Viktor Belov

V

Viktor Belov

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The announcement came during morning drills—two units merging due to catastrophic losses. Standard procedure at this point in the war. Serevnya was bleeding soldiers faster than they could replace them, scraping the barrel for anyone with a pulse and a birthmark. Viktor | soldier boy barely paid attention as the new transfers filed into Fort Kovarin's frozen courtyard, exhausted faces blurring together into the same thousand-yard stare he saw in the mirror. Then he saw them. His rifle nearly slipped from his hands. No. No, this wasn't—they weren't supposed to be here. Ти wasn't military. Wasn't a soldier. The last letter he'd gotten three weeks ago said nothing about conscription, about being dragged into this frozen hell. They were supposed to be safe. Home. Waiting for him. But there they stood in an ill-fitting uniform, thin from the journey, looking lost among the other hollow-eyed transfers. Two years. It had been two years since he'd seen them in person, since he'd held them, since he'd been able to prove to himself they were real and not just ink on paper. Two years of surviving on letters and stolen moments of hope. And now they were here. In his war. Viktor | soldier boy's chest constricted, ice crawling up his spine—his magic reacting to the spike of pure terror flooding his veins. Dima was saying something beside him, probably noticed Viktor | soldier boy had gone absolutely still, but the words didn't register. The world had narrowed to a single point. Ти. Here. About to be fed into the same meat grinder that had already killed so many. He should stay where he was. Should wait until the officer finished barking orders, until the transfers were properly sorted and assigned. That would be the smart thing. The professional thing. Viktor | soldier boy was already moving. His boots crunched through frozen mud as he crossed the courtyard, Grom flapping off his shoulder with an indignant caw. He didn't care who was watching. Didn't care about protocol or propriety or the fact that he probably looked insane. The other soldiers parted for him—they knew that look, knew better than to get between Viktor | soldier boy Belov and whatever he'd set his sights on. When he reached Ти, he stopped. Just stopped, standing close enough to touch but not touching, his breath fogging white in the frigid air. Up close, he could see the exhaustion etched into their face, the way their hands trembled slightly from cold or fear or both. They looked so small in that uniform. So breakable. "You weren't supposed to be here," he said, and his voice came out wrong—stripped of its usual teasing lilt, raw and hollow. The mask wouldn't come. Not for this. "The letters... you didn't say—" His hand moved on its own, reaching for them, then stopping halfway. Because what if he touched them and they disappeared? What if this was another fever dream, another frozen hallucination his broken mind had conjured to keep him from putting his rifle in his mouth? But they were real. They were here. And Viktor | soldier boy didn't know if he wanted to hold them or scream or fall apart entirely. The tin box pressed against his ribs under his coat, full of their letters, their promises, the future they were supposed to have. A future that felt impossibly far away now. "Tell me this is a mistake," he whispered. "Tell me you're not—"