The hangar smells of cold diesel, damp sheet metal, dried sweat. The tarps bulge into dark shapes where unmoving silhouettes breathe. Wind seeps through the seams, whistles just enough to remind me of the drones' hum. I sit on a crate, hands clenched around the yellowed paper as if I could sink my nails into it. Boris's words still rattle in my skull. No revenge. Survive. Gather.
My shoulders sag. It's only now my body warns me that it's cold, that it's afraid, that it's tired.
— We don't have a home anymore... it slips out before I can swallow it back. My voice catches, cracks.
Elijah sits down beside me without a word. His hand finds my neck first, then he pulls me in gently. I press my forehead into the hollow of his shoulder. He winces—his ribs reminding him they're still there—but he holds me anyway. His warmth seeps through layers of cloth, tiny and enormous at once.
— We're together, he murmurs. That's what matters. We'll rebuild.
I close my eyes. The metal of the hangar throws back muffled noises: a cough, the click of a weapon being checked, a sigh. I breathe in his smell of powder and wet wool. My fingers crumple the message.
— I can't get my heart to stop, I whisper. It feels like it's hammering against my teeth.
— That's normal. He's just stress-testing the crate. Wants to see if it's solid.
The joke is awful. I smile anyway.
Footsteps. Gunther and Tinka find us like that, piled on a crate. Gunther raises his brows, shakes snow off his shoulders like an oversized dog.
— You order room service? Because I've got pillows... He brandishes two empty jerrycans.
— Fantastic, Tinka replies. We'll get to sleep on diesel-scented plastic. Love it.
She circles behind us, taps the tarp flapping near the entrance, scans the perimeter with sharp eyes. Even drained, she has that thing: a neat alignment, an energy that tethers everyone back to a plan. Gunther squats down, folds his bulk against the crate.
— As long as we breathe, the Citadel isn't dead, he says without a smile. We'll just change the address.
I nod, not quite convinced, but the phrase nails itself somewhere inside.
Elijah pulls me back a little to see my face. His eyes are tired and shining, the kind of look that's been held back too long.
— Hey. Ilya's fine.
I lift my head quickly.
— You don't know that.
— Yeah, I know enough. He's got a hard head and an arm that won't freeze. He could dig tunnels under the snow just to get to you. You'll see some guy pop out of the ground with a screwdriver and an antenna, and it'll be him.
A laugh breaks out of me, short, strangled.
— That does sound like him.
— And we'll see him soon, Elijah adds, certain. Guys like that don't vanish. They reroute. They hack. They come back through the window when the door's mined.
I bite my lip.
— Are you trying to reassure me, or yourself?
— Both, he admits.
He hesitates half a second, then blurts, a bit stiff:
— And... I like your boyfriend.
I stare at him, mouth open. He pretends to inspect the ceiling panels.
— I knew that already, I say anyway, just for the satisfaction.
— Yeah, well, fine, but saying it out loud costs extra. He's got crap humor, beats me at arm wrestling, but he looks at you like you're some miracle invention. Works for me.
Tinka's half-listening from the corner.
— I warn you, if you start declaring feelings, I'll send you out to shovel snow behind the hangar. Declarations are for people with central heating.
— You're just bitter, Gunther says.
— I'm saying if I stop giving orders, I collapse, she shoots back.
Silence falls, not heavy for once. Just a scrap of calm. The kind that makes room for breathing. Somewhere, someone laughs softly at a joke I can't hear. Two figures pass, shoulders brushing, their step in sync. Still, I feel the eyes on us sometimes. Not hostile—just... longer. As if our faces had become the poster of a film the whole country's seen. I shiver.
Elijah notices. He tightens his arm a little.
— Let them stare. They stare because we're still here.
— I know. It's just... I feel like I've got no skin left.
— We'll rebuild you one, he says, piece by piece. We know how to do that now.
Gunther pushes himself up with a groan.
— Quick meeting: tomorrow night, if the sky clears, we push toward the tertiary point. Route's up for debate, but I vote east pass.
— Patrols, Tinka objects.
— Ice, Elijah counters.
— Hunger, I conclude.
— Competent committee, Gunther sums up, solemn as a priest.
Tinka tosses me a canteen.
— Drink. And sleep an hour, if you can. We'll cover your watch this time.
— Hey, Elijah protests.
— You're running on stubbornness and spite, Tinka cuts him off. Lie down thirty minutes. That's an order.
He rolls his eyes, but I feel him ease down a notch.
Gunther brushes my shoulder as he passes, his palm heavy and warm.
— We'll find your home again. If it's not the same, we'll build another.
He doesn't wait for an answer. He knows I don't have one.
When they move off, the cold rushes back in. Elijah leans down, whispers:
— You want to crash now or save it for later?
— Later. If I crash now, I'll break something.
— Deal. We'll crash later. With biscuits.
I finally tuck the paper into my inner pocket, tight against my chest. The words scrape, but they hold: survive, gather. I think of Ilya, under some other sheet metal roof, breathing the same cold and dust, fighting with a radio. I picture him, focused, jaw tight, fingers moving too fast. I almost hear him swearing under his breath.
— He's fine, Elijah repeats, as if I'd just said it.
— He's fine, I echo, and this time I mean it.
He plants a quick kiss on my temple, pushes to his feet with a groan.
— I'll be back. Gonna pretend I'm not hurting anywhere and help Gunther pretend his plan's the best.
— Good luck.
— Thanks. If I don't come back, tell Ilya I like him, officially.
— I'll tell him. I knew already, anyway.
— You're insufferable.
— You adore me.
— Unfortunately, yes.
He moves off carefully. I stay on my crate, fingers finally unclenched, and for the first time in hours, the air doesn't cut. I allow myself three deep breaths. Three. Not four. Then we'll move again. Then we'll put one foot in front of the other, to the next door, the next night, the next message. Then we'll hold. As long as we breathe.
---
The workshop reeks of rancid grease, dust, and metal locked in cold. The walls sweat with damp; each drop echoes like a clock. Ilya sits in front of a radio set that crackles more than it speaks. His fingers dance, frantic—cables, knobs, copper, scribbled codes. The movements are quick but not steady: his hands tremble, as if stripped of their sheaths.
He hears nothing. Nothing but the white hiss of the ether. No voice. Not a click. Not a sign. And the silence gnaws at his skull.
Every second without her is a second ripped raw. Every absence of her voice claws at his chest. He shuts his eyes for half a heartbeat and imagines her—some hangar, the snow, pale mouth, green eyes. He can't stand to picture anything else. He won't.
Footsteps rush the corridor. Couriers. They reek of frozen sweat and damp paper. They scatter messages, wrinkled scraps passed hand to hand. Ilya's head snaps up, ready to pounce. But he holds himself. He must.
One stops, recognizes him, stares.
— You... you're the guy from comms, right?
Ilya doesn't answer, throat locked. The courier hesitates, then shoves the paper out, breathless:
— I know she's your girl, so... I saw the twins. They're in a hangar northeast. The brother and the sister. Alive.
The world freezes.
Ilya shoots upright, heart pounding so hard he thinks it's audible. The words slam in a loop: seen. Hangar. Northeast. Alive.
He wants to seize the courier, demand details—was she limping still, was she bleeding, was she warm—but he doesn't move. He holds the façade. Jaw tight, face blank.
— Thanks, he forces out.
The boots are already retreating down the hall.
Ilya stays still. But inside, the air rushes back. Oxygen he'd been robbed of for hours floods his lungs, violent, almost painful. His eyes sting. He bows his head toward the radio to hide the tremor of his mouth.
She's alive.
It's certainty now. Stronger than snow, stronger than drones, stronger than anything war can rip away. She's alive, and he'll cling to that until the end.
His fingers resume their feverish dance over the dials. But it's no longer rage driving him. It's a vow pulsing through his veins: as soon as the weather breaks, he'll go to her. Orders be damned.
Mira is alive. And nothing else matters.
---
The shelter is thick with human heat, muffled groans, the metallic stench of blood. Portable lamps cast wavering yellow halos, shadows twitching across concrete walls. Mikel's hands are still stained; he'd just held a lamp while Anya stitched an open wound. Everyone seemed to cling to her, as if her firm voice alone kept the chaos from tipping.
So when he finds her off to the side, head in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs, it knocks the breath out of him. Anya. The one who never flinches.
He freezes a moment, then steps closer, heart hammering. He remembers what she'd told him days ago, rare smile tugging her lips: "You don't have to take another bullet to come back. Just drop by, if you want."
He hadn't believed her. Now, he does.
— Anya?
She jerks her head up, wipes her cheeks briskly.
— Sorry. It's nothing.
But her voice shakes, her eyes shine. She shakes her head, breath breaking.
— The Citadel... it was my home. And I was just starting to feel... good. To talk to you, to think maybe we'd have time. And now it's all scattered.
The words tumble out, jagged. She turns away, almost ashamed to fall apart in front of him.
Mikel hesitates, then sits beside her. His shoulder brushes hers.
— You've already helped me more than you know, he murmurs. So let me be here, now.
She looks at him. Really looks, as if she hadn't expected that from him. He feels her fingers tremble when, almost unconsciously, they slide against his. The touch is small, but it sparks through his whole arm. He doesn't pull away. He closes his hand gently over hers, enough for her to feel he's holding on.
— Not everything's lost. We'll regroup, and we'll find another place.
She shuts her eyes for a moment, as if finally letting herself rest. Her breath steadies with his. And then, in a whisper:
— You talk like you believe it.
He blushes, but keeps his gaze steady.
— I try. For you.
Almost without thinking, she lets her head drop against his shoulder. A simple gesture, but it hits him like a blow. He stiffens a second, then lets himself move: tilts his head until it brushes her hair. She doesn't pull away. She sighs, as if she's found an anchor.
Mikel feels her warmth in his hand, her weight against him. And despite the cold, the wounded, the war, there's a fixed point here. Fragile, unexpected. But real.
---
The roar of machines barely drowns the voices. The workshop rings with hammer strikes, sparks, metal bent under the press. Tomasz's hands are black with grease, his back sore from hunching over parts. But it isn't the work making him sick today. It's what he hears.
A group of workers huddles around the official paper laid on a crate. Ink still damp, hot off the press: THE TWINS: LIES AND PERFORMANCE.
And the men laugh.
— Pfft, the girl? A slut, yeah. Says here: drugged, uncontrollable, sent to correction. No wonder she ended up with rebels.
— And her brother?! Probably sold to the guards. Effeminate, with that hair, always glued to his sister. What a symbol.
A third chuckles, voice slimy:
— I say they slept with whoever they had to. You think they survived four years in a center without giving something up?
Tomasz freezes. Breath short.
Mira's image slams back: Mira beside him in high school, neat notebook, green eyes focused, her shy smile as she explained a grammar rule. "Flip the adjective, look." Her voice soft, patient. She leaned too close, her hair brushing his arm, and he'd blush to his ears. She was pretty, even in oversized clothes. But more than that—sharp, funny, kind. Not a "slut." Never.
He hears Elijah too, on the sports field, fastest, strongest. The one who stepped in when older kids bothered Mira. "Don't touch my sister." His burning stare, his restless body. Effeminate? Bullshit. Elijah had been a lion, even at fourteen.
Bile rises in Tomasz's throat.
— That's not true, he says, louder than intended.
The men turn, surprised. One smirks.
— Oh? You still believe in fairy tales?
— I knew them, Tomasz shoots back, voice shaking. They weren't liars. Not monsters.
The more he speaks, the worse it gets.
— You think rebels didn't use them? You think she didn't spread her legs for airtime?
— And him? Her brother? With those dark looks, those pretty eyes? Bet he sold himself too. Or maybe they arranged something between the two of them, who knows...
Laughter bursts, coarse, foul.
Tomasz wants to vomit. Every word slaps against his memories. Mira slipping him an answer sheet, laughing quietly. Elijah tossing him the ball, "Catch, Tomasz!" Two normal kids, bright in their own way. And these pigs reduce them to this.
— Shut up, he rasps. You don't know what you're talking about.
They keep going, elbowing each other, amused by his anger.
— Look at him, defending his little crush!
— You were in love, huh? Well, congrats, you had taste: top-grade slut!
— It's theater, kid. Theater for fools. Open your eyes.
His fists clench until his knuckles bleach. His throat burns, eyes sting. But he doesn't swing. Not here. Not now. He'd lose everything.
He leaves early, stomach twisted.
His room is dark, freezing. He slams the door, collapses onto the bed. His hands shake. He feels like he betrayed Mira and Elijah by letting those words stand. Feels like he's the only one carrying their true faces, their real memories.
They were good. They were normal. That was stolen from them. And now, they're smeared.
He sees again the moment they were taken out of biology class. He'd been sad, yes, but life went on. And now... now he feels dirty. Because he never asked. Because he believed the silence.
He rolls onto his back, hands in his hair.
I can't stay a spectator. Not while they fight. Not while they carry this alone.
Knocks on his door.
— Tomasz? It's mom. You okay?
He swallows down rage, despair.
— Yeah... I'm fine. Just tired.
His voice sounds false, but she lets it go. Her steps retreat.
He closes his eyes, fists tight. No, he can't tell her. If she knew, she'd be in danger.
So he decides.
I'll enlist. With them. I'll fight. Maybe... maybe one day, I'll find them again.
His heart beats faster, as if the choice finally opened a door. And in the silence of his room, he swears he won't turn back.
---
The hangar is half-asleep. Shapes curled in blankets, the wounded groaning in waves, whispers fading into the metallic cold. The walls sweat diesel and smoke; it clings to the throat, stings the eyes.
I can't sleep. So I go outside.
The frozen air slams into me at once, a white blade biting my lungs. My breath turns visible, fragile clouds scattered by the wind. Around me, everything is snow and silence. No more sirens. No more drones. Only the frozen crunch of my boots and the vast emptiness.
I close my eyes. In the silence, I imagine a voice in my earpiece. "Breathe, Mira. Keep your head cool." Ilya, somewhere in another hideout. Maybe he's thinking of me right now. Maybe he's gritting his teeth the same way, not letting panic swallow all the space.
And then, against my will, I think of Mom. Her blurred laugh, her hand in my hair, the scraps of memory left. I know I'll never see her again. The thought is raw, cold as the snow, and yet it doesn't unsteady me anymore: it roots itself.
My fingers tighten around Boris's message. The yellowed paper, scribbled in haste: "Survive. Gather." Two words like orders. Or like a promise.
I lift my eyes to the horizon, to the colorless sky. They scattered us, struck us down, buried us under ice. But we're still breathing. We're still here. And the war is only beginning.
The words rise to my lips, searing, certain, indestructible:
The Citadel has fallen. But we haven't. Not yet.
END OF BOOK I