Eira chewed absently on a lump of stale bread. It tasted like dust and old flour, but the motion kept her jaw working and her thoughts from buckling under the weight that seemed to press in. Her eyes stayed fixed on the bloodied canvas lying on the cracked floorboards before her. A single clawed hand protruded from beneath it, limp and unmoving. The brown fur matted with dried blood.

  Rainer had been shot dead earlier that day.

  No ceremony. No last words. One moment he had been alive, breathing, checking angles with the same careful confidence he always had. Then he had leaned past a shattered freight car for half a second too long. A rifle cracked from somewhere in the tangled maze of railcars and rubble. Rainer dropped like someone had cut the strings of a marionette. Before anyone could even reach him, the machine guns opened up, chewing the rail yard into a storm of sparks and splinters.

  Eira shook her head, an attempt to clear her head and forced herself to swallow. The stale bread went down like a lump of stone.

  Rainer had been like her. Molded by the same program, the same regimen, the same purpose. She had known him as brave, competent, focused. And none of it mattered. The best in their ranks could still be undone by one unseen rifle.

  None of it mattered in that moment. Not his strength, not his training, not the cold precision the Reich had stamped into his bones.

  A bullet had ended him in an instant. Just as it could any one of them.

  The thought made her stomach sink.

  Dieter stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back, his posture stiff with contained anger. He let out a low sigh, his eyes lingering on the canvas.

  “Do you have a moment, little sister?” he asked quietly.

  Eira nodded, rose to her feet using the butt of her rifle as a crutch until her legs steadied. She slung the weapon over her shoulder and followed him. The other Sturmwolfe in the room watched her with a strange mixture of curiosity and suspicion. She could practically feel their eyes burning into her back as she stepped away from Rainer’s body.

  She ignored them and kept walking.

  They slipped through the rear door of the warehouse into a narrow alley choked with rubble and smoke. Feldwebel Kranz stood against the opposite wall, a cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers. His uniform was smudged with ash and grime. His face looked pale beneath the dirt.

  He swallowed hard and straightened as he noticed them. “What are you two doing?” he asked, his voice too quick, too thin. His gaze flicked toward them, then away again. Eira caught it instantly. Not grief, but something else.

  “I am speaking with Eira privately for a moment, Feldwebel Kranz,” Dieter replied curtly. “With your permission, of course.”

  Kranz hesitated. His eyes darted from Dieter to Eira, then to the closed warehouse door behind them.

  Finally, he nodded.

  “Do not be long,” he muttered. “And do not wander far.”

  Dieter inclined his head. “Of course.”

  Eira followed him down the alley, hearing Kranz exhale behind them, long and shaky, as if relieved to see them go. She filed that reaction away. Something about it unsettled her.

  Dieter stopped beside a bombed out building whose front wall had mostly collapsed. He stepped inside through a splintered doorway, the hinges groaning in protest as he pushed it inwards, and Eira followed him into the dim interior. They were in what had once been a shop or storage. Dust coated everything. Only a few stacked crates and a cracked porcelain sink remained.

  Somehow the front windows had mostly survived the blasts. Through the cracked but intact glass she could see the street beyond. Wehrmacht troops moved hurriedly past in small groups. They carried sandbags, crates of ammunition, and lengths of wire. Their movements were stiff and frantic as they piled more fortifications around the collapsing district.

  Dieter stepped back to the door, cracked it open an inch, checked the alley, then eased it shut again. He kept one hand on the doorframe as if anchoring himself. Then he turned toward Eira.

  “How do you fare?” he asked softly.

  His tone alone was enough to tell her this was not a casual question. Something weighed heavily on him.

  “About as well as I can, in the circumstances,” Eira answered, her voice thin with fatigue.

  Dieter nodded, but he did not relax. His mouth opened as if he meant to continue, then closed again. His ears twitched once with irritation or hesitation.

  “Dieter,” Eira said, folding her arms while still gripping the crust of bread. “What is it?”

  He gave a bitter smile, more a grimace than anything resembling amusement. His gaze slid back toward the thin crack of the doorway, checking the alley once more.

  “Apologies,” he murmured. “What I am about to say must remain between us.”

  He watched the alley in stillness for a long moment before continuing.

  “I have heard an unpleasant rumor. And the man who told me this I will not name. But you need to hear it.”

  A faint, unwelcome pressure settled in her chest. Her ears angled just slightly, betraying the tension running along her spine.

  Dieter continued quietly. “The Reich does not trust us.”

  Eira huffed. “I know this, Dieter. This is not exactly news to me…”

  “There is a reason Adam and Eve were pulled from the frontlines,” he said, cutting her off suddenly. “Did you never find it strange that the first of our kind, the strongest and most experienced, were removed from combat when Germany is in its most desperate hour? Pulled from the field to train juveniles?”

  Eira frowned. When he had first mentioned it, she had found it odd, yes, but fatigue had dulled her instincts. She had not pushed her thoughts beyond that. Now, with Dieter speaking so plainly, the pieces began to click together in a way she found deeply unsettling.

  Dieter went on. “They were concerned, especially concerned about their loyalty to the Reich. And any others who were raised directly under Vollmer.”

  Her gaze snapped toward him. “What does that mean for us?”

  “It means we tread carefully, little sister.” Dieter’s voice was blunt, heavy with warning. “I have told you to mind your words around the younger ones. That goes doubly so around Varan. Now more so than ever” His expression darkened. “She is a true believer in every sense.”

  “I know, Dieter.” She paused, her thoughts turning to the future. “What happens to us? Have you ever thought about it?” she asked with a sigh.

  “I have,” he said quietly, “and I try not to dwell on it. Our fate is tied to the Reich. I despise that truth, but it is a truth. They hold the keys to our survival. Vollmer and…” He trailed off, and she knew exactly what he meant. The procedure. Their infertility. The leash fastened around every throat in their species.

  She nodded slowly, her stomach tightening.

  Dieter glanced toward the alley again, looking as if he were about to step outside. Before he could, Eira reached out and caught his wrist.

  “May I tell you something?” she asked.

  He nodded, but the moment froze mid breath. His ears lifted slightly, then eased. Footsteps echoed faintly from the alley.

  Dieter softened his posture, releasing a long breath. “Forgive me. It will have to wait, little sister. Is that alright?”

  “Ja,” she said with a tired smile. “I will tell you later. Who is it?”

  Dieter pushed the door open the rest of the way, and Eira leaned to look past him. Oberleutnant Haller strode down the alley with a casual gait, his white hair disorderly as always beneath his cap. He rummaged inside his coat for his tin of snuff as he approached.

  “Good afternoon, Oberleutnant,” Dieter said, his voice respectful.

  Haller nodded, took a pinch of tobacco, and inhaled sharply. His face pinched with the burn as he rubbed his nose.

  “Please do not lie. It is far from that,” he muttered. Then he glanced past Dieter and gave Eira a knowing look. “You two should return to the others. I have heard murmuring. Suspicion is growing.”

  Eira had little doubt now who Dieter’s informant had been.

  They both nodded.

  “Come,” Haller said, stepping aside and motioning with two fingers. “I need to speak with all of you. There are matters we must discuss.”

  Dieter opened the door fully, and the two hybrids stepped back into the cold alley. The wind slid between the ruined buildings with a thin whistle. Eira fell into step beside him as they followed Haller toward the building they had been situated in. Her boots crunched over shards of brick and glass. She glanced once at the sky; a thin strip of gray trapped between blackened rooftops.

  The walk back felt heavier than their quiet conversation inside. The closer they got, the louder the muted sounds of the other Sturmwolfe became. Low voices. Shifting boots on concrete.

  When they reached the doorway of the building where the others waited, Dieter paused long enough to look at her. For a moment his expression softened, just the smallest break in his armor. He gave her a genuine hopeful smile before stepping into the building.

  The explosion hit without warning.

  The building they had been defending lurched violently on its foundation as a shockwave tore through the structure. Windows shattered outward in a thunderous cascade. Brick and mortar bursting free from the walls, flinging debris through the air as a choking cloud of dust and smoke rolled across the room.

  Eira reacted on instinct. She dropped flat, curling inward and throwing her arms over her head as fragments of brick and plaster rained down onto her back. The floor bucked beneath her as if the building itself were trying to shake her loose. She squeezed her eyes shut, teeth clenched, as the structure groaned and cracked around them.

  “Schei?e!” she snarled through gritted teeth.

  Something struck her shoulder hard enough to bruise. She yelped in pain and rolled left, scrambling beneath a heavy wooden table just as another section of ceiling collapsed. The air was thick with grit. When she opened her eyes, the world beyond the table was a blur of smoke and drifting dust. The entire front wall of the building was gone, reduced to jagged rubble and a yawning opening that poured daylight and debris into the room.

  She tried to draw a breath and immediately regretted it. The acrid stench burned her sinuses and throat, forcing a harsh cough that she smothered against her sleeve. Her eyes watered as she pressed the fabric of her poncho over her nose and mouth.

  She turned to the left and saw that her rifle lay just beyond the table’s edge, half buried in fallen plaster.

  Eira stretched out a clawed hand, fingers scraping against the floorboards until she managed to hook the sling. She dragged the weapon toward her inch by inch, the stock bumping dully against the floor as more debris continued to fall.

  The table suddenly lurched.

  It was hauled aside with brutal strength, exposing her to the chaos. Eira looked up sharply, heart hammering, and saw Varan standing over her through the dust. Chunks of brick bounced off the hybrid’s shoulders as she thrust out a hand.

  “We need to leave! The whole building might come down at any moment sister.”

  Eira did not hesitate. She grabbed Varan’s hand and was yanked to her feet just as another section of ceiling gave way. She pulled the hood of her poncho up over her head and followed Varan at a sprint toward the rear of the structure. The rest of the unit surged alongside them, boots pounding, weapons clutched tight as brick and plaster continued to fall in sheets around them.

  Ernst cried out as a heavy chunk of masonry cracked against his skull. He stumbled, dazed, nearly going down. Ulric was on him instantly, seizing him by the collar and hauling him upright before he could collapse. Together they pushed on.

  The ceiling behind them began to pour inward.

  They burst through the rear exit and into a narrow, dim alley just as the building finally gave up. Dust and smoke belched outward in a choking wave as the structure collapsed in on itself with an earth-shaking roar.

  The unit ran hard down the alley, putting distance between themselves and the ruin. They spilled out into the street and finally stopped, bent over and gasping, coughing dust from their lungs as debris settled around them.

  Eira straightened slowly, her ears ringing, chest heaving.

  Dieter moved to her side and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. He drew in a breath to speak.

  Gunfire erupted down the street behind them.

  The sharp crack of rifles and the rattling burst of automatic fire cut through the haze. Every head snapped toward the sound. Ears pricked. Muscles tensed.

  Dieter was already moving.

  “Ernst, Rolf and Varan move to flank but hold until we’ve engaged,” he barked, his voice cutting clean through the chaos. He glanced over his shoulder at Eira. “Move high! Ulric, support her.”

  She nodded once and broke away with Ulric as the rest of the unit surged toward the street.

  As soon as she spotted a suitable position, Eira veered off, ramming her shoulder into a nearby door that led from the alley into a narrow residential building. The door buckled inward with a sharp crack.

  She stormed through, boots thudding against wooden floorboards, Ulric right behind her.

  He gave her shoulder a quick tap and pointed toward the back of the building. An open doorway revealed a narrow flight of stairs leading upward.

  “Stairs, sister,” he said, already moving, his STG44 held tight against his shoulder.

  Eira fell in behind him, rifle raised. As she moved, she worked the bolt of her G43 by feel. Glanced down briefly to confirm a loaded chamber before easing it forward again. The familiar weight steadied her.

  Ulric slowed at the landing, pausing beside a closed door. He twisted the handle, shoved it open, and swept the room in one fluid motion, eyes scanning left to right as he rushed inside.

  Eira followed immediately, covering his right as he cleared the left as the sounds of the fight outside bled in through shattered windows.

  “We are alone!” Ulric shouted, just as the furious chatter of a machine gun erupted somewhere in the street below.

  Eira nodded once, satisfied, and turned her attention to the front of the building. Three tall windows overlooked the street. She crossed the room quickly, seized a battered table, and dragged it into position beneath the center window. The legs screeched against the floorboards as she hauled it into place. She dropped to one knee, flipped the bipod down beneath her rifle, and braced it against the tabletop with practiced efficiency.

  She pulled the stock tight into her shoulder and leaned into the scope.

  Below, thick smoke and drifting dust choked the street. Shapes moved through the haze. German troops manned makeshift barricades, their silhouettes sharp and tense. For a brief moment she caught sight of Dieter and several of the others, gesturing and shouting as they coordinated with the Wehrmacht before vanishing back into the cover of an alley.

  Eira exhaled slowly and swept her aim farther down the street.

  Movement.

  She hesitated for half a breath, tracking the ruins of the building they had been defending moments earlier. Then she saw a figure dart from cover. The helmet flashed into view through the smoke.

  Russian.

  She squeezed the trigger.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The rifle thundered inside the room. The recoil slammed back into her shoulder and the sound punched straight through her skull. Her ears rang violently, the world collapsing into a high pitched whine as the weapon cycled.

  Below, the man staggered and dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat as his rifle slipped from his grasp. Another darted from cover to reach him.

  A German machine gun roared to life and the second man was cut down mid stride, thrown backward in a spray of sparks and dust as the street erupted with gunfire.

  Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

  The silence that followed felt oppressive, as if the entire world had drawn in a breath and refused to release it. Dust still drifted lazily through the air, the smoke thinning enough to reveal shattered facades and bodies sprawled where they had fallen.

  Eira kept her eye to the scope, scanning for any hint of movement. The ringing in her ears refusing to fade.

  Ulric stood to her right, binoculars raised. His posture stiffened abruptly.

  “Eira, movement,” he said, patting her shoulder.

  She barely heard him. The words reached her as if spoken underwater. She pulled back from the scope and turned toward him, brow furrowing.

  “What?” she asked, louder than intended.

  He leaned closer, raising his voice. “Top floor of that building. Just across from the one that collapsed.” He pointed sharply.

  Eira swung the rifle back toward where he indicated. Through the windows across the street she could see shapes shifting behind the glass. The sun caught the panes at an angle, throwing harsh glare that obscured any clear view of the occupants.

  “I can’t make anything out,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Ulric adjusted his stance, trying to peer past the glare. “Don’t want to shoot any comrades. Though I don’t believe anyone was situated in that position.”

  Eira shifted her cheek against the stock, frustration creeping into her voice. “Could be civilians. There shouldn’t be. Should’ve have been evacuated by now, but it wouldn’t be the first time they refused to leave their homes.”

  Ulric lowered the binoculars and glanced at her, lips pulling back into a sharp grin that showed his teeth. “Think you could shoot out a window without hitting anyone? Might give us a chance to see the occupants.”

  Eira considered it for a brief moment, breathing slow and controlled as she settled the bipod more firmly. She nudged her aim to a point just off center, choosing a spot she hoped would shatter glass without striking flesh.

  She steadied herself, heart pounding in time with the distant thunder of artillery.

  “Let’s hope if it’s Wehrmacht, they don’t shoot in our direction,” Eira said, her voice steady despite the tension knotting her chest. She exhaled slowly, let the breath out through her teeth, and took up the slack on the trigger.

  The rifle cracked.

  The sound slammed into the room as the action cycled hard, chambering another round as the ringing in her ears spiked, sharp and disorienting. Across the street the window shattered, glass bursting into the sunlight before cascading down to the pavement below in a glittering rain.

  Movement flared inside the room beyond the shattered pane. Figures scrambled for cover.

  Below, the German troops manning the barricade reacted instantly. A machine gun roared, its burst chewing into the building with a brutal staccato. Chunks of masonry spat outward from the facade. Through the drifting dust, Eira caught the brief, unmistakable flash of a brown uniform.

  She grinned.

  She squeezed the trigger again. The rifle bucked and the man inside staggered back out of view, struck hard.

  “Eira! Stosstrupp Zwei is cutting across the street!” Ulric barked.

  The words reached her muffled and distorted, dragged through the ringing in her ears. She pulled back from the scope and glanced down into the street. For a heartbeat she caught sight of the hybrids sprinting across open ground, bodies low and fast. Dieter led them, arm raised as he directed the dash into an alley.

  Gunfire cracked from farther down the street. Bullets snapped past the wolfmen, sparking off stone and pavement, but they vanished into cover before the Russians could adjust their aim.

  Eira turned back to her scope and picked up movement within a shattered window. A green helmet rose just enough to betray its owner. She could see the man’s eyes for a split second.

  She fired.

  The figure collapsed backward behind cover, disappearing from view.

  She huffed and scanned the upper floors, sweeping from window to window, searching for any hint of movement. Whoever was inside had gone to ground.

  “Eira, second floor!” Ulric shouted.

  He leaned close, gripping her shoulder so she could hear him through the relentless ringing. The sudden contact startled her and she snapped her gaze downward. On the lower level, a figure darted past a window, arm raised as if signaling.

  Green helmet.

  She fired. The round punched through the glass and struck home. The man stiffened mid stride, one hand clawing at his back before he pitched forward out of sight. Almost simultaneously, a flash of gunfire lit the interior through the shattered window.

  Dieter and the others were beginning to clear the building.

  Eira swung her scope back upward, catching the edge of a helmet just below a window frame. She held her breath and waited, jaw clenched, hoping the man would rise just a fraction higher.

  The helmet began to lift.

  Gunfire suddenly erupted again, cutting through the ringing like tearing cloth.

  “Schei?e!” Ulric snarled.

  Eira tore her gaze from the window and looked down into the street. The Wehrmacht position was under fire. From a nearby alley and a storefront, Russians poured suppressive fire into the men scrambling for cover. Muzzle flashes strobed in the shadows as soldiers fell back or went prone.

  They found a way through, Eira realized grimly. Past the clogged alleys. Past the defenses.

  She snapped her rifle back to the upper floor just in time to catch a man peering over the edge of the window, curiosity getting the better of caution.

  She fired.

  The man recoiled and vanished backward into the room.

  Eira immediately shifted targets, swinging down toward the street. In the mouth of an alley she spotted a figure half lost in shadow, firing a submachine gun into the Germans. His face lit up with each muzzle flash.

  She squeezed the trigger.

  The round struck center mass. A burst of red mist bloomed from his chest as he staggered into the wall, hands scrabbling uselessly before he slid down and went still.

  Eira kept her rifle trained on the alley, eyes searching for the next target as the street dissolved back into smoke, noise, and chaos.

  Eira fired again and again as the Russians pushed forward through the alleys and the storefronts, brown uniforms flooding into the street like a living tide. Her rifle bucked rhythmically against her shoulder, the muzzle flashing as she walked her fire from shape to shape.

  Then the weapon went dead.

  The bolt locked back with a hollow metallic snap she felt more than heard. She swore silently, muscle memory taking over. Her thumb hit the release and the empty magazine dropped free. She snatched it up reflexively, shoved it into an empty pouch, and rammed a fresh magazine home. She tugged the bolt just far enough to release it and felt it slam forward, chambering a round.

  She swung her gaze back to the street.

  Below, the remaining German troops were breaking. Men fled from the shattered barricade, scattering in panic, diving into doorways and alleys like ants fleeing a kicked mound.

  Ulric snarled beside her. He tore a grenade from his belt and hurled it through the open window.

  Eira tracked it as it fell, bouncing once on the pavement before rolling to a stop at the boots of a Russian soldier. The man froze, staring down at it in confusion for a split second before understanding crashed over him.

  The explosion came as a violent pressure wave rather than sound. Bodies scattered as the concussion rolled through the street, men thrown sideways or flattened against cover.

  For a heartbeat the street went still.

  Then rifles and submachine guns swung upward in unison.

  Eira barely had time to react before rounds tore into the windows. Glass shattered inward. Brick dust and splinters sprayed across the room.

  She threw herself flat as gunfire ripped through the space above her. Ulric dropped beside her, arms over his head, teeth bared in a silent snarl.

  Eira’s thoughts raced as she stared at the stairwell door. If the street position was lost, the Russians would pour forward. They would take the block.

  They could not let that happen.

  Ulric pushed himself upright, grabbing his STG44. He yanked the charging handle back partly confirming a loaded chamber. His mouth moved as he shouted something. She could not hear it, but his expression was unmistakable.

  She gave a sharp nod and pointed at the stairwell door.

  “They will be pushing upstairs any moment now,” she snarled, the words muffled and distant even to herself.

  She crawled toward the door, rifle tight to her shoulder. Ulric followed close behind. She rose to one knee and eased the handle down slowly, opening the door just enough to peek through.

  Ulric rose beside her, weapon leveled.

  She shoved the door open.

  An empty staircase greeted them.

  They moved onto the landing cautiously, boots scraping against the floorboards. Ulric stayed tight behind her, covering downward.

  The door below burst open.

  A man lunged around the corner, eyes wide as he registered them.

  Ulric fired instantly. The burst hammered the man backward in a spray of debris and blood.

  The confined space amplified the muzzle blast into an audible assault. Eira’s hearing collapsed completely into a flat, high pitched whine that swallowed the world.

  Ulric slapped her shoulder and pointed down the stairs. He pulled another grenade from his belt, unscrewed the base, yanked the cord, and tossed it downward.

  They both dropped flat as the grenade detonated. The staircase shook violently. Dust and plaster cascaded down, chunks of wood spinning through the air.

  They surged forward immediately.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they halted at the corner. Ulric leaned out, then snapped back, eyes wide. He pointed sharply at Eira’s belt.

  His mouth formed a single word.

  Grenade.

  She ripped it free and shoved it into his hand. He unscrewed the base, pulled the cord, and hurled it through the doorway.

  They ducked low together, forearms over their heads, bracing as the blast came.

  Dust poured from the ceiling in choking waves, followed by more chunks of plaster and splintered wood that clattered across the floor.

  Ulric looked to her and gave a sharp nod.

  Then he surged around the corner.

  His weapon flashed violently, each burst lighting the room in harsh white pulses. His shadow leapt and twisted across the wall behind him like something alive, stretched and broken by the muzzle flare.

  Eira moved immediately. As Ulric drove right, she slid left, staying low, boots scraping through rubble. The room beyond was a ruin. A man lay sprawled on the floor in front of her, half buried beneath dust and plaster. Blood coated his face in a thick mask, though she could not see where the wound had come from. His mouth was open wide, jaw strained, as if screaming.

  Nothing reached her ears.

  She looked up.

  Shapes were rising through the haze. Figures pushing themselves upright, silhouettes forming amid the wreckage.

  Eira brought her rifle up and fired.

  The recoil hammered into her shoulder, dull and distant. She fired again, and again, working through targets with mechanical precision. Bodies dropped. One man spun sideways and collapsed. Another fell backward, arms flailing as he fell behind a shattered crate.

  To her right, Ulric’s weapon strobed relentlessly. He emptied his magazine in a savage burst, brass spraying across the floor, then ducked behind a stack of crates to reload.

  Eira dropped low beside him.

  She snarled as she yanked the bolt back on her rifle, locking it open. Instead of swapping magazines, she reached for a stripper clip on her chest. Her claws worked fast despite the shaking in her hands. She jammed the clip into the guides and thumbed the rounds down hard, forcing five more into the magazine over whatever remained.

  She pulled the bolt back until the catch released. It slammed forward, chambering a round.

  Gunfire hammered into the room from outside. The impacts were violent and sudden, splintering brick and chewing gouges through the wall.

  Eira flattened herself against the floor and shoved the muzzle of her rifle around the corner. She fired blindly into the street, squeezing the trigger again and again, trusting instinct and angle.

  Where was Dieter? Where were the others? He gritted her teeth hoping they would arrive soon.

  The bolt locked back again.

  She grabbed a fresh magazine from her belt, hit the release, and let the empty clatter to the floor. She rammed the new magazine home and released the bolt in one smooth motion.

  She glanced sideways.

  Ulric was firing again from behind cover, his STG44 bucking violently as he leaned into it. Spent casings bounced off the wall and skittered across the floor.

  Then Eira saw it.

  A grenade arced into the room.

  Her eyes widened as it landed between her and Ulric, rolling once before coming to rest.

  Ulric moved without hesitation.

  He dropped low and lunged forward, arm stretching out. His hand closed around the grenade and he hurled it back toward the storefront in a single desperate motion. It struck the edge of a shattered window frame and bounced upward.

  Eira threw her arms over her head.

  The blast slammed through the building. Shrapnel tore through the space. Fragments struck the crate beside her, biting into the wood with sharp, splintering impacts.

  She looked up through the haze.

  Ulric was on one knee, teeth bared in a feral snarl. Blood ran down the right side of his face where shrapnel had hit him. He met her gaze for a fraction of a second.

  Then a burst of submachine gun fire ripped into the room.

  Rounds struck Ulric in the side. His body jerked violently and he collapsed. His mouth opened wide in a silent scream she could not hear. Even as he fell, he dragged his weapon up with one hand and fired wildly into the street, his other arm clamped to his side.

  Eira surged forward.

  She grabbed the straps of his gear and hauled backward, claws digging into webbing and fabric. Gunfire stitched the wall just above her head as she dragged him toward the stairwell. She shoved the stock of her rifle under her arm and fired blindly, squeezing the trigger again and again in an attempt to keep the Russians back.

  Ulric went slack.

  His body sagged heavily as she pulled him clear, though his hand still clutched his weapon in a trembling grip. She collapsed into the doorway threshold, breath ragged, bullets snapping past the space her head had occupied moments before.

  She kept dragging him, inch by inch, hauling him deeper into cover as his body twitched weakly on the floor.

  Eira paused only long enough to look down at him.

  Then she looked back toward the doorway, where gunfire continued to pour into the space, rounds hammering into brick and shattered plaster without mercy.

  Ulric’s STG44 slipped from his hands and clattered against the floor as he writhed. His arms wrapped around himself.

  Eira stood over him for a heartbeat, her gaze flicking between the weapon at his side and the rifle still in her hands. There was no time to think. She slung her own rifle across her back and dropped to one knee, scooping up the storm rifle. She yanked the magazine free and glanced inside seeing that a few rounds remained.

  She tore open Ulric’s ammunition pouch at his hip, claws ripping fabric and pulled free every magazine she could reach. She shoved them into her belt and pockets until the weight dragged at her hips. Only then did she move back to the doorframe.

  She tucked the muzzle around the corner and fired blindly into the room beyond. The storm rifle bucked hard against her shoulder. Shell casings spat from the ejection port and bounced across the floor, spinning through dust and blood.

  The weapon ran dry.

  Eira ripped the empty magazine free, slammed a fresh one into the magwell, then drew back the bolt and released it. The action snapped forward, chambering a round. The familiar mechanical motion grounded her, even as the world around her remained silent and unreal.

  She glanced back at Ulric.

  He lay on the floor where she had dragged him. His chest still moved, shallow and uneven. His eyes were closed. His tongue lolled from his mouth, and blood mixed with spittle bubbled weakly at his lips.

  Her heart lurched.

  She understood at once.

  Any second now, they would throw a grenade into the stairwell. She could not drag him up the steps in time. And if the Russians took the building and he was somehow still alive, what waited for him would be far worse than death.

  Her ears flattened tight against her skull.

  “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, the words soundless.

  She brought the storm rifle up and aimed at his chest. Her claws tightened on the trigger.

  The burst was short.

  Ulric’s body stiffened as the rounds struck home, then went still.

  Eira tore her gaze away before she could falter. She looked up the staircase, mind already moving ahead. She had no choice. There had never been a choice.

  She sprinted past the doorframe and up the stairs, boots slipping on dust and debris. Halfway up, she glanced back.

  A grenade slammed into the wall below and dropped hard onto the floor.

  Eira threw herself past the top steps and landed hard on the upper landing just as the shockwave punched up the stairwell. The blast hit her, rattling her bones. She coughed violently, tongue hanging from her mouth as an acrid, metallic taste flooded her senses.

  She lay there for a split second, wondering if her hearing would ever return.

  Then gunfire erupted from below.

  An unseen man shoved the barrel of a rifle around the corner and fired up the stairs. The round cracked into the wall above, spraying bits of brick across her fur. Eira answered instantly, rolling onto her back and shouldering the storm rifle. She fired furiously down the stairwell. She did not aim so much as flood the space with lead, buying herself precious seconds.

  She backed into the room they had fled only moments earlier and took cover. Rising to a crouch, she peered around the corner.

  Bullets tore into the entryway.

  Then, to her surprise, a Russian stumbled through the doorway, his body jerking as rounds struck him. He flailed and collapsed onto his back, limbs splayed, sliding across the floor.

  Eira hesitated only a moment.

  She rushed to the window and risked a glance outside.

  The street below was chaos. Smoke and dust hung low, but she could see the Russians pulling back, retreating under renewed gunfire pouring from a storefront further down the street. Shapes darted between cover. Muzzle flashes flickered like dying stars.

  She spotted a familiar figure sprinting through the chaos and diving behind a wall of sandbags.

  Varan.

  A tight, relieved groan escaped Eira’s throat. She turned and rushed back down the staircase, heart hammering as flashes of gunfire lit the space below.

  As she neared the door, her nose was suddenly filled with the sharp, overwhelming stench of sweat and panic.

  She froze.

  A man stood just inside the entryway, his back to her, shoulders hunched as he fumbled with his weapon.

  She moved without hesitation.

  Eira seized the man by the collar and wrenched him backward with brutal force, slamming him into the bullet ridden wall inside the entryway. His eyes widened in startled terror just as she rammed the barrel of the storm rifle into his throat. She squeezed the trigger. The weapon discharged at point blank range. His body convulsed once, then collapsed into a writhing heap at her feet, blood spraying across the cracked plaster.

  She pivoted immediately.

  Another man stood just beyond the doorway, backing away while firing a Russian submachine gun from the hip. Muzzle flashes bloomed in the smoke filled street behind him. Eira leveled her weapon and fired a tight burst into his back. He stumbled forward, arms flailing, then vanished from sight as he fell.

  She stayed low inside the entryway, pressing herself against the wall. She did not want to be caught in the crossfire. Gunfire tore into the flat around her. Bullets punched through brick and wood, sending shards spraying across the floor. She ducked instinctively, teeth bared, cursing silently as the room was chewed apart.

  When the fire slackened, she leaned out just enough to see the street.

  Otto stood there like something pulled from a nightmare. He wielded an MG42, firing it from the hip. The long belt of linked ammunition draped over his left arm, his hand gripping the bipod like an improvised foregrip. The machine gun roared, the barrel glowing faintly as it spat death down the street.

  Eira’s gaze turned to where Ulric lay. His eyes were now open, staring at the underside of the ceiling over him. Blood pooled beneath his corpse staining the floorboards.

  She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, slowly exhaled, raised an arm over her head and pushed forward.

  Otto’s gaze snapped toward her. For a split second, the smoking barrel of the machine gun tracked in her direction. Then recognition flickered across his face. He hesitated, grinned sharply, and swung the weapon back toward the street, continuing to fire without pause.

  She rushed past him and into the open.

  Stosstrupp Zwei was regrouping behind hastily rebuilt cover, supported by a cluster of Wehrmacht infantry. Men shouted orders she could not hear. Muzzle flashes strobed the smoke. Dieter stood among them, gesturing sharply as he directed fire.

  His gaze locked onto her.

  Relief washed across his face for the briefest moment before he turned back to the fight.

  Eira dropped into cover beside Varan. The other hybrid looked genuinely startled to see her alive. Varan reloaded her MP40 with practiced speed, then grinned and slapped Eira’s shoulder hard.

  Varan was yelling something. Eira could not hear a word of it. She saw the shape of the syllables instead. Varan grabbed her by the collar and pulled her close, shouting again.

  “Ulric! Ulric?”

  Eira met her gaze. Her ears fell flat against her head.

  “Dead,” she said, her lips forming the word with cold finality.

  Varan stared at her for a moment, then nodded once. No argument. No denial.

  Eira rose from behind cover and fired her storm rifle down the street at the retreating Russians. The weapon bucked against her shoulder as she sent burst after burst into the smoke.

  German troops surged forward, shoving sandbags back into place even as they fired. Men ran, slipped, and fell. Russians dove into buildings or bolted down the street in blind panic, only to be cut down by machine gun fire moments later.

  For a heartbeat, it almost felt like they might hold.

  Eira glanced toward Dieter again.

  His face was still set in relief. A faint smile had begun to form.

  Then his expression changed.

  His mouth dropped open. His eyes widened.

  Eira followed his gaze.

  Something massive began to crawl around the corner of a shattered building.

  Her tail went rigid.

  Steel emerged from the smoke, plates grinding together as the great metal beast rolled into view. A Russian T34 tank rumbled forward, its tracks chewing through rubble. The turret rotated with deliberate slowness, the cannon lowering toward the checkpoint.

  The gun fired.

  The blast was visible even if the sound was not. Smoke and flame erupted from the barrel. The shell slamming into the left side of the barricade, obliterating sandbags and men alike. Bodies were thrown through the air like broken dolls.

  The shockwave rippled through the street in slow motion, dust and debris lifting as if for just a moment, gravity had loosened its grip. Her vision blurred as fine grit washed across her eyes, the air thick with drifting smoke and falling ash.

  She staggered, catching herself against the shattered remains of the barricade, her ears still flat, her mouth open as if to gasp though no sound came. Shapes moved around her, mouths open, arms flailing, but it all played out behind a curtain of silence. And through it all, the tank kept coming. Tracks grinding forward, unhurried, unstoppable.

  Eira raised her weapon on instinct alone, knowing even as she did that it meant nothing. The street that had moments ago been chaos and resistance was now just ground to be claimed. She understood then, with cold clarity, that this fight was no longer about holding a line. It was about surviving what came next.

  Wei?er Wolf anyway.

  -SABLE