The wind barely moved as they stepped into the forest.
Branches overhead were crusted with frost, curling like fingers into the white sky. The deeper they walked, the more the world seemed to fall away. No footprints, no clear paths, just piles of snow and the sound of boots crushing them.
Ilya followed quietly, one step behind Arvid. He always did that, although he didn't know why. He just felt comfortable that way, perhaps because of the influence of his memories.
The man walked with a rucksack slung over one shoulder, and his rifle wrapped in leather under the other. His coat trailed through the snow, but never caught a twig.
It wasn't like walking anywhere else. The silence of the forest wasn't peaceful. Not even the smallest sign of life could be heard.
Ilya kept his hands in his pockets.
He hated how loud his breathing felt. How warm the fog looked against the trees. Like it didn't belong.
"How often have you been here before?" he asked.
"Only when I want to be alone."
Ilya didn't know if that meant rarely or often.
They passed an old, twisted tree with bark warped like melted wax. Its hollow trunk yawned open like a frozen mouth mid-scream.
Ilya slowed down. He looked inside the hollow trunk and saw the glowing blue flowers were still there.
"You know that tree?" Arvid startled him.
"N-No, l-let's keep going."
Arvid didn't move.
He stared at the tree for a long time. The usual blank calm on his face faded, just slightly. Not fear. Not surprise. Just a distance, as if looking at something that had been gone a long time ago.
He cleared his throat once.
"We'll make camp near the stream," he said, pointing ahead.
They stopped near a shallow stream glazed over with ice. Pines leaned above like guards. The snow thinned here, dusting over beds of cracked stone and moss. Ilya glanced around but saw no fire pit, no shelter, just forest.
Arvid dropped his pack and unrolled a cloth bundle onto a flat stone.
Inside lay a knife, a coil of wire, a small black pouch, and a wool cloak the color of ashes.
He then approached Ilya and handed him the black cloak he had taken earlier. Folded neatly, worn at the corners but still strong. Heavy and wide-shouldered, with a thick collar and a clasp carved into the shape of a crescent.
Ilya took off his coat and replaced it with the cloak.
It was too big for him. The hem dragged near his ankles, and the collar nearly swallowed his neck. But it was warm anyway.
Arvid gave him the faintest smile.
"I look stupid in this, don't I?" Ilya grumbled.
"Looking clever gets you killed," Arvid coughed into his fist.
He then knelt by the bundle and pulled out a second item. A long object, wrapped in aged oilcloth.
The cloth unwrapped with a soft whisper, revealing smooth black metal beneath.
It was a rifle.
Not a new one. Not polished and gleaming like the ceremonial weapons officers wore. This was old wood and faded iron. It looked unused, untouched, but kept, as if someone had guarded it, but never fired it again.
Arvid held it in both hands, as if it were something sacred. He turned it slowly and offered it.
"To you."
Ilya froze.
"No," he said. "I've never—"
"You'll learn."
Something in his chest twisted. A weight. A silence. Like he'd seen this exact rifle before, but through smoke.
Ilya stared at it for a few seconds, then eventually reached for it.
The weight meant nothing. The wood balanced fine. The sight aligned easily. But as his fingers curled around the grip, his stomach twisted.
He saw it—like a dream slipping sideways through waking thought. A flash of battlefield filled with chaos, smoke, and the smell of copper.
He dropped the rifle immediately.
It thudded against the snow-dusted stone, harmless, but loud.
He stepped back, breath catching in his throat.
Arvid didn't move. Just watched him quietly for a beat. Then knelt again and lifted the rifle gently, brushing off the frost.
"It's okay. I dropped mine too," he said softly.
He ran a gloved hand along the stock. "First time, I couldn't even aim it. My hands wouldn't stop shaking."
Ilya didn't speak.
"But it's not a weakness," Arvid added. "It's proof. Proof that you'll be alive tomorrow. So, don't let it control you."
He stood and offered the rifle again.
"If your hands are shaking, let them. If you fall again, fall forward."
Ilya stared at the weapon. Then, slowly, he took it again.
It still felt wrong. His hands trembled again. But now, at least, he knew what he should do.
***
The rifle sat heavier in Ilya's hands the second time, but not unwelcome. He followed Arvid wordlessly as they crossed the stream and climbed a ridge where animal tracks sketched loops and spirals in the snow.
Arvid crouched behind a boulder and gestured for Ilya to do the same.
"Look there," he whispered, pointing.
A hare. Pale-furred, nibbling frozen roots near a log. Perfectly still. Perfectly unaware.
"Breathe through your nose," Arvid murmured. "Don't hold it. Don't rush."
Ilya knelt, lowering the rifle like Arvid showed him. One elbow dug into the snow. He aligned the front post of the sight, just like Arvid had shown him. No scope, no glass, just eyes and breath.
His finger brushed the trigger.
Then—
His chest clenched. A tremor ran through his arms.
He saw it.
A man screaming in a language he didn't know, commanding him to do something he didn't want. A hand reaching for him. A boy crying, then laughing, then crying again. Fires that consumed the city. Blood pouring out like soup—filling his body like an unforgivable sin.
He wanted to throw the rifle. But he couldn't. Not yet.
The rabbit was still there.
He breathed in. Out. Again. Then he pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The sound split the trees. The rabbit fell.
Everything went silent again.
Arvid put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't say anything.
He didn't have to.