Eira sat on a crate outside an almost empty warehouse, her back hunched and her forearms resting loosely on her knees. Her uniform, once field grey, had long since turned nearly black from soot, grime, and the filth ground into it over the past days. The smell clung to her and to the others as well. Oil, sweat, smoke, old blood. It would have bothered her more under different circumstances.

  Right now, there were other priorities.

  Clean water. Food. Sleep.

  She could not remember the last time she had slept through an entire night. The Soviets were in Berlin, and every waking hour was either spent trying to slow the advance or scouring ruined streets and half-collapsed buildings for supplies that never seemed to be there when they were needed most.

  When she did sleep, it came in fragments. Minutes at a time. But her rest was usually broken by artillery concussions, the rattle of gunfire echoing through stone corridors, or the barked order to move again, always moving, always deeper into the ruin.

  Now she was like the rest of them, worn down to the bone, running on stubbornness more than strength. And still the demands never eased. Hold here. Push there. Do more. Give more.

  Her eyelids sagged as she swayed slightly atop the crate. For a moment her balance slipped, just enough to jolt her awake. Her eyes snapped open and she stood abruptly, a low groan slipping from her throat as her joints protested.

  A distant artillery impact rolled through the city, the sound heavy and concussive. She turned her head toward it, ears flicking sharply as her tail twitched with unease. Dust drifted lazily from the damaged facade of the warehouse behind her.

  Then movement caught her attention.

  Otto and Feldwebel Kranz emerged from the dusty gloom inside the warehouse, hauling a heavy crate between them. The wood creaked under the strain, and from within came the unmistakable rattle of metal shifting against metal.

  Kranz adjusted his grip and raised his voice. “Everyone. Over here.”

  The squad gathered, pulling themselves together and forming a loose semicircle as the two approached. Eira stepped away from her crate to join them, her fatigue momentarily forgotten. Her ears pricked higher when she saw the expression on Otto’s face. His muzzle was split by a wide, almost boyish grin that looked entirely out of place in the current circumstances.

  Dieter stepped forward, cigarette dangling between his fingers as he eyed the crate. “What is it?”

  Kranz lowered his end to the ground, Otto following suit a heartbeat later. The crate hit the pavement with a solid thud.

  “These were discovered in another warehouse last night,” Otto said, already reaching for the lid. “They nearly issued them to the Volksturm before someone in supply realized what they were. And who they were meant for.”

  He drove his fingers under the edge and wrenched upward. The lid clattering to the ground beside the crate.

  Inside, packed in straw, sat a stack of unfamiliar helmets. Grey metal, oddly shaped. Each had a forward extension with wide cutouts for the eyes, and rounded protrusions along the crown that immediately caught Eira’s attention.

  Varan leaned closer, her breath catching. “Otto, are those…”

  The words failed her as understanding settled in.

  Otto reached into the crate and seized one of the helmets, lifting it free of the straw before dropping it onto his head with a sharp laugh. The metal settled with a solid weight, the forward extension running partway over his snout. He fumbled briefly with the straps before buckling them tight, then gave his head a firm shake to test the fit.

  His grin widened.

  That was all it took.

  Strosstrupp Zwei descended on the crate at once. Clawed hands reached in, pulling helmets free and jamming them onto weary heads with a kind of desperate eagerness. The few who still wore the modified M42 helmets tore them off and tossed them back into the crate without hesitation, metal clattering against wood as the landed inside and were quickly forgotten.

  Eira took one carefully and turned it over in her hands. Rust traced the edges in thin lines, and the paint was chipped in several places, but the metal itself felt thick and solid. Purpose-built. The rounded protrusions along the crown had small holes bored into them, clearly placed to allow sound through without exposing too much.

  She slid it onto her head. Her ears folded down into the protrusions, pressed close but not painfully so. When she tightened the strap beneath her jaw, the helmet seated evenly across her skull. The back flared just enough to cover the top of her neck. The eye cutouts narrowed her peripheral vision, but not enough to be dangerous.

  She exhaled slowly.

  This would work.

  “Weren’t we supposed to receive these months ago?” Rolf asked, tugging at the inner harness as he adjusted the fit.

  “We were,” Otto replied, still smiling as he flexed his neck from side to side. “Seems they were buried in a warehouse. Supply officer said he found more crates and is trying to get them to the other Sturmwolf.” He snorted. “Late, but I’ll take it. I will no longer strike my head on a doorframe and see stars.”

  “I will not miss the old helmets,” Dieter muttered. “The damn things slipped into my vision unless I pulled the strap tight enough to choke myself.” He shook his head. “They modified standard issue and assumed it would be adequate for us.”

  Footsteps crunched behind them.

  Oberleutnant Haller approached, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, his eyes taking in the new helmets with a tired sort of approval. “Some good fortune for once,” he said, stifling a yawn. The lines beneath his eyes looked deeper than before. “Unfortunately, ammunition remains an issue. I spoke with others in command. They promised to scrounge what they can, but it will be limited. If this continues, we will be throwing stones at the Soviets.”

  “I could speak with the divisions that just arrived,” Unteroffizier Vetter offered.

  Haller shook his head. “Nein, I’ll handle it. They will listen to rank before reason.” He sighed. “I am considering having us carry enemy weapons. At least then you can resupply off the dead. Trains are cut. Fuel is scarce and inventory becomes scarcer by the day.”

  He paused, then motioned Kranz closer. “Gentlemen. If you would surrender your spare ammunition to the Sturmwolf.”

  He himself opened the magazine pouch at his hip and withdrew the magazines for his MP40, leaving only the one seated in the weapon. Kranz followed suit immediately, stripping ammunition from his pouches and passing it over. Unteroffizier Vetter hesitated, jaw tightening, before reluctantly handing his spare magazines to Dieter and Rolf. They accepted them without comment.

  Haller nodded once and slung the MP40 across his back.

  Then Eira heard it.

  A sound beneath the distant artillery and the constant crackle of the city. A rhythmic tread. Boots. Marching.

  The hybrids stiffened almost as one. Ears turned. Heads lifted. Several of them rose to their feet, turning toward the street beyond the courtyard.

  Eira followed the sound as it grew closer.

  Haller and his subordinates turned as well, their expressions tightening as whatever was coming drew nearer.

  From around the street corner came the sharp snap of boots on stone.

  A pair of stern-faced SS officers turned into view first, their black uniforms stark against the ruined buildings. Behind them followed a loose, uneven formation of men and boys. A handful wore mismatched military pieces, a field jacket here, a helmet there, but most were dressed in civilian clothes. Business coats hung open over dirty shirts. Trousers were cinched with rope or belts scavenged from somewhere else.

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  They moved down the street in something that tried to resemble a march, but the rhythm never quite held. The line wavered, spacing uneven, shoulders sagging beneath exhaustion and fear.

  As they drew closer, Eira’s stomach tightened.

  The weapons were a shameful collection. Captured Soviet rifles, old German bolt actions that looked like relics from the Great War. Some men carried shovels, entrenching tools, or axes slung over their shoulders. Too many carried nothing at all, hands hanging uselessly at their sides.

  Eira stared as the column passed, unable to look away.

  The SS officers barked orders, voices sharp and impatient, forcing the formation forward with shouted commands and the occasional shove. None of it hid the truth. These men were being pushed, not led.

  Near the rear of the procession, she saw them.

  Young boys. Tan shirts. Short trousers. Caps perched awkwardly on heads that were still too round, too soft. Swastika armbands clung to thin arms.

  Hitler Youth.

  Her chest tightened.

  Old men clutched rifles worn by decades of use, stocks cracked and darkened with age. Boys staggered beneath weapons far too large for their frames, muzzles dipping toward the ground as they struggled to keep up.

  Haller exhaled slowly and turned his gaze away. “At the very least, we are better prepared than the Volksturm,” he said, regret heavy in his voice. “I wish it had not come to this.”

  Another distant artillery impact rolled through the city, the sound low and heavy. Haller removed his cap and dragged a hand through his hair before settling it back into place.

  “I need to speak with another division,” he continued. “Try to rest while you can. Eat what you can find. I will return shortly.”

  As he passed Unteroffizier Vetter, he paused. “You are in charge in my absence. Have Feldwebel Kranz see if he can locate rations, ja?”

  Vetter nodded once. “Ja, Oberleutnant Haller.”

  Haller gave his shoulder a brief pat and moved down the street toward other Wehrmacht positions. Eira’s eyes followed him as a truck rumbled past, its engine growling and stalling as it fought through the rubble. The vibration traveled through the ground beneath her boots.

  The vehicle slowed and stopped further down the road where soldiers swarmed it immediately. Unloading crates and supplies with hurried efficiency.

  Eira turned away and sat beside Dieter, who leaned against a stack of empty crates. She rested her forearms on her knees, her muscles aching as she finally let herself be still.

  Then she caught it.

  A faint scent drifted on the air, subtle but unmistakably familiar.

  She paused, her breath catching slightly and inhaled more deeply through her nose.

  There it was again, weaker now, but unmistakably present.

  Eira’s ears angled forward as she lifted her head, her posture going still. She scanned the courtyard slowly, eyes narrowing as she turned in place, trying to follow the thread of it. The scent tugged at something deep and instinctive, half remembered and faintly unsettling, like a word on the tip of her tongue that refused to form.

  “Something wrong?” Dieter asked. His eyebrows lifted as he followed her gaze, one hand resting loosely at his side.

  She drew in another breath and rose to her knees, peering over the low stone wall that bordered the area in front of the warehouse. “I thought I smelled something,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him.

  Her eyes swept the street beyond. The truck still sat further down the road, Wehrmacht soldiers swarming around it as crates were hauled down and stacked. A few men shouted to one another over the noise of the engine and distant artillery. Nothing else moved. Nothing stood out. No figure lingering too long. No sudden shift that set her nerves alight.

  And yet the scent lingered, faint and teasing, just enough to keep her uneasy.

  Dieter chuckled softly. “Proper food perhaps?” he asked, exhaling as he spoke.

  Tobacco smoke spilled from his mouth and drifted between them, thick and acrid. It washed over her senses, blotting out the faint trace she had been chasing.

  She turned to answer him, but before she could speak, Varan walked over and dropped down beside her with a tired huff. “I do not understand how you can stand those things,” she said, gesturing toward the cigarette with two fingers.

  Dieter tapped ash from the end and shrugged. “The smell is not as bad when you are the one smoking. Sounds foolish, but it is true.”

  Varan waved him off and lifted her helmet from her head, setting it on her knee. She raised a finger to her muzzle and absently scratched the bare patch along her snout, the motion unconscious. Then she turned her attention fully to Eira.

  “What caught your attention just now?” she asked.

  Eira exhaled slowly and looked past Dieter toward the street again. The truck had been fully unloaded now. Soldiers were maneuvering stretchers onto the flatbed, lifting the wounded with hurried care. Blood stained sleeves and trouser legs. One man groaned as he was shifted, his face pinched tight with pain.

  “I thought I smelled something,” Eira said as she settled back against the wall, her shoulders sagging. “Something familiar.”

  “Oh?” Varan tilted her head slightly. “What did it smell like?”

  Eira shook her head. “I am not sure. It was faint. Dieter’s smoking is not helping.” She waved a hand at the drifting smoke with mild irritation.

  Dieter grunted and pushed himself to his feet. “Then I will move downwind,” he said with a crooked grin, stepping away and repositioning himself closer to the far edge of the warehouse.

  Varan set her helmet back on her head and stood, brushing dust and grime from the front of her trousers. “Come on. Let us join the others.” She extended a hand toward Eira.

  Eira accepted it and rose, casting one last glance down the street before shaking her head and turning away. Whatever she had smelled was gone now, swallowed by smoke, fuel, and the rot of a dying city.

  They joined the rest of the squad, gathered in a loose semicircle near the broken wall. Eira took a seat beside Ernst, who looked up and nodded in greeting. A singed patch of fur along his jaw and throat exposed scarred skin beneath, still raw and discolored.

  “Snow White joins us,” he said with a faint smile. His ears flicked briefly toward the distant thud of another explosion, the sound barely registering.

  Varan gave a partial smile as she sorted through a handful of magazines, thumbing rounds into place with practiced efficiency. “I recall you are fond of the story, yes?”

  Eira nodded. “I am. Particularly since Vollmer showed us the movie.”

  For a moment, the conversation lingered there, thin and fragile, a brief human distraction amid the ruin pressing in from every side.

  Varan nodded and returned her attention to her magazines. She stripped rounds from one magazine and pressed them into another with methodical precision, her claws clicking softly against the brass. “Ack, we need more ammunition,” she muttered, frustration threading her voice.

  Otto nodded in agreement. “I have two more belts for the MG42. After that, only my pistol.” He hesitated, glancing at Varan. With a quiet sigh, he reached to his belt, pulled both spare magazines from his pouch, and thumbed the rounds free into his palm.

  “Here. You need them more than I do,” he said, holding them out.

  Varan did not hesitate. She took the rounds and nodded once. “Danke. It helps,” she replied, already feeding them into a magazine.

  Eira checked her own pouches again, though she already knew the answer. One spare magazine. A handful of stripper clips. One of them barely half full. She let out a slow breath through her nose and shook her head.

  Footsteps approached.

  She looked up to see a soldier moving toward them with cautious steps. His posture was stiff, his eyes darting briefly over the hybrids before settling on Eira. He cleared his throat, swallowed, then spoke.

  “Gefreiter Eira. Your presence is requested by a Hauptmann Schafer. He is waiting for you in the main building.” He gestured across the street.

  Eira raised an eyebrow as she stood, slinging her rifle across her back. Unteroffizier Vetter, who had overheard the exchange, turned sharply toward the soldier.

  “What is this?” he asked, suspicion edging his tone.

  The soldier shifted his weight. “She has been summoned, Herr Unteroffizier. I was not given a reason.”

  Vetter studied Eira for a moment, then the soldier. Finally, he waved a hand. “Go,” he said curtly.

  Eira nodded and stepped forward. The soldier turned without another word and began walking toward the main building where command had set up. As she followed, she glanced back over her shoulder. Dieter was watching, brows drawn together. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the street and ground it beneath his heel.

  As she inhaled, the scent returned.

  Faint, but clearer now.

  It clung to the man walking ahead of her.

  Her ears tilted slightly as she tried to place it, her mind reaching back through half remembered moments and instincts. Where had she smelled it before?

  The soldier kept his gaze forward as they ascended the steps of the building across from the warehouse. Two guards stood at attention at the entrance. One of them pulled the door open, and they stepped inside.

  The lobby was chaos held together by exhaustion. Crates were stacked high against the walls. Men crowded around tables covered in maps and charts, voices raised in argument. Fingers jabbed at shifting lines. Orders were barked, questioned, repeated. No one seemed entirely certain what was happening, only that it was happening fast.

  They moved along the far wall toward the rear, where a narrow staircase climbed upward. Boots thundered on the floor around them, adding to the din.

  At the top of the stairs, the soldier stopped. He glanced back at her, cleared his throat again, and reached into his coat.

  “I was instructed to give you this,” he said, holding out a folded envelope. “Hauptmann Schafer said it was for your eyes only. You are to read it before meeting him.”

  Eira stared at the envelope for a heartbeat, then accepted it. The paper felt heavier than it should have. She turned it over once in her hands, then slipped a claw beneath the seal and unfolded the letter.

  She stepped to the side and leaned against the wall as she began to read, Voices from the lobby drifting up the stairwell behind her.

  You will meet me and you will not cause any trouble, or I will have everyone in your squad killed. Including Dieter. Do not test me.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her ears flattened tight to her skull as her eyes widened, the words burning into her mind. At the bottom of the page, two simple initials stared back at her.

  E.G.

  Emmett Granger.

  A harsh sound tore from her chest as the realization hit.

  He had found her.

  Her hands trembled as she crumpled the letter and shoved it deep into her pocket. Her legs gave way, and she slid down the wall until she was seated on the floor, staring at nothing. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, disbelief and fear flooding her all at once.

  The soldier stood nearby, shifting uncomfortably, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and unease.

  Eira barely noticed him. Her world had narrowed to a single, terrible truth, and the knowledge that whatever came next, there would be no escape.

  -SABLE