the other for their losses.
The arcanists were blamed for failing to heed orders and making reckless and costly assaults.
While the humans were mocked as weak and cowardly. Failures in communication on both sides did little to help.
Shepherd
- One dead, five wounded—including civilians.
- Three arcanists have been sentenced to death. Rumor is …
Shepherd lowers his voice.
Iglika
- Keep it simple.
Shepherd
- They won’t accept it. They’re—they’re rebelling.
Command
- Three, two, one. Fire!
Shepherd
- It’s starting!
By the time she reaches the yard, one of the prisoners has already crumbled before the firing squad.
Iglika
- Stop!
People ring the courtyard walls. At her shout they turn as one, like starving wolves, fixing her with hungry eyes.
As if she’s the outlet for their rage.
Iglika
- This isn’t just! This isn’t what we’re fighting for!
The executioner glances at her, then turns back to the soldiers, signaling them to continue.
Executioner
- Careful, Iglika, you’re an arcanist too.
Command
- Three, two …
Angry Voice
- You’re just looking for a scapegoat!
Iglika
- Wait!
No one knows who fired or whose sins the bullet carried.
The prisoners on the scaffold are untouched, but blood pours from the executioner’s forehead.
Executioner’s Soldier I
- We’re under attack!
The squad swings their barrels, and the yard erupts into chaos.
Figures rise from the walls. It wasn’t a one-sided revolt. Both sides had prepared.
Dodging stray bullets, Iglika and Shepherd retreat beneath the scaffolding.
Shepherd
- Those must be Boyan’s and … Vesna’s men.
- They’re the top lieutenants of the human and arcanist factions.
Iglika hasn’t had much time to learn about either of them.
Iglika
- Tell our people—grab that one and that one.
She points at two who look like leaders.
Iglika
- Take them first.
Shepherd
- Yes, ma’am.
Iglika
- Cease fire!
She drags the two instigators up onto the scaffold, and her troops force the factions apart.
Seeing their leaders in her grip, the fighters falter, soon disarmed by Iglika’s men.
Iglika
- Shepherd! Find some medics for the wounded!
Shepherd
- On it!
The medics rush in to carry off the injured.
Below, the others stare up at Iglika and their captured leaders, uncertain.
Iglika
- Infighting, really?!
Nusha, what did your life buy us?
Iglika
- How many brothers and sisters did we lose at Czreszewo?
And now your unfinished task falls to me.
Dead silence.
Iglika
- Do we have any time for this?
Iglika’s voice rises, ringing out.
Iglika
- We are the Thracian Liberation Front! We’re meant to unite this land, to build a home of our own!
I can’t let your death mean nothing … I have to unite them, like you did.
Iglika
- Are we not all comrades? We eat from the same soil, drink from the same rivers.
- We lived together, shared one dream.
Faces of the fallen surface in Iglika’s mind, each carrying a piece of home.
Nusha had brought them together, filling the map.
How could I watch that map fall apart?!
Iglika
- Look around you! Our enemies are not here. They’re in Czreszewo, waiting for us.
She steps forward. Fighters glance at each other, not knowing what to do.
Iglika
- Do you think we have the bodies to spare?
???
- General!
The gunshot draws every soldier’s attention. One of them snaps to attention, saluting toward the doorway.
Following the sound, several soldiers escort an older man inside.
Though his face shows age, he stands tall and straight. Behind him trail a hardened male officer and a languid female soldier.
Iglika
- Boyan and Vesna?
Shepherd
- Yes, and that’s got to be General Spase.
Shepherd whispers the name into her ear.
Iglika
- They’re just pawns … Someone higher up is calling the shots.
With Spase’s arrival, the soldiers stiffen, fixing their uniforms.
Boyan
- Pick up your guns! Get out! Worthless dogs.
The human troops fall into line and march out.
Then the woman speaks, and Iglika recalls her face—the reckless arcanist commander she saw at the recruitment ceremony.
Vesna
- Let’s go.
She shrugs, leading her people away.
The two minor captains exit with their men as the tall old man approaches.
General Spase
- You did well just now. You’re the girl Nusha brought in, aren’t you?
His face is kind, his tone unassuming. Were it not for the way he stands, he’d seem no different from any old man on the street.
Iglika
- She … fell in Czreszewo.
She lifts the hand still stitched with a scrap of cloth. The grip of her gun has frayed it loose.
General Spase clasps her hand, patting the back gently.
General Spase
- She was a good child …
Iglika
- …
The words strike Iglika as strange.
General Spase
- Thank you, child. I do believe that verdict was biased. But I never expected things to spiral like this.
- Our loss at Czreszewo has hit us harder than we knew …
He sighs.
General Spase
- We might well have lost even more to this madness if it weren’t for you. You did well.
Iglika
- I doubt I was the first of us to hear about this.
The old man studies her with a smile.
General Spase
- Careful, or that sharp edge of yours will cut deeper than you expect.
Iglika
- What about them?
She points to the two prisoners cowering by the wall.
General Spase
- Don’t worry, child. We’ll investigate the matter thoroughly.
- When the time comes, rewards and punishments will be meted out … but not now.
Her doubtful gaze meets his, only to be softened by his strange kindness.
General Spase
- We’ve already lost too many … and too much is left undone. Too many want a reason for their comrades’ deaths. In their haste, they reach for whatever is near.
- Our ranks are in shambles. We need someone like you, someone who can unite them again.
He smiles with satisfaction.
Iglika
- You mean …?
…
Iglika
- He gave me command of a force three times the size of our old unit.
- Then just like that, I was off to the Oreinósian border.
- I never learned the final verdict.
- I was already mired in skirmishes and battle plans; rumors from the city were few and far between.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Iglika
- I returned to that little border village, and I rebuilt that woodcutter’s camp.
- I even lived in that old gatehouse—this time, though, it wouldn’t be a makeshift hospital.
- We had new medics, far better than me at healing.
- And I … my duty was to hold the border, to keep out the enemy.
- My heels were caked with soil, from east to west.
The evening sun slants through the doorway. Iglika’s guard, leaning on the frame, dozes off.
Inside, Iglika is embroidering a cloth already crowded with patterns.
Then, a noise shatters the quiet.
Iglika
- What now?
The guard jolts awake, straightens his back, and steps aside.
Shadows stretch long in the sunset as a group marches up, hauling a bound young man to her door.
Angry Soldier
- Captain!
The little gatehouse can’t hold them all. Two soldiers drag the prisoner inside.
The rest crowd the doorway, peering in.
Iglika
- What’s the issue? Did he stick his thumb in your breakfast?
Iglika sets down her needles, eyeing the prisoner.
He’s caked in mud, blood drips from his brow and lips, already beaten half to death. Her face hardens.
Iglika
- You overdid it.
Angry Soldier
- He’s a vampire!
At the word “vampire,” the crowd presses closer, eyes widening.
Iglika
- Is he?
Angry Soldier
- We caught him drinking cow’s blood in the barn!
She shifts her eyes down to the kneeling youth.
Iglika
- Raise your head.
Bound Youth
- I am.
Iglika
- Hm?
The blunt admission leads her to crouch down, trying to meet his eyes.
Iglika
- You …
The young man hides his face, so Iglika turns to his uniform, searching for that special embroidered mark.
It’s the mark Iglika stitched for every guerrilla, a symbol of their home and their purpose.
Iglika
- A grassland … up north?
She racks her memory.
Iglika
- There …
She flips through the campaign log, page after page, until she finds a note of their brief encounter.
Iglika
- You’re the one we found. Joined us as soon as you woke up, right?
Bound Youth
- Yes, ma’am.
Iglika sets the log back on the table.
Iglika
- What’s your name?
Bound Youth
- Pyrrhos.
Iglika
- Do you know what we do with vampires?
He nods.
Iglika
- Yet, you confess.
The man says nothing more.
The doorway is jammed with gawkers. The story twists as it spreads, drawing more onlookers.
Iglika
- Back to your duties. I’ll handle this.
She rises, scolding the fighters pressing their heads inside.
Iglika
- Out! Go! Or I’ll stitch you all together.
Angry Soldier
- But, Captain, he …
Whether out of concern or hunger to see the vampire’s end, the soldier lingers.
After a pause, he too is driven off.
Alone at last, Iglika unties the ropes.
Iglika
- Let’s talk.
Pyrrhos
- …
He lifts his head. Dried cow’s blood still staining his teeth.
Iglika
- Sit.
He eyes the stool she points to, but though he rises to his feet, he doesn’t move.
Iglika
- Why bother joining us?
Pyrrhos
- … I didn’t have any special reason.
- Even without the war, I don’t have any home to return to, none that would take me. Moving with the guerrillas, hiding a while longer is the best I can do.
He rubs the scab at his lip, fingers reeking of dirt and straw.
Iglika
- Have you killed anyone?
Pyrrhos shakes his head.
Iglika
- How do you handle your need for blood?
Pyrrhos
- Cows, sheep—it’s enough to get by.
- Sometimes … I’ll drink from dying enemies … the kind beyond saving with or without blood.
- But the dying have a rotten taste; hardly better than cattle.
Iglika
- And what do you plan to do now?
At the question, Pyrrhos freezes.
Pyrrhos
- Me? Do I have a choice?
Iglika
- If I don’t kill you, what will you do?
Pyrrhos
- Run. I would keep running until I find some new hole to hide in.
Iglika
- No thought of living peacefully alongside us?
Pyrrhos
- Hah …
He can’t help but laugh.
Pyrrhos
- Just because I’ve fallen so low, don’t think that my kind are soft.
- We are predators, and you are our prey. How could there ever be peace between us?
Iglika
- So, you’re saying it’s impossible?
She holds an expression at once firm and sincere. Pyrrhos looks at her and remembers the sting of the sun that day.
Pyrrhos
- If I said I had killed people, would you still think this way?
Iglika frowns.
Iglika
- If you’ve broken the law, then the law should judge you.
- But I won’t condemn you just for what you are.
Pyrrhos
- There aren’t many that think like you.
He folds one arm over the other as if the ropes were still there.
But the vampire’s body bears no marks from the ropes nor even the wounds he bore when he first entered.
Pyrrhos
- You’re naive. Would you expect your people to sleep soundly next to a live bomb?
Iglika
- Are you a bomb?
Pyrrhos steps back.
Pyrrhos
- I am not.
- But …
Iglika
- But what? You joined us, didn’t you? I don’t abandon my people.
Pyrrhos hangs his head.
Pyrrhos
- Do you enjoy playing the saint? Or do you fancy having a vampire for a pet?
Iglika rubs circles in her palm with her fingertip. There’s no trace of fabric there now, but she still remembers it.
Iglika
- I don’t like to see soldiers turn on each other.
She remembers the execution yard and digs her nails into her palm.
Iglika
- Pointing their guns at those who bled alongside them, it’s stupid … wasteful.
- What’s the difference here?
Against his own judgement, Pyrrhos can’t help but drop his sneer.
Pyrrhos
- So you don’t intend to kill me?
Iglika
- Human, arcanist, Awakened, vampire … why can’t we all stand together?
Pyrrhos
- You’re living in a cloud cuckoo land.
Iglika
- Maybe, but if I don’t believe in it, what right do I have to lead you?
Pyrrhos studies the girl, three decades younger than him. He sees childishness—but a beautiful kind of childishness.
Pyrrhos
- So how do you intend to solve our problem here?
Iglika
- Until you commit an actual crime, I won’t punish you.
- You’ll be reassigned as my aide. Call it trust, or call it surveillance. But don’t mistake it for privilege—your life will be harsher than before.
- I’ll give you a fair chance. But you must convince the others. That won’t be easy.
- Are you willing?
With a shrug, Pyrrhos slips his fingers into his mouth.
Pyrrhos
- Ugh …
Blood trickles from his lips. He yanks out his fangs and hands them to her.
Pyrrhos
- This whole event seems too strange not to give it a try.
- They’ll grow back soon enough, but consider this a symbol.
She takes the bloodied fangs and holds them up.
Iglika
- See? We bleed the same color. One day, we’ll stand together.
The words remind Pyrrhos of a distant song, though its meaning couldn’t be more different.
He stares at the stained fangs in her hands, feeling now like they have become a mark of shame rather than innocence.
He nods, unsure whether in hearing or in agreement.
Iglika
- There were some disagreements in the company about my handling of Pyrrhos.
- But I had earned their trust, and in time, so did he.
- Over the years, their suspicion turned to deep and lasting friendship.
- Even when he was reassigned, no one revealed his secret.
- It seemed I was only one step from our dream.
- At least, that’s what I believed.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Iglika
- But it was still just a dream.
(Office)
Iglika
- Peace talks? So, we’re just giving up!?
She’d grown to despise the general’s ever-kindly smile.
General Spase
- Iglika, this is the best outcome … We need to look towards an acceptable compromise.
Iglika
- Compromise? “Freedom for our homeland”—wasn’t that the entire point of this damned war?
General Spase
- We haven’t abandoned our goals. We’ve been promised greater autonomy.
Iglika
- In word only.
General Spase
- This has always been the work of generations.
- We’ve bled long enough. We’ll sign the treaty, but our fight will go on.
Iglika
- In the empty promises of old men—what became of those condemned arcanists, General?
General Spase
- Mind your words. Their files are in the archives. If you cared, you could have checked.
The general’s sharp reply chokes her. Spiteful words hang on her tongue.
Iglika
- I won’t agree—and neither will my troops.
General Spase
- The folly of youth. I had hoped giving you that command would teach you responsibility.
His acrid words form a crack in his facade of kindness. But Iglika doesn’t flinch. She leans in close.
Iglika
- We’re already rebels, General.
With that, she turns, offering no salute, leaving the loathsome place behind her.
Shepherd
- C-Captain …
Shepherd bursts into Iglika’s office, clutching a stack of letters.
Iglika
- Any replies?
She snatches the bundle, tearing them open one by one.
With each, her face darkens further. In the end, only a few remain on the desk—the rest she burns to ash at her fingertips.
Iglika
- We’ve lingered on this border too long.
- I’m not one for bargaining or kissing rings; I thought we were better than this …
Iglika slumps back, rubbing her forehead.
Iglika
- They’ve already divided Oreinósia among themselves.
Shepherd
- So now what do we do?
She leans back, the front legs of her chair tipping up. In the cracking sway, she feels as if she’s walking a tightrope.
Iglika
- There are still a few we can trust. Get these letters out.
She points to the last few letters she has to send.
Iglika
- Then … I’ll call a rally.
- Go.
Shepherd
- Yes, Captain.
As he turns to leave, a soldier delivers another envelope.
Shepherd
- Looks like there’s one more.
Iglika
- Leave it there.
Shepherd
- Ah.
He sets it on Iglika’s desk and leaves.
Iglika
- …
She eyes the letter with suspicion—she thought she’d already received them all.
Iglika
- Who could this one be from?
But staring is useless. Iglika lifts the envelope from the desk and slices it open.
Iglika
- …
Run
Iglika
- …
- Aghh!
Flames roar in her ears. Her body feels nothing but numbness.
Iglika
- No …
She tries to lift herself up, only to realize one of her arms is not there.
Iglika
- **** …
Through searing pain, she crawls through the fire, finds her severed limb, and stitches it back on.
Iglika
- Naive …
- In methods and in ideals … you are far too naive …
She wipes blood from her face, feeling torn flesh under her fingers.
Stitch by stitch, she repairs her body.
Just as she once gathered back her scattered comrades, one by one.
Iglika
- You think killing me will stop someone from rising to rip off that mask …
- You think killing one will silence the rest …
- You chose wrong … fire …
- Fire can’t kill me.
Three years later
(Conductress’s Cabin)
A train cuts through rolling fields of white snow. Inside, it is warm and bright.
Corvus presses her hand to the windowpane, feeling the cold beyond. Across from her sits the train’s conductor, his chest festooned with medals.
Conductor
- Madam, I do believe I know the truth.
- You survived that blast, living in hiding under a pseudonym—“Corvus.”
He closes a thick dossier, letting it fall with weight onto the table.
The dossier lands with a heavy thud.
Corvus
- Yes. You’re right.
Corvus glances at him, then resumes her stitching.
Conductor
- I must inform you then, in light of this revelation, I will have no choice but to turn you and those refugees over to the authorities.
- And naturally, the one who sponsored your employment at Vienna-Pannonian Railways in the first place.
Corvus
- Is that the company’s position?
Conductor
- The company? They don’t know yet.
He rises, silver medals gleaming in the candlelight.
Corvus
- Did you earn those? Or is that the going rate for betraying defenseless people?
Conductor
- I couldn’t care less about them. You’re the main prize.
He orders the guards while heading for the door.
But Corvus’s voice halts him.
Corvus
- Conductor, do you know where this train is headed?
Corvus bites off her final thread, her embroidery complete.
The conductor looks at her, puzzled. The red symbol on her cloth strikes him with dread.
Corvus
- Me and my people will not be handed over.
The guards at the door turn. He sees the same symbol stitched inside their collars.
Conductor
- You …!
Before he can act, he catches a glimpse through the doorway: a row of attendants, all bearing the same mark, standing ready.
Corvus steps to the rear window. The horizon glows pale with a new dawn.
Corvus
- No matter how many times it falls, the sun will rise again.
- Nusha. I promise you, I will stitch this land back together.
(THE END)