He withdraws the musket, seals the firing slit with packed snow, then crawls deeper beneath the stump. His body compresses further, elbows tight, chin down. He shoves snow into the entrance with both hands, reducing it to a narrow seam. He freezes. The wolves react. Snow shifts. Paws crunch closer. Low huffs of breath push cold air through the ventilation holes, stabbing into the cramped space. The stump creaks faintly as weight presses against it.
Aldo does not breathe.
His chest locks. His throat tightens. He counts time by the pressure building behind his eyes, by the tremor creeping into his hands as they clamp around the musket's stock. The wolves move around the base of the stump. One sniffs hard, breath forced, searching. Snow trickles from above as claws scrape bark.
Aldo shifts one knee a fraction of an inch and immediately stills again, muscles screaming at the restraint. Cold pours through the holes. It crawls along his spine, seeps under his coat, strips warmth away layer by layer. His fingers stiffen. He adjusts his grip once, slow enough to avoid sound.
Minutes stretch thin.
The wolves do not rush. They pace. They stop. They circle back. Snow compresses under their weight. A breath huffs directly against one of the vents, forcing icy air straight into his face. Aldo's teeth chatter once—sharp, involuntary—and he presses his lips together until they still.
He reaches up and seals a reserve compartment, packing snow tighter, reducing airflow. The space grows more suffocating. His breaths shorten further, shallow and fast despite his control. He drills new holes into the ceiling, carefully, twisting his fingers until they ache, letting just enough air slip in. Snow dust falls into his hair, melts, refreezes.
The wolves wait.
Time becomes pressure.
Aldo's heartbeat pounds against his ribs, loud in the enclosed space. Sweat beads along his back despite the cold. His hands shake, not violently, but constantly now—a fine tremor that refuses to stop. The musket is clutched so tightly his knuckles pale. Silence drags on.
Then—movement shifts.
The breathing recedes. Pawsteps drift outward, slow, deceptive, stopping and starting. Aldo does not trust it. He stays still, muscles locked, spine curved unnaturally to fit the space.
The storm begins to ease.
Wind drops first. The roar dulls into a distant hiss. Snowfall lightens, flakes drifting down instead of slashing sideways. Sound returns in fragments.
It takes a long time before Aldo risks movement.
He loosens his grip on the musket slightly, flexes his fingers once. Pins and needles stab through them. He swallows, throat dry, and shifts his weight enough to peer through the reserve compartment.
Nothing close.
White stretches outward, smoother now, untouched except for distant tracks already filling in. The wolves are gone.
He waits longer.
When he finally exhales fully, the sound is too loud in his ears. He pauses again, then begins to crawl out.
His limbs resist him. Joints protest as he straightens slowly, carefully. He pushes snow aside, emerging from the stump in stages, scanning left, right, then behind. The world feels vast after confinement. He steps back, boots sinking slightly into softened snow, and leans against the stump to steady himself. His shoulders drop a fraction as tension releases.
Something cold presses into his back.
He stiffens instantly.
Aldo reaches behind him and pulls the object free.
A ration bar.
Encased in frost, frozen solid, its surface rimed white where cold air from the wolves' breath had reached it underground. He turns it once in his gloved hand, then slips it into his coat without expression.
His gaze shifts to where the wolves had fed.
The large male lies where it fell, body half-dusted with new snow, red eyes dulled and still. No movement. No sound.
Aldo approaches cautiously, musket raised. He nudges the carcass with his boot. It does not respond.
He grips one leg and begins to drag.
The weight pulls at his shoulders, strains his arms. Snow resists every step. His breath fogs heavily now, chest still tight, rhythm uneven. He does not stop. He adjusts his grip, leans forward, and continues.
The village lights appear faintly through thinning snowfall.
Behind him, the mountain stands silent, the forest swallowing tracks as quickly as they are made.
Night settles over the village without ceremony. Snow reflects firelight in muted halos, turning the open square into a shallow bowl of amber and white. Smoke rises low and thin from hearths built into the earth, carefully fed to keep flames modest. The mountain looms close here, pressing down on sound, on movement, on the sense of distance.
Aldo stands near the center of the square, the carcass of the Red-Eyed Winter Wolf laid out on a sled of lashed branches beside him. Its fur is already stiff with cold, white and thick, the red of its eyes dulled to something almost brown in the lantern glow. Near his boots, wrapped in oilcloth, lies the ration bar—still rimed with frost, still solid as stone. The 204th Company gathers in a loose semicircle. Armor creaks softly as men settle their weight. Breath fogs the air. Some faces are intent, others skeptical, a few openly impressed. The low murmur of voices rises and falls, controlled but restless.
Aldo lifts one hand. Not high. Not sharp. Just enough.
The sound dies.
He recounts the encounter plainly. No embellishment. Where he took shelter. How long the wolves lingered. The effect of their breath. The shot. The wait. The retreat. His voice stays level throughout, cutting cleanly through the cold.
As he speaks, reactions ripple outward. One soldier lets out a low whistle before catching himself. Another nods, jaw set. A pair near the back exchange looks, calculating angles, distances. A villager steps closer. Then another. They are wrapped in layered furs, their boots heavy and well-worn. Their faces are pale, lined early by wind and cold. Curiosity shows openly; caution less so. Word has already spread fast, for such a small place.
A slave-soldier from the Central Region, alive after facing Red-Eyed Winter Wolves.
The old man approaches last.
He moves without hurry, tall even now, shoulders broad beneath a simple fur mantle. His skin is pale as birch bark, rune tattoos winding along his arms and collarbone, dark blue-black against age-spotted flesh. His eyes flick once to the wolf, then to the ration bar, then up to Aldo.
He nods.
"Mm. Ye breathed their cold an' still walked," he says, voice rough, vowels long and worn smooth by mountain air. "Not many do."
He crouches with a grunt, presses two fingers briefly to the wolf's flank, then withdraws them, frost clinging to his skin.
"Cold Breath," he continues, more to the villagers than to Aldo. "Not magic, not quite. A thing o' blood an' bone. It steals heat same as hunger steals strength."
He straightens and looks at Aldo again.
"Ye lived. Ye watched. Ye learned. An' ye took one."
Another nod. Approval, restrained but genuine.
He gestures toward the carcass.
"Fur's thick this season. A big male like this—" he spreads his hands, measuring, "—enough fer two o' our men, Tall lads… Six foot an' more for the winter-long."
A murmur runs through the villagers. One woman whispers a number under her breath. Another counts silently on her fingers.
"An' Meat'll last," the old man continues. "Three days, maybe a week if we're careful with thin cuts and broth, not roast it."
He turns his head slightly, considering.
"I'll buy it," he says. "Pay more if ye cut it proper. Hide clean… Meat portioned… Bones ground—good feed fer the roots come thaw."
Aldo inclines his head once. Agreement, wordless.
Before he can respond, a voice breaks in from the company.
"Sir—"
It's a private, young, eyes bright despite the cold. He gestures toward the skeleton with an awkward eagerness.
"If… if the bones aren't needed, I'd like to keep them. For study."
The old man's brow lifts. He studies the private for a moment, then lets out a quiet, gravelly chuckle.
"Bone-learner, eh?" he says. "Blood an' sinew first, books after."
He waves a hand.
"I changed my mind. I'll take hide an' meat only."
The private flushes, nodding quickly.
The old man produces a knife from within his mantle. It is narrow, curved oddly, the edge dark with age and use.
"Come," he says. "I'll show ye how we do it."
Aldo steps closer with a few selected men. The elder kneels again, movements practiced, efficient. The blade slips beneath fur and skin with minimal resistance, separating layers cleanly. He speaks as he works, tone instructional, not theatrical.
"Slow cuts… Let the cold help ye…."
"Yes, Tear the hide…hands should guide you…"
"Ye waste warmth."
Hands follow his guidance. Fur peels back in heavy sheets. Meat is sectioned carefully, stacked on clean cloth.
When it is done, the old man stands and reaches into a pouch at his belt. He counts deliberately, then presses the coins into Aldo's palm.
One silver with several hundred copper, the clink muted by glove and cold. The ratio is understood by all present. One silver coins equals a thousand copper coins.
He nods once more and turns away, already calling for help to carry the meat.
The square exhales.
With the villagers gone, the company reforms into smaller knots. Discussion resumes, lower now, more focused. Routes are traced in the snow with boot tips. Wind direction is debated. The wolves' behavior is dissected piece by piece. There is no bravado, only analysis.
A plan takes shape—not rushed, but decisive. An ambush, layered and controlled. The goal is speed. Finish the commission cleanly so the boys come home soon.
A small figure darts into the firelight.
A village girl, tall for her age, typical for her people, pale skin, hair braided tight against the cold. Rune tattoos spiral faintly along her forearms, newly inked. She clutches several wrapped ration sticks, eyes wide with curiosity.
She stops in front of Aldo.
"What're these?" she asks, accent thick, words clipped and old-fashioned.
Aldo looks down at the sticks, then back to her.
"Food ?" he replies.
Her eyebrows shoot up.
"But… ye dinna cook it?"
A soft ripple of amusement moves through the nearby soldiers.
Aldo clicks his tongue lightly.
"Nah…"
"Fire makes smoke…" he says. "and smoke makes light. Both travel far in snow."
He gestures toward the dark forest beyond the village.
"Enemies will see it. So we eat like this. Especially if the fight lasts for days…"
The girl turns the ration sticks over in her hands, reverent, as if holding a relic.
"Food… without flame…hmm…" she murmurs, then breaks into a grin and runs off, calling to a friend, holding the sticks up like proof of a miracle.
One of the soldiers chuckles.
"That is so clever, sir," he says. "Didn't think of that."
Aldo shrugs slightly.
"We, the Earthlings have used these for a long time," he replies. "Long voyages. Expeditions. The Romans."
The soldier frowns, lines creasing his brow as he shakes his head slightly.
"History books don't say that."
Aldo's mouth tightens, not in anger, just enough to show he's heard this kind of answer before. He exhales through his nose, then looks back at the group.
"They don't say what explorers ate," he replies. "They tell you where they went, who they fought, and what flag they carried. Food doesn't make it into the margins. Unless someone cares enough to look for it, there's no reason for it to be written down."
There's a brief pause. Then another man nods, thoughtful rather than defiant.
"My brother used to serve in the military…" he says. "Came back different. Kept using rations even when he didn't have to. Even canned ones."
Aldo glances toward him, recognition flickering in his eyes.
"Canned goods," he says. "I brought that up to the smith yesterday."
A few heads turn now, attention sharpening as the pieces connect.
"But the Smith refused," Aldo continues, his voice level and patient. "Said it was madness. Said metal had no place holding food, that it would poison the body or rot from the inside out."
For a heartbeat, the tension hangs, then someone snorts, and a ripple of laughter moves through the group, breaking the edge of the moment without quite dismissing it.
The mood is light now. Curious. Grounded.
Then Bojing steps forward.
He hesitates, then speaks.
"Chumb." he says, "we should strike tonight."
Aldo looks at him calmly.
"The commission starts tomorrow, just relax."
Bojing blinks.
Around him, heads turn. Confusion spreads.
"Then why're we here early?" someone asks. "It's still your leave day !"
Aldo answers without raising his voice.
"To feel the ground," he says. "To breathe the air. To see how sound moves. To plan without pressure."
Bojing's eyes light.
"Then we should definitely attack tonight."
Aldo studies him for a moment, then turns to the company.
"Who wants to follow Bojing?"
Hands rise. One after another. Fast. Confident.
Eighty-four.
Aldo exhales…a quiet, controlled sound.
"Then get ready," he says. "We sortie in thirty minutes."
He turns away.
"Don't dawdle."
…