The moment we step outside, the shock slams into me. Usually it's all white here: snow blanketing the clearing, trunks glazed with frost, the ground hard and frozen. But none of that remains. The earth is unrecognizable.
Craters gape one after another, steaming, raw scars ripped open in the land. The snow is gone, burned away or churned under by the heat. In its place: churned black mud, thick with ash and grit. Each gust lifts gray clouds that sting the eyes and claw at the throat.
The trees wear wounds of their own — trunks split, branches sheared off, bark scorched and reeking of burnt resin. We move through a battlefield, not the familiar outskirts of the Citadel.
Beneath our boots, the ground still trembles, each step echoing like it lands on a hollow chest. Every impact in the distance sends a hot breath through the soil, and dust rains down on us in a dry storm.
— COVER! HUG THE TREES! Tinka's voice tears across the chaos.
We obey, pressed tight against the trunks, breathing through the acrid dust. The sky growls with unseen drones, their metallic hum laced with the thunder of detonations. A mechanical hell turning snow into cinders.
Tinka pushes forward, jaw tight.
— Find them, take them down before we're flattened!
She raises her rifle, sighting through the gray sky. We follow, backs pressed to bark, eyes straining through the burned branches.
The noise is everywhere — a droning roar — but then I catch a flicker of movement. A dark shape cutting the smoke, low enough to see.
— There! Elijah's shout.
He doesn't wait. His weapon cracks against his shoulder, sharp and brutal. The drone bursts in a flare of orange, shattering into sparks. Metal rains into the dirt, clattering among broken branches.
— One down, Gunther grunts, already loading the bazooka. But we have to move fast. As long as we drop them, they won't know if the zone's "cleaned" or not.
Another shadow streaks across the clouds, higher. Tinka curses, adjusts, fires. The drone shudders, falters... then plunges like a stone, smashing into the clearing. The explosion rips a black cloud skyward, the shockwave kicking through my knees.
My leg buckles; I grip the bark to stay upright. Elijah's hand catches my arm, eyes sharp, already cold as steel. He's gone full soldier now — quick, precise, fear burned clean away.
— You okay?
I nod, though my ears scream from the blast.
A new roar tears the air. The ground erupts nearby — snow and earth exploding in a blinding spray. I'm thrown back, mouth full of dust. Fire rips across my thigh, sharp and searing.
The world blurs. The air shivers with a piercing whine. I blink through tears, spot my leg: cloth shredded, skin gashed red. Not deep, but bleeding hard. Pain throbs with every heartbeat.
I push up, dizzy — and see it. Elijah is gone.
My gaze rakes the chaos until I find him — lower down, swallowed into a smoking crater. His arms flail for purchase, boots sliding on loose dirt. He's fighting, but sinking.
I lunge forward despite the pain. My ears ring, but I see his lips shaping my name.
I throw myself down, fingers hooking his sleeve. Pain knifes my leg, but I hold. He locks both hands around my wrist, and I drag with everything I have, muscles screaming.
He heaves up in one brutal jerk, weight slamming me back. We collapse together, gasping. His hand finds my leg, urgent, checking. His lips move again. I don't hear, but I know: you're bleeding.
I nod, throat tight. Not deep. We have to move.
We roll aside just in time. Another bomb tears the clearing apart. The blast flattens us to the ground, snow and grit raining down. My ears shriek louder than ever.
I grip his hand like an anchor, squeezing until I feel bone under skin.
For a moment we lie still, breathless. Then Elijah jerks upright, face locked in that soldier's mask. He hauls me up, silent. My leg screams, but I refuse to let go.
We push on. Shadows cross the sky. Elijah raises his rifle, fires — a drone explodes in sparks behind the trees.
I cover him, each movement dragging fire through my thigh. The earth bucks under every blast, but we hold. Second drone. Third. Metal ripped apart, raining into the ruined snow.
Elijah signals with a tilt of his chin. The last one. I steady, wait for the line, squeeze the trigger. The explosion crackles above, fragments scattering like dying stars.
Then nothing.
Silence falls, brutal after the chaos. Just the crack of broken branches, the hiss in my ears, our ragged breaths.
I freeze, heart hammering, unable to believe it's over.
Footsteps crunch behind us. Gunther strides out, broad, his weapon still smoking. Tinka at his side, jaw clenched, eyes already combing the sky.
— Is it over? Not a question, almost a verdict.
Gunther looks us over, frowns at my leg. Elijah stands crooked, a hand clamped to his ribs.
— Christ. You two still standing?
— We're standing, Elijah grits out.
Tinka's gaze drops to my limp. Her face softens a flicker.
— You good?
I nod, though the throb in my thigh climbs higher with every step. Elijah's eyes say otherwise, but he doesn't call me on it.
The four of us stand there, surrounded by smoking craters and ruined snow. The world holds its breath.
Then Tinka's voice, hard again:
— We head back.
---
We move toward the tunnel entrance — and stop. A wall of collapsed earth and rock seals it shut. A heap of rubble still creaks under melting snow. Dust fogs the air, stinging eyes, bitter cold.
— Shit, Gunther mutters, jaw tight.
Tinka growls, fists clenched on her rifle.
— No digging through that. We'll find another way in. Fast.
Silence closes in. I picture the collapse stretching deeper, swallowing the tunnels. Ice coils in my gut — if it reached below, if Ilya and the others— No. I bite it off, force myself forward.
We go on, hunched but alert, every step a grind through torn snow and uprooted trees. The silence is so deep it makes our breathing sound too loud.
Pain claws my thigh. Blood soaks my pants, sticky, clinging. Elijah keeps pace beside me, bent slightly, hand pressed to his ribs. Pretending, but I see his breath hitching sharp.
We follow the shadowed edge of the forest, the dark cover of branches our only shelter. Cold cuts harder now, as though the snow wants to swallow every trace of fire. Finally, Gunther spots it: an old tunnel mouth, half-hidden behind branches and stone. Narrower. Older.
— Here, he says, pushing the cover aside.
Tinka checks, quick, nods. We file in.
I glance back once at the sky. The quiet feels wrong, waiting for the next thunder. And I think of Ilya, below, pacing himself raw in front of blank screens, not knowing if we're breathing. Guilt flares sharp, makes me push faster, though every step burns.
The tunnel takes us in. Longer, lower, damp stone and rusted supports echoing our boots. The lights flicker overhead, throwing jagged halos. But here at least — no bombs, no drones. Just our breath, finally syncing.
Gunther leads. He glances back, the ghost of a grin tugging his mouth.
— Nice work, you two. You pulled it off.
Elijah straightens, pride sparking through the pain.
— Damn right I did.
Tinka snorts.
— You? You nearly got blown sky-high.
— And yet... I'm still here, Elijah fires back, smug.
Gunther's laugh rumbles through the tunnel, low and solid. Even Tinka lets a smile flicker. I roll my eyes, but the knot in my chest eases. Fear still hums in my muscles, but it melts, replaced by that strange heat survival always brings: the certainty we're a unit. Crooked maybe, but solid.
Step by step, with the banter trickling back, normality creeps in. A fragile kind of luxury after chaos.
---
Past a heavy sliding door, the tunnel opens onto the vehicle bay — vast, echoing. Air feels wider, almost clean compared to the cramped dark. Lamps sway overhead, some shattered, others blinking unsteady. Cracks spider across the concrete, piles of dust scattered, but the Citadel stands.
A group of fighters rush us, hands slapping shoulders and palms, relief sparking in their eyes. We made it. We downed the drones. And we came back alive.
Gunther shrugs free of the clamor, runs a hand through dust-matted hair, fishes a cigarette from his pocket. He lights up with his battered lighter, exhales smoke, glances at Tinka. She nods once, and they peel away to share it in silence. Always together.
I stagger to the railing, grip the cold steel. My thigh pulses with pain so sharp my teeth clench. Each beat of my heart slams through the wound.
Elijah stands beside me, rifle slung, hand still on his ribs. His look is half-serious, half-teasing — his own blend.
— We're heading straight to the infirmary. Non-negotiable.
I shake my head, breath shallow.
— Two minutes. Just let me sit two minutes. Then we'll go, I promise.
His mouth tightens.
— You look like hell.
— You're one to talk, I shoot back, wry despite the ache.
It drags a crooked grin out of him. He exhales, leans in, presses a kiss to my forehead.
— Don't be stubborn, yeah?
I nod faintly. He moves off toward Gunther and Tinka. Warmth and solitude twist together in my chest as I watch him go.
And then I see him.
Ilya.
He bursts onto the platform, slight but fast, eyes scouring the crowd with a fever that cuts through his usual calm. His hair's a mess, his face pale, tight with worry like the room can't hold it all.
I limp toward him without thought. Pain lances my leg, but I don't care. He's already striding to meet me.
One look — sweat, dust, blood on my thigh, a cut on my cheek — and his jaw tightens, breath stutters.
— You-
He doesn't finish. Because I'm in his arms, and he's holding me like he's been waiting hours. His hand locks at my nape, mine clutch his collar, and our mouths crash together in a kiss that devours everything. Not stolen. Not hesitant. Feverish. Fierce. Relief made flesh.
His chest thrums under my palms, his breath ragged against mine. Neither of us lets go, because if we do the ground might give way for real.
And of course—
— ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
I freeze, lips still burning. Slowly, painfully, I turn my head. Elijah. Arms flung wide, face red, eyes wild. Thunder in human form.
Ilya and I share a glance: oh, shit. But he grins. And it infects me too, shame tangled with laughter.
Elijah roars:
— IN FRONT OF ME?! IN FRONT OF MY CRACKED RIBS?!
— El—
— I TRUSTED YOU! Covered for you your whole life, took hits for you, and THIS is my payback?!
— Elijah, listen—
— SHUT UP! I'M NOT DONE!
He wheels on Ilya, pure theater:
— HIM?! Of course it's him! Sarcasm? Check. Mysterious aura? Check. Hair always in disarray? Double check!
Ilya chuckles softly, arm still firm around me. I want the floor to open up.
— I had suspicions! Elijah rants, flailing. But to see you making out in the middle of the platform? While bombs drop, earth shakes — what is this, a goddamn movie?!
I snort despite myself. Ilya too. Wrong move.
— YOU'RE SMILING?!
— Elij—
— NO, QUIET! BOTH OF YOU! Mr. "I watch from a distance," huh? Yeah, well, ZERO DISTANCE NOW!
Ilya only looks amused. Until Elijah spits, ice-cold:
— Don't you dare toy with her.
And Ilya's voice changes. Lower. Steady. Dead serious, but soft when his eyes rest on me:
— I'm not. I love her.
I blink, stunned. My stomach flips, breath catches. The world blurs — fighters, noise, dust — until there's only those words. First time. No sarcasm, no mask. Bare. Final.
My fingers fist tighter in his collar, needing it to hold me up. My heart hammers so hard it aches. He just smiles, calm, like it's the simplest truth.
Elijah stops, mouth open. His eyes dart to me.
— ...You happy?
I don't blink.
— Yes.
The word fires out fast, true. No regret.
Silence. Elijah exhales, shakes his head like I've told him the sky is green.
— Alright... fine.
Relief rushes through me. But it lasts two seconds. His finger jabs the air:
— But make her cry, and I'll kill you. With a shovel.
Ilya arches a brow, amused.
— A shovel?
— A SHOVEL! Rusted! Not like the shovel you just shoved into my poor eyes by kissing my sister in public!
A strangled laugh bursts from me. Ilya grins, unbothered.
— Yes, sir.
Elijah growls, but his mouth twitches with a suppressed smile. Then he explodes again:
— AND SHE'S LIMPING! She's bleeding, and you let her walk?! Mr. Analyst, you ever use your eyes?!
Ilya presses his lips, feigned patience.
— I was planning to take her to the infirmary.
— WHAT WERE YOU WAITING FOR, AN OFFICIAL INVITATION?!
And before I can react, Ilya scoops me up — one arm at my waist, the metal limb under my knees. A startled cry escapes me; I clutch his neck, heart stumbling.
Elijah bellows, arms to the sky:
— NOT WHAT I MEANT!
I hide my face against Ilya's shoulder, laughing into him. His chest vibrates with it too. His grip is iron, steady, like he'll never let go.
— Your ribs are still killing you, I tease. Want Gunther to carry you?
— Fuck off, Elijah growls instantly, without looking back.
My laugh spills louder. Ilya's too. Elijah mutters curses like spells under his breath, trailing us with a hand still clamped on his ribs and eyes hawk-fixed on me.
And me — bleeding thigh, chaos all around — I float. Because he said it. I love her. And it hits harder than any bomb dropped today.