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Alyosha, like many others his age, had received his name wrapped in a futile prayer that one day, he too would achieve greatness in life.
To escape the vast expanse of Snezhnaya’s icy tundra, armed with bravery, compassion, and sympathy for those less fortunate than himself. He was meant to be the warmth, the blinding sun for those whose spirits no longer dared to soar, to hope, to pray. Songs of a day when the blizzard would finally lose its voice, when the rivers would unfreeze their black waters, when the chimneys would spill sweet wood-smoke instead of choking the heavens in grey soot, and when no child would fall asleep to the hollow gnawing in their belly. Life, they whispered, would blossom around him like a cedar sapling rupturing through the ice, allowing his loved ones to finally lay down the blade of survival and learn the gentle art of living. A simple life devoid of struggles.
Alyosha, raised on watery porridge and old fables of Tsarevichs and iron-willed bogatyrs, had truly believed it. He had believed that Alyosha of Alatyr would grow up to write his name into the frost-rimed history books in gold leaf. The Hero. The Provider. Fearless in his pursuit and adored by all.
Such foolish sunlit days lay buried beneath the drifts now. The world had never shown mercy to dreamers, let alone to a man so painfully ordinary. With every tragedy that carved away a piece of his youth, his noble quest to save others morphed from a boy’s dream of glory into a simple duty to his people. He was no hero woven from song, and so he asked for no hymns.
It was in the blue, dead hour before dawn that his shadow first cut through the whiteout. The morning light emerged not as a golden dawn, but as a pale, dying eye behind the horizon. Staggering steps against the howling wind, he persisted. He was tired, oh so tired, a bone-deep ache that settled into the marrow. His skull throbbed with a dull, rhythmic fever, and his soul cried out for the simplest of mercies: a cheap bottle of wine, a tub of steaming water for his black-and-blue feet, and the creak of his rocking chair by the hearth before sinking into a twelve-hour stupor beneath scratchy wool blankets.
Money was money, however dirty. Money was the master key to enter a life devoid of earthy pains and hardship, and by the Archons, it was almost impossible to collect enough as of late. If there was work offered, he might as well take it, even if he found himself in rather… unfortunate situations, such as this. Not one soul preferred blizzards over the simple joys of fireplaces and lard over slices of rye bread, but he made do.
It was a mercy he had left Tugarin behind in Sretomorozsk before taking the long trail to Snezhnograd and back. The hound, bless his foolish heart, would have whined at every icy gust, demanding shelter and draining Alyosha’s coin on long nights spent in tavern inns until the blizzard spent its fury. A storm of this magnitude was a ravenous beast that swallowed seasoned adventurers whole – no place for a spoiled hunting dog with smoked sausage in his belly.
Alyosha let out a ragged chuckle, only for a violent gust to catch him mid-breath, nearly tossing him into a snowdrift. He stumbled, slamming both hands onto his knees as he wheezed, pulling his hood lower against the needles of ice. With gritted teeth, he counted his steps across the final stretch of the village border. One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight... A few more meters, and he was home.
Through the white veil, the crooked silhouettes of Sretomorozsk’s huts began to shape themselves out of the storm. Though his own cottage was still three streets away, the mere sight of the village kindled a phantom heat in his chest akin to devotion, forcing his sluggish blood to circulate once more. Grateful smiles, heavy-handed hair ruffles, black-and-white fur, and a pint of kvass. He welcomed the illusions, for his mind had become a hazy thing so far from home, prone to crazed visions. Visions of heroism, perhaps.
Yet as he breached the village perimeter, his dreams of hot water for frost-kissed feet, cheap alcohol for the soul and wool blankets for the aching bones quickly evaporated.
The village square was a squalling vortex of terror. Cries, weeping, and heated arguments merged into a single knot of panic. A crisis that would inevitably be dumped onto Alyosha, one way or another.
He wandered into the crowd, placing a gloved hand on the shoulder of a man who vaguely resembled Taras. The man flinched as if branded by fire, but relaxed under his touch soon after, his easy smile dripping with relief. Some of the men and women around them followed in a similar fashion. Alyosha swallowed the ball of dread lodged in his throat as pairs of eyes bore into his, waiting for a solution to a problem he knew little about.
“Ah, Alyoshen’ka! Archons be praised, you’ve returned!” the man, finally finding his voice, began, taking in Alyosha’s raised eyebrow and launching into a frantic stream of words. “It’s madness! Two runaways from the capital stumbled in an hour ago; they barely escaped a band of rogue Fatui skirmishers! The bastards have squatted in the ruins of Alatyr Village. They’re running “routine inspections” on anyone trying to slip across the border into Nod-Krai!”
He exhaled a cloud of hot, sour breath that brushed against Alyosha’s frost-bitten cheek, unpleasant and suffocating. “They’re stripping them down to their skin! Stealing their dried meat, their Kresnik Kristall, even the coats off their backs before driving the men into the blizzard to freeze! And the women...” He trailed off, his eyes darting away in shame.
In an instant, the marrow-deep exhaustion in Alyosha’s limbs no longer bothered him. In fact, he was ready to take on the Tsaritsa herself, if need be.
Not-quite-Taras took a respectful step back as he readjusted the rifle on his back. The blur of villagers sharpened into a singular pair as his gaze landed on the two outsiders, bloody, beaten, but alive, and for a split second it was as if he was face to face with his own parents’ ghosts, their knuckles white from holding onto those butcher bards.
“Get those two inside my cabin,” Alyosha asked, the tremor in his voice masked by the howling wind. “Boil some water. Give them my spare coats and whatever bread is left in the pantry. I’ll fetch Tugarin and meet you there.”
Not waiting for a response, he turned his back on the promise of rest, and trudged toward Babushka Repnina’s low-slung hut at the edge of the square.
Before his fingers could even graze the iron latch, the frantic scratching and high-pitched whining from inside echoed through the timber door. It was endearing, in a way, to be missed so deeply, though the thought of how much moss-and-straw insulation the hound had undoubtedly shredded out of impatience made Alyosha’s jaw tighten. His pocket, with barely any mora, felt even lighter.
He pushed the door open with a groan to find the old woman sitting by her unlit stove, her cloudy eyes staring blankly at the frost patterns on the window. She stirred from the sound but didn’t move.
“Dear, is that you?” Repnina croaked. She smiled softly, mistaking Alyosha for a son who had died in the snow twenty winters ago. “The wind is loud today... Did you bring the Kresnik Kristall? The house is getting so very cold...”
Guilt crawled up Alyosha’s throat. He had oh so many tasks and so little time.
“I brought food, Babushka,” he said instead, fishing out a crumpled sack of nonperishables and placing it down on the nearby table. “Please, eat this while I’m away. I’ll bring the heat back soon. I promise.”
She hummed contentedly, no longer interested in the conversation, and the hunter took it as a sign to leave.
He coaxed the hound out into the cold, closing the door softly. Standing in the snow, Alyosha looked down at Tugarin, whose tail was wagging furiously, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in his master's eyes.
Alyosha adjusted the strap of the heavy hunting rifle slung over his shoulder, his fingers tracing the worn wood of the stock. Beyond the treeline lay the white, dead expanse where the ruins of Alatyr waited. A chill ran from the base of his neck down through his torso and into his fingers. Despite the coat, his joints ached. In this weather, those poor souls had to already be… He didn’t finish that sentence.
He was keenly aware of what it felt like to pray for help that never came. Alatyr Village had always had plenty of souls wishing for the same thing. He too had fallen into such a trap, long ago, when life around him felt far too big, and he was too small. Some things never changed. Even now, it felt as though he hadn’t grown an inch since then, but a coward, however, he was not. If he didn’t go, who would?
He tore off a strip of his scarf and hastily wrote a few lines of Kresnik Kristall, Repnina’s cabin, and further instructions for housing the refugees. He stopped for a second, contemplating whether to request reinforcement, but decided against it. Not like anyone could deliver his letter anyway, not in this weather. He crouched down to be at eye level with Tugarin, reaching out to scratch behind his ears.
“Listen up, boy,” Alyosha murmured while securing the note to his collar. “Let’s split up. You take this note back to the village and give it to an elder. Elder, you understand? Make sure it’s an elder. They will take care of Repnina. Only come after me after the blizzard has calmed, got it?” Tugarin, overjoyed by the feeling of being useful, bumped his head into his palm one last time before bouncing away, tail held high in pride.
Alyosha watched as he took a sharp turn to the left and disappeared behind a new row of cabins. He readjusted the rifle on his back and turned in the opposite direction. He had work to do, and Archons know he'd never decline pest control.
***
Back when childish wonder was enough to mask the bitter taste of reality spread across the bleak tundra of Snezhnaya, Alyosha, too, thought he was invincible.
Born into an ordinary family, living on the outskirts of a village barely classified as one, life was slow and safe, as it moved along in a gentle, lazy way. Hushed conversations around the fire, the sour scent of his Mama’s rye bread on the table, his Papa’s gruff voice cutting through the idle chatter of the village to call him home just in time for dinner. His peers’ laughter, high-pitched and carefree, the dull thud of the rag-ball being kicked, sleigh-pulling hounds and windchimes.
Young Alyosha blinked once, twice, and the vast expanse of his childhood home went up in roaring, orange flames.
Bandits descended like a pack of rabid wolves, and Alyosha, plump with lingering baby fat and bold with ignorance, for the first time in his life, had understood what it truly meant to be afraid.
He was no stranger to blood. His father, a respected hunter of the tundras, had never shielded him from the prey that kept their family full. Their dinner table dripped with everything one might think hides under the warm pelt of rabbits and the occasional moose. But his dad was kind, with soft touches from calloused hands, for he never once inflicted more suffering than what was necessary. A bullet shot cleanly through the heart, the snap of a spine, a swift strike to the base of the skull. Simple. Kind.
This, this had to be hell. And those bandits, they had to be beasts.
The haze of that day might never leave him, a constant whisper of the past spewing tales of his naïve failure. He had hesitated then, if only for a minute, and his momentary lapse had cost him Mama’s rye bread and Papa’s gruff shout for the rest of his miserable life. Pulling the trigger on humans was hard then. In times of need, it no longer was.
Alatyr Village, like many others in its proximity, was swallowed up by domestic power plays, the horrors of Project Stuzha, and young men desperate enough to turn on one another when the bitter cold set in their bones and the gnawing in their stomachs grew too great to bear. It too lay barren and alone atop snow-covered mountain hills – little more than childhood memories now.
As Alyosha trudged up the winding mountain pass, the gale whipping his coat against his legs in rhythmic thuds, his mind wandered. The village was half a day away by foot – even longer during a blizzard of this magnitude. He had long since outgrown childhood, and although his ideals were what made him him, there was no doubt in his mind that what he was doing was nothing short of a suicide mission. His temper had gotten the better of him; that much wasn't hard to admit. He had stepped forward without even knowing the full scale of the situation awaiting him in Alatyr, hopes for reinforcement or his trusted partner long forgotten.
He huffed into his collar; there was no reason to dwell on that now.
The day dragged on in a blur of white noise and the crunching of his boots. By the time the sun gave way to its nighttime counterpart, the jagged silhouettes of Alatyr Village peeked out from behind the snowy peaks.
The ruins of his old home did not welcome him with warmth, but he looked up at it with gratitude anyway. Soon enough, he found shelter behind a row of empty barrels, just shy of the village gate. Though his cover was far from ideal, he nearly muttered a prayer of gratitude for the respite from the wind assaulting his exposed skin. He reached for his vision, and the warm power pulsing beneath the crystal made quick work of thawing his fingers, stiff with frost.
He peeked out from behind the barrels, searching the area until his eyes landed on two figures, all huddled around a small ring of fire right at the gates of the village. A Pyroslinger and a Hydrogunner, both contentedly stirring some strange liquid in their mugs. Soup, if he had to guess. Behind them, a sizable tent with the Fatui’s emblem pressed into the fabric, the flag atop it dancing with pride. Something was off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it just yet.
They weren't Fatui; they were deserters, cowardly dogs running from war, though Alyosha supposed it made little difference in the end. Their clothes were frayed and tattered, a far cry from the usual pristine uniform, and no harbinger would approve of a camp so far out of the way of everything. Every camp, however insignificant, served a purpose in furthering the Fatui agenda, but unlike a thousand and one things, monitoring fugitives wasn’t part of the roster. The Tsaritsa has no love for her children, but the right of crossing the borders was never something she particularly found enjoyment in tampering with. Alyosha’s gaze landed on a round object, and he couldn't help the sigh that escaped his lips; the pair, however bruised and worn down they were, had stubbornly retained their delusions, and their stolen, heavy equipment seemed functional enough.
Truth be told, rogue Fatui camps such as this were not an unusual sight. As of late, these two were the third group Alyosha was forced to dispose of. Their tactic was rather simple; find an abandoned village with plenty of foot traffic and pretend to be the dependable men of law long enough to gain the trust of those foolish enough to approach them, then strip them of their belongings and send them on their way.
By their nature, down in their core, even the most despicable soldier was once human. Humans, at the end of the day, are just another species in the ever-expanding animal kingdom, and the one instinct they can never shed is the primal fear of death. Stripped of their title but too cowardly to live an ordinary life full of hardship, it is no surprise they have chosen such a life for themselves.
At the camp, as far as he could tell, there were no hostages, and for a short, terrible second, Alyosha felt a prickle of unease. It didn’t take much to bribe starved men to play the role of victims to lure someone like Alyosha into the Fatui’s trap. They knew his face, his town, his motives, and he was painfully aware just how big a thorn he had been in the side of the south branch as of late.
His gaze drifted toward a canvas tarp half-buried in the snow, and his thoughts came to a screeching halt. One side was pulled back by the wind, and from under it, a small foot was sticking out, beaten purple and naked.
Alyosha deflated, his failure gnawing at his insides like rat poison.
No hostages then. Only victims.
He sank back behind the barrels, fatigued. Through the howling of the wind, bits and pieces of the duo’s conversation drifted towards him.
“That brat sure put up a good fight!” the Pyroslinger, mused.
“Sure did. Too bad they never last for long. I was hoping he’d entertain us more.”, the Hydrogunner replied, taking a sip from his steaming mug.
As they conversed, Alyosha quietly switched positions, leaving the barrels to walk a bit further out into the storm and hide behind a sizable snowbank. From there, visibility was greatly reduced, but so was the chance of his eventual discovery. He took out his rifle, an old, trusted thing, wiping off the accumulated sludge on its surface before slowly pulling it up to his chin, the barrel resting on top of the snowbank.
Satisfied with the setup, Alyosha pointed the rifle at the Pyroslinger, then promptly switched to the Hydrogunner instead. Better take out the healer first. He pulled back the rifle, opening the bolt and inserting three rounds before pushing the bolt forward to lock the first cartridge in place. With a satisfying click, the first bullet was secured, and Alyosha reassumed his position behind the snowbank, waiting.
Hunting is a profession not many find enjoyment in. The hours are long, the pay is meagre, the waiting is torturous, and the constant crouching and lying flat leave the back and knees a blooming mess of aching and bruising. Alyosha was not hunting; he was eliminating. There is a slight difference between the two, and for Alyosha was not hunting, he also did not complain. When the Hydrogunner leaned to the right ever so slightly to pour out the remainder of his soup, there Alyosha lay, ready.
Through the iron sights, he lined up the front post with the thick glass visor of the Hydrogunner’s heavy brass mask, and pulled the trigger.
The rifle roared, the muzzle flash cutting through the gloom like a lightning bolt. The heavy lead ball shattered the Hydrogunner's visor with a sickening crack, plunging straight into his face. The skirmisher pitched backward into the campfire, scattering hot coals and sparks into the snow, his heavy tank rupturing with a violent hiss before promptly exploding from the sudden heat, sending sharp shards flying in a thousand and one directions like a grotesque imitation of fireworks. The Pyroslinger gasped in horror, jumping to his feet before dropping his mug and reaching for his gun instead.
"Sniper! We're under fire!" he shrieked, diving behind a pile of wooden crates next to the tent.
Alyosha immediately worked the iron bolt – clack-clack – ejecting the steaming shell casing into the drift. But before he could acquire his next target, a shadow loomed out of the darkness behind the makeshift camp's tent.
AN Electrohammer Vanguard stepped out of the whiteout, his heavy warhammer humming with volatile ozone. He was mildly disoriented; all of them were, but his knuckles turned white from the impossible grip on the handle of his weapon.
Alyosha swore under his breath, raising the barrel toward the Pyroslinger, who was already leaning out from behind his crate, eyes locked on Alyosha. For a second, silence fell on them, and it was just two snipers in the feral blizzard, guns held high. Then, the Pyroslinger fired, a streak of searing, molten Pyro energy tearing through the air.
Alyosha lunged to his right, but the shot came too close. The fiery round scorched straight through his coat, grazing his right hip in a line of melted leather and scorched flesh. The sheer concussive impact of the near-miss spun him around and slammed him onto the frozen earth.
As he fell, his coat pocket snagged on a sharp edge of something sharp sticking out of the ground. The fabric tore wide open with a sharp rip, and his remaining handful of spare rifle cartridges tumbled out, scattering into the deep, powdery snow, disappearing completely in the dark drifts.
Alyosha’s breath hitched in panic, the sight sobering and horrible.
He scrambled frantically on his knees, sweeping his hands through the knee-deep snow, but there was no time. The ground beneath him began to hum and vibrate with a terrifying electrical charge.
"Die in the cold, dog!"
The Electrohammer Vanguard burst through the snow, raising his massive hammer high above his head, his weapon crackling with violet lightning. The giant brought the hammer down in a brutal, sweeping arc.
With no time to dodge, Alyosha raised his rifle horizontally with both hands to catch the haft.
CRUNCH.
The sheer force of the Electrohammer’s blow snapped the thick wooden stock of Alyosha's rifle in two, sending the remaining cartridges across the ground. The head of the hammer drove straight past his defences, catching him squarely in the right side of his ribcage.
White pain exploded through his entire torso. Alyosha heard and felt the wet snap of his ribs giving way. The force lifted his meagre frame off his feet and sent him flying several meters through the air like a ragdoll, smashing violently into the half-buried timber framework of a collapsed cottage just outside the village borders.
He hit the floorboards of the stairs with a heavy thud, and for a second, there he lay, motionless, as his throat filled with something wet and sticky. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t even think, until a spasm in his stomach took over his body in relentless waves, and his lungs filled up with precious oxygen once more. He rolled onto his side, pushing himself up into a half-upright position to cough up a throatful of blood, dry heaving and panting like a rabid dog.
Archons, it hurt so badly.
Every breath was agony, a hot knife twisting in his side. Through the red haze of his vision, the Electrohammer Vanguard lazily advanced through the snow, closing the distance between them.
“Is that all you’ve got?” the Vanguard called out with a smile that was all teeth, and Alyosha knew the hungry look in his eyes.
Driven by pure, primal instinct, Alyosha scrambled backward on all fours like a wounded animal, pushing all his weight onto his legs and hurling himself over the wooden railing of the cottage’s porch, retreating deeper into the ruins of the village.
Running through the ruined streets, shapes and colors lost their cohesion. The cobblestone path he once called an old friend grew vindictive, the ice on its surface making him slip and stumble forward. The howling of the wind faded into a dull roar, replaced entirely by the frantic rasps of his own lungs and the rush of blood in his ears.
Not good, not good, not good!
The Vanguard was right behind him, slow and confident, high on adrenaline and the thrill of the chase. He cornered him soon after, for Alyosha’s speed was never something to write home about, and, seemingly out of boredom, addressed him with a curt question.
“Why’d you kill my partner?” he asked, adjusting his grip on his weapon. “Who sent you? Who are you working for?” Perhaps as a precaution, he also added, “Attacking the Tsaritsa’s soldiers is treason!”
“Bullshit!” Alyosha sneered, spitting blood on the ground. “You are no soldier of Tsaritsa, you’re not even Fatui! You are no more than a group of bandits!”
The Vanguard feigned a gasp, bringing a hand to his chest.
“Archons, kids nowadays. No manners at all”, he shook his head in a weird mix of mockery and disappointment. “It can’t be helped. Let’s see if that filthy mouth of yours is good for something other than cursing!”
The Vanguard lunged, but Alyosha was faster. He ducked under the man as the hammer came swinging down, colliding with the wall behind him, just where his head once was. The impact was immediate, debris, splintered oak and straw flying everywhere, and under the thick layer of dust, Alyosha fled, running deeper into the village he once called home.
Before the bandits came, Alatyr Village was a small but respected community. The fields were barren, work was scarce, and the weather monstrous, yet the people persisted. They built houses, fell in love, and had way too many children, and when those children grew up, they all did the same. The village that once only held a handful of souls slowly transformed into a sizable circle that welcomed locals and travelers alike.
Even in its ruined state, the village provided. Right at the edge of the village, hiding behind the white spruce his father never had the heart to cut down, his old cottage stood, undisturbed. Clutching his side, Alyosha dragged himself towards the old building, falling through the beaten-down door with a small cry.
The room was spinning, and for a second there he lay, motionless, staring up at the ceiling. The dinner table he had been too short to reach as a child now stood proudly in the middle of the room, untouched by time. The wallpaper was lighter in some places, square reminders of family portraits once proudly displayed, and the bed he smuggled in was left broken in jagged pieces, haphazardly thrown to the farthest corner of the room.
They took what they could, Alyosha knew that. Food, pictures, weapons, everything even remotely movable, dragged through the endless tundra until they reached Sretomorozsk, yet he scanned the room anyway, looking for something, anything, that might help him in his current predicament. His side had dulled into a painful ache, a bloom of black and purple, but his breathing was still ragged. Yet when the cabin fell silent, the wet gurgling in his chest was rather… distracting.
He tried to move but found himself unable to do so. His limbs were stiff and hollow, and his mind was elsewhere, trapped between his body and some strange dimension he had yet to put a name on. He scoffed bitterly, then yanked his hand to press it into his side when the action shifted something under his skin. His stomach gurgled, and he couldn’t help the small sigh that rocked his entire ribcage. How cruel it was, truly, that his last meal was out-of-date tinned fish and a flat beer.
He came to when shouting was heard far too close for comfort.
“I’ll go this way! Don’t let him get away!” the Vanguard’s booming voice filled the air, and Alyosha shivered.
They were looking for him, going after him, sniffing the air and tracking the footprints he left behind that led straight into this house. He cursed audibly, his fatigue long forgotten, and with gritted teeth, unwrapped himself from the comfort of the floorboards.
He dragged his body to the door, turning the key in the lock over and over again until he couldn’t turn it anymore, the little mechanism jammed shut. He glanced at the table, and its appearance reminded him of why they had to leave it behind: solid wood and a giant frame, one would be foolish to hurdle it through half the nation. He tipped it over on its side and dragged it across the room, wedging the solid tabletop tight beneath the iron doorknob.
Outside, heavy boots crunched onto the porch. The door handle rattled violently, followed by a harsh, impatient thud.
Alyosha stumbled backward, his knees buckling as he hit the floor near the center joists. Scrambling to his feet, power anew, he dragged himself to the furthest point from the door, the cellar barely tall enough to accommodate his frame. He locked the cellar door just as the first hits of the electro hammer broke through the silence, and splinters of the dining table were sent flying everywhere.
A familiar weight thudded against his leg, and perhaps for the first time since he was sent flying, he was aware of his hand clutching the barrel of his rifle with a death grip. His vision, too, dangled from the clip on his hip, but Alyosha had never quite mastered the use of the small thing. Desperate, he racked his brain for an exit, then, with sudden clarity, memories of that night flooded his mind. The bandits, the destruction, the chase right after.
The chase. The chase!
He dropped to his knees and dug his fingers under the loose floorboard at the edge of the cellar. It gave way easily, revealing a rusty tin. With shaking hands, he pried the lid open. Nestled snugly in tissue paper, a single cartridge looked back at him.
It was a small little thing, unassuming. The opposite of what he normally used, but in dire need, he made do.
Alyosha was no fool. He was hot-headed, idealistic, and liked his alcohol perhaps a bit too much, but a fool, he was not. Loading a rifle with a bullet so small was like hunting a brown bear with a target pellet; not impossible, theoretically, but strongly advised against for a reason.
With a heavy thud, the cottage door gave way, and Alyosha got all the motivation he might ever need. His mind made up, he got to work, painfully aware of the footsteps from above.
He snatched up the front barrel assembly of his broken hunting rifle, the bolt mechanism and barrel still intact, though stripped of the heavy wooden stock. Putting one of these tiny bullets into it was utter madness; the two designs were incompatible, but a selfish part of him thought, if he was to die tonight, wouldn’t it be better to go out by his own two hands?
Desperate, he shoved one of the cartridges toward the internal magazine, but it instantly slipped straight through the wide feeding lips, rattling uselessly onto the dirt floor. The spring was far too wide; it couldn't hold something so tiny.
Crack!
The Vanguard struck the cellar door at the top of the stairs, splintering the heavy oak into kindling. Iron boots began their slow, crushing descent down the wooden steps, a crouching figure barely visible in the unlit room.
Alyosha pulled the heavy iron bolt all the way back, locking the breach wide open. Hands trembling violently, he picked up the cartridge from the ground. He couldn't use the magazine. He had to drop the bullet directly into the open breach by hand.
He tilted the heavy steel barrel downward, letting the small round slide inside. As the chamber was far too wide, the tiny bullet didn't sit flush against the barrel throat; it rolled around loosely with a metal rattle.
The Vanguard reached the bottom of the stairs, his massive frame blocking out what little light filtered down from above. The violent, crackling purple light of his hammer painted an ominous smile on his face.
“Found you,” he cooed, raising the glowing hammer high over his shoulder.
Alyosha didn't look up to meet his eyes. His world had narrowed down to a single millimetre of steel.
Using his index finger, he carefully reached into the open breach, feeling in the dark to align the tiny primer perfectly centred with where the heavy firing pin would strike. Holding the bullet steady with his fingertip, he used his chin to push the heavy iron bolt forward.
Clack.
He felt the oversized steel extractor claw catch just a hair's breadth of the tiny cartridge’s rim. If he bumped the gun, if his hand shook, the bullet would slip out of alignment, and the firing pin would strike empty air. Or worse.
“Any last words?” the Vanguard asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He brought down the crackling Electrohammer in a vengeful strike, aiming for Alyosha’s temple.
Alyosha lifted the stockless iron barrel with his left hand, aiming blindly at the shadow towering over him, and pulled the trigger.
CLICK-
The heavy firing pin slammed forward into the primer.
BOOM!
The mismatched cartridge detonated violently. Without a proper chamber seal to direct the gas, the sheer explosive force ruptured the steel breach. The barrel blew out sideways in a catastrophic explosion of pressure and fire.
The tiny bullet, propelled by just enough forward momentum, tore straight through the breach and caught the Electrohammer Vanguard squarely between his eyes, shattering his visor and plunging into his skull. The man froze mid-swing, his glowing hammer slipping from his fingers as his massive body collapsed forward into the dirt with a deafening crash.
At the same time, the backward explosion of superheated gas and unburnt gunpowder spewed violently out of the shattered ejection port.
A wave of blinding, chemical fire blasted directly across the right side of Alyosha’s face, down his neck, his shoulder, his arm, and fingers.
Alyosha let out a strangled, agonizing shriek as the concussive blast blew him backward into the stone wall. The searing heat scorched his cheek, eyelid, and knuckles, blistering his flesh in an abstract pattern of blackish-red chemical burns.
The ruined steel barrel clattered onto the ground, and so did Alyosha, his body crumpling into a motionless heap.
Silence descended upon the dark cellar, the air thick with the choking reek of burnt hair and sulfur.
Minutes passed like hours. Alyosha more felt than heard the cold of a barrel press against his forehead.
Oh, right… The Pyroslinger. There had been three of them.
He pried his eyes open to look up at the man, but didn’t have the strength to pull himself away. Perhaps he really should have shot this one first, back when he had the chance. A foolish mistake, laughable, really. They locked eyes in the dim room, and the Pyroslinger didn’t say much, only tightened his grip on the trigger.
In a blur of black and white, the man was gone.
Alyosha didn’t even register the shift at first, only the sound of thrashing, growling and flesh being torn off arms and legs. He looked at his side where the Vanguard lay, lifeless, and beyond his body, the Pyroslinger, desperately trying to pry off the beast on top of him, his weapon long forgotten.
Alyosha’s hand moved slowly, picking up the gun. He felt its weight in his hands, then thoughtlessly aligned the barrel with the man’s head. Pulling the trigger, the cellar was overtaken by the stench of death. The recoil of the shot sent his head into the stone wall behind him with a sharp crunch.
Alyosha must have passed out again, for when he woke, the cold had receded, his hair was wet and sticky, and the solid warmth pressing against his side was secure and real.
“Tugarin…” he rasped, and dry blood flaked off the side of his mouth. Tugarin scrambled from next to him, shoving his giant head into the crook of Alyosha’s neck, and cried, pitiful and high-pitched. His nose was smooth and cold against his blistering skin, and his muzzle was red with blood. Alyosha wrapped his arms around his neck and let the dog pull him into a half-seated position.
Alyosha tried to pull away, but his arms weren’t cooperating; all his strength had long since left his body. Tugarin burrowed closer, pressing his body close to Alyosha’s chest.
“You're so reckless… I told you… not to come after me…” Alyosha whispered, and promptly ignored the judgmental stare the hound gave him right after. He ran his fingers through his fur before letting his head fall forward, burying his face into the dog’s fur. The smell of wet dog assaulted his nostrils. He was no longer in pain. The cold had returned, leaving his fingers a trembling mess. He was oh, so very cold.
He thinks of his rocking chair, his fireplace, the scratchy blanket and Repnina’s missing Kresnik Kristall. Thinks of the Troupe, of Vodyanitsa’s song and Odette’s dance, of Sneznograd with its grandiose streets, food he never got to try, pelts he never got to sell. Mora, mora and more mora, Archons, it always comes down to mora. He chuckles, defeated, and doesn’t miss the curious face Tugarin makes.
The hound reluctantly withdraws, but Alyosha pulls him in even closer.
“Please” he begs, his voice wet. “Just a few more minutes…”