Eira stood rigid beneath the low light of the stuffy room, clothed only in the plain undergarments she had been issued. The material bit faintly into her fur, the bra too tight and the bottoms had to be cut to let her tail through. A crude fix that left the fabric puckered awkwardly. Her tail swayed in irritation, betraying what she tried to keep off her face.

  A stethoscope pressed suddenly against her chest, the cold metal dulled only by the layer of fur.

  “Inhale,” the doctor ordered, his tone clipped and impatient.

  She drew in a deep breath, feeling a faint rattle in her lungs that she tried not to show.

  “Exhale.”

  She let the air out slowly, eyes fixed on a spot on the rough brick wall. The man’s brow furrowed as he listened, then nodded. “Once more, Oberschütze.”

  She obeyed. The air in the room felt heavy with antiseptic and damp canvas. When she finished, the doctor stepped back and scribbled something onto a pad. His pen scratched loudly against the paper.

  “Your lungs are irritated. Likely from overexertion and exposure. Something to keep an eye on,” he said, his tone businesslike but flat. “The ribs are bruised but not broken. Keep them bound as you have. The leg…” He knelt briefly, glancing at the wrappings. “Torn muscle, not a break. Continue to keep it wrapped tight. If the swelling worsens, have it re-checked.”

  He straightened, jotting another note. “Otherwise, you are fit for duty.” He turned to a small case, pulling free a tin of white tablets. “These will dull the ache. Take one with water as needed.” His tone carried no sympathy, only routine.

  “You may dress.”

  Eira nodded, her ears twitching faintly as she reached for the neatly folded trousers on the nearby cot. The doctor’s eyes flicked toward her as she moved, his face tightening in a faint expression that hovered between fascination and distaste. She ignored it, sliding her legs into the uniform and pulling it up, fastening the belt with careful precision.

  He cleared his throat. “I am not… specialized to handle your kind,” he said, the words coming out with mechanical detachment. “But I suspect your anatomy is close enough to human for my conclusions to stand.”

  Eira slipped into her undershirt, buttoning her tunic next. “Close enough, I suppose,” she said evenly.

  He nodded, though his gaze lingered just long enough to make his discomfort plain. “So you were separated from your unit,” he continued. “Stolen, yes?”

  The word struck her wrong. Her tail went still, but her voice remained calm. “Ja, Herr Stabsarzt Lehmann.”

  Lehmann jotted another note, then closed the file. “Quite the journey then, I imagine.”

  “Indeed,” she replied, adjusting her belt buckle before meeting his gaze. “And I intend to continue my service to the Fatherland.”

  Lehmann grunted. “See that you do.” He turned away, crossing to the room’s entrance. With a pull, he swept the door open aside, letting in a slant of cold morning light.

  “Dismissed, Oberschütze. Report to your commanding officer,” he said, his voice already turning elsewhere, his thoughts clearly beyond her.

  Eira inclined her head in acknowledgment and stepped toward the light, the faint smell of antiseptic giving way to cold air and diesel outside. As the door closed behind her, hinges crying in protest, she adjusted her collar, the doctor’s faint look of disgust already fading from her mind. She had no use for his approval.

  Eira paused outside the medical tent, taking a slow breath as the chill air filled her lungs. She needed to reorient herself. The world outside was bright and deceptively calm. Her blue eyes swept over the streets of Frankfurt an der Oder, noting how intact the city appeared compared to what she had expected. The buildings were still standing, the rooftops mostly whole, and the streets though muddy and scarred by tires, still held the rhythm of daily life.

  From what she understood, the city held little strategic value on its own. Its importance came from proximity, not purpose. It was a staging point, a place to gather troops and matériel before sending them east toward the river line. The real fighting was already bleeding across the Oder into Poland, where the front was collapsing yard by yard. Still, here, there was an uneasy calm. Too calm, she thought. The kind of silence that made soldiers fidget and made civilians pretend harder that life was ordinary.

  Her gaze drifted to a converted flat not far down the street, its windows blacked out and sandbags stacked high along the entryway. The makeshift command post. Feldwebel Falkner had told her to report there once she finished her medical examination. She rolled her shoulders, grimacing as the motion tugged at bruised ribs, then started toward it.

  As she limped along the street, she took in the sight of the civilians. Dozens of them moved about their routines. Women in scarves carrying baskets, children darting between doorways, men hauling crates or sweeping storefronts as if nothing beyond their small world existed. When they saw her, they slowed. Conversations hushed. A few stopped outright, frozen in place.

  She felt the weight of their stares before she even looked up. The horror on their faces was familiar, almost routine by now. One woman pulled her child close, the boy’s wide eyes locked on her ears, her tail, her strange, towering shape.

  Eira kept walking.

  It wasn’t anger she felt, just a kind of tired detachment. She had grown used to the mixture of awe and revulsion. To them, she wasn’t a soldier or a comrade. She was something out of the propaganda reels, the whispered stories meant to frighten children.

  Still, she watched them mostly out of her own curiosity. Discreetly out of the corner of her eye. A woman wringing out a sheet in a bucket. A man kneeling by a bicycle, oiling a chain. A boy pressing his face to a window, watching her until his mother yanked him back. All of them pretending life went on as it had before.

  It struck her as strange, how normal everything seemed despite the war grinding closer by the hour. Civilians still traded ration slips, still queued for bread, still carried on under the illusion that routine would protect them. The city bore the fatigue of a country stretched to breaking, yet its people clung to their habits like lifelines.

  Life went on. It always did, right up until it didn’t.

  Of course it did. People always carried on, right up until the moment they could not. Until the artillery fell, the roofs collapsed, and the streets turned to rivers of brick and smoke.

  She stopped at the corner, her tail flicking once behind her as a column of trucks rolled past. Engines growled and black exhaust drifted through the air, leaving behind the sharp scent of fuel. She counted at least three of them, each packed with soldiers heading east. Their faces were gaunt and pale, the color of men who had not seen rest in weeks.

  When the last truck passed, she crossed the street, her boots splashing through a shallow puddle. She took one last glance at the civilians behind her. A woman was laughing faintly at something a man said as they hung laundry between two windows. The sound was small and oddly fragile against the backdrop of rumbling engines.

  Eira turned away, her expression unreadable.

  She approached the command post, her boots scuffing softly against the cobblestones as she neared the short flight of concrete steps. Two soldiers stood watch at the entrance, weapons slung but hands resting close to the grips. Their posture was casual in the way that came from exhaustion, not ease. The man on the right, a lean figure with a scar that split the corner of his upper lip, puffed lazily on a cigarette, the ember glowing faint in the gray light.

  When they noticed her, both stiffened. The scarred man lowered his cigarette and leaned toward the other, muttering under his breath. He spoke low, but not low enough for her sharp ears.

  “Meine Gott. I’m still not used to seeing these… things.”

  Eira’s ears twitched, but her expression did not change. She stopped a few paces from them and stood straight, posture sharp and disciplined. “Feldwebel Falkner asked me to meet him,” she said in a calm, professional tone.

  The scarred soldier’s jaw worked for a moment before he gave a stiff nod. “Ja. One moment.” He took a last drag on his cigarette, hesitated, and then placed it carefully on the edge of the iron railing. Turning away, he climbed the steps and disappeared inside.

  Eira remained where she was, her gaze forward. The other sentry kept his eyes elsewhere, staring at the horizon as if there was something deeply important to see there. His fingers tapped nervously against the receiver of his submachine gun.

  Eira exhaled through her nose and turned her attention to the cigarette resting precariously on the railing. A faint gust of wind rolled through the street, stirring the edges of her tunic and the fur along her neck. The cigarette rocked once, then again, before finally tumbling over the edge. It hit the cobblestones below with a faint hiss as it drowned in a shallow puddle.

  The door opened behind her, and the scarred soldier stepped back out, his expression souring as he spotted the wet stub lying in the street. He muttered something under his breath, as he sighed and turned his attention to Eira.

  “The Feldwebel has asked you to come in,” he said, stepping aside with a small, reluctant motion of his hand.

  She inclined her head. “Danke.” Her tone was polite but distant.

  She passed between them, her presence drawing the other soldier’s eyes despite his best effort not to stare. The boards of the steps creaked faintly under her weight. At the door, she caught the handle before the wind could shove it inward and eased it open with quiet precision.

  Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the smells of sweat, tobacco, and oil. Men stood clustered around a long table where maps were spread out, their fingers tracing lines and marking positions with dull pencils. The murmur of their voices carried the tense rhythm of planning, clipped phrases of coordinates and supply routes passing between them like code.

  At the far end of the room, a radioman hunched over a cluttered table of dials and switches. The faint whine of a tuning frequency cut through the air, sharp and high-pitched. Eira winced slightly, her ears folding back instinctively against the sound. The radioman adjusted the frequency, muttering under his breath, oblivious to the effect the noise had on her sharper senses.

  She shut the door softly behind her, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. The officers barely glanced up at her entrance, though she could feel their attention all the same. Their eyes slid toward her and then away, as if uncertain whether to look directly at her or pretend she wasn’t there.

  “Oberschütze Eira.”

  The voice came from her right, calm and familiar. Eira turned and found Feldwebel Falkner standing beside a table, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His cap hung from the top of a chair, his gray coat draped over it in a practiced, orderly fashion. His expression was as composed, though faint lines of fatigue cut along his eyes.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Eira lifted her chin slightly. “Feldwebel Falkner,” she replied with a firm nod, her tone professional but respectful.

  He gave a small motion of his hand, signaling she could stand at ease. “No need for formality,” he said, stepping forward to retrieve his coat. “Let’s see you off to the others, ja?”

  “I would be grateful,” she said.

  He slung the coat over his shoulder, adjusting his hat before placing it squarely on his head. “Normally, I’d leave the task to one of the gentlemen out front,” he said as he stepped toward the back door, “but there’s a wonderful little café not far from where they’re staging the other Sturmw?lfe. I could certainly use some coffee.”

  Eira inclined her head and followed as he led the way through a side corridor toward the back exit. The sound of their boots echoed faintly against the wooden floors. Outside, the alley was narrow and half-choked with crates and fuel drums. A light mist hung in the air, softening the sharp edges of morning.

  An open-top Kübelwagen idled near the door, exhaust curling in gray plumes from the tailpipe. The driver, a young soldier with a boyish face, straightened as they approached. He snapped to attention and saluted sharply before pulling open the passenger door for Falkner.

  “Danke,” Falkner said as he climbed in, settling comfortably into the front seat.

  The soldier hesitated only a second when he turned to Eira. His eyes widened, the color draining slightly from his face before he caught himself. He swallowed hard and hurriedly opened the rear door for her.

  Eira stepped closer, her injured knee brushing the frame. A sharp sting flared through her leg and she hissed quietly under her breath as she climbed in. She pulled her tail in after her, tucking it neatly to one side before settling into the seat. The fabric creaked under her weight.

  The soldier shut the door carefully, avoiding her gaze as he circled to the driver’s side. He climbed in, shifted the vehicle into gear, and the Kübelwagen rumbled to life, its tires crunching against the wet cobblestones.

  Falkner leaned back in his seat, turning slightly to face her. “I had an opportunity to read through your report,” he began, his voice raised slightly over the sound of the engine. “Managed to secure a copy before we left the last post.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “Quite the story, Oberschütze.”

  Eira gave a faint nod, her eyes fixed on the street as they rolled forward. The buildings passed in a blur of muted color and brick. “Ja,” she said softly.

  Falkner motioned with two fingers, guiding the driver to turn left at an intersection. The vehicle bounced lightly as it hit a patch of uneven road. “It certainly makes one wonder,” he continued. “Reading that report… it makes me wonder about the Allies and the Russians. Their alliance is a fragile one. It feels like the East and the West are already preparing to argue over who owns the spoils. Even without the war being concluded.”

  His tone shifted slightly, a weariness threading through his words. He cleared his throat, eyes turning back toward the street. “Hopefully, whatever information they can extract from the man you brought in…” He snapped his fingers a few times, trying to recall. “Emmett Granger, was it? Yes. Hopefully, something good will come of it.”

  Eira’s gaze drifted to the passing buildings again. Shopfronts shuttered, smoke rising from chimneys, and soldiers trudging through puddles. Her reflection in the window looked pale against the gray light.

  “Ja,” she said at last, her voice quiet, distant. “Hopefully.”

  Falkner nodded absently and faced forward again, the engine’s steady hum filling the silence that followed. The city slipped by them, calm and uneasy, as the war waited patiently just beyond the river.

  Falkner cleared his throat, adjusting the collar of his coat as if brushing the tension from the conversation away. “The Sturmwolfe unit you’ll be attached to is Stosstrupp Zwei,” he said, his voice taking on the clipped, efficient tone of a man reciting orders. “They took losses recently in Poland. Ambush along the Vistula. Command is reconstituting the unit here before they return to the front. You’ll be under Oberleutnant Haller. Your new commanding officer.”

  Eira nodded, her ears twitching forward slightly at the name. “How many… of the Sturmwolfe are in the unit?” she asked carefully. She knew that designation. Her old squad had moved alongside Stosstrupp Zwei before being reassigned. If any of them were still alive, perhaps someone here had heard of them. Perhaps of Dieter.

  Falkner pursed his lips, thinking. “Seven, last I checked,” he said. “You’ll make eight. That’s not counting the humans of course. Oberleutnant Haller and his two-support staff.” He adjusted his coat and added, “You’ll have a few days to recover before you’re deployed again. Consider that an order.”

  Eira nodded again, her tail shifting slightly against the seat. The hum of the engine filled the silence as they turned another corner.

  Falkner suddenly lifted a gloved hand toward a whitewashed sign over a corner shop. “Ah,” he said, with a trace of real satisfaction in his voice. “I can smell the coffee already.” He smiled faintly before glancing back at her. “They have you lot quartered in a storage yard down the road from here. Out of sight for now. The civilians… well, you understand.”

  Eira did. All too well. She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Ja. I understand.”

  The Kubelwagen slowed, its engine rumbling as it rolled to a stop in front of a tall wooden fence just down the street from the café. Two Wehrmacht soldiers stood at the gate, rifles slung, their breath visible in the morning chill. Both men stiffened immediately when the vehicle came to a halt.

  Falkner nodded toward the fence. “And here we are, Oberschütze Eira,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of finality.

  The driver began to climb out, ready to open the door for Falkner, but he lifted a hand. “Bah, I can open the door quite well on my own,” he said sharply.

  The soldier froze and saluted, flustered. “Apologies, Feldwebel Falkner.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Falkner muttered, already stepping out onto the street.

  Eira pushed open her own door and stepped out. The cold hit her at once, crisp and biting. But what caught her breath was something else. The scent.

  Her nose twitched, nostrils flaring slightly. It was unmistakable.

  Hybrids.

  The realization sent a quiet shiver through her. It had been weeks since she had caught the smell of her own kind, and the recognition stirred something deep within her chest. She forced herself to slow her pace, schooling her expression into neutrality even as her pulse quickened.

  Falkner exchanged a few quiet words with the two guards. They snapped to attention, saluted, and then one of them turned the latch. The gate creaked open, revealing the yard beyond.

  Inside, the space had been transformed into a makeshift staging area. Crates of munitions and fuel drums lined the perimeter, and the faint smell of oil and metal filled the air. Two wolfmen stood near a stack of supply boxes, deep in conversation. Both wore mismatched uniforms. Gray and field-green, patched where needed and darkened with grime. Their voices went quiet when they noticed her.

  Nearby, a female hybrid sat at a small wooden table, carefully cleaning a disassembled rifle. Her fur was a darker gray, with a patch of noticeable bare skin on her snout. Her movements precise and methodical. She glanced up as the gate opened, her brown eyes catching Eira in a long, assessing look. Her ears perked forward slightly, but her expression remained unreadable.

  Eira met the gaze evenly, her tail giving a faint, restrained twitch.

  Behind her, Falkner spoke to the guard at the gate. “We’ll be a few minutes,” he said, his tone curt but not unkind.

  Eira stepped into the yard, the gate closing softly behind her. The smell of hybrids. Fur, oil, gunmetal, and faint smoke filled her lungs like something remembered. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until now.

  Eira’s muzzle lifted into a faint, unguarded smile as she took in the sight of the yard. The voices, the movement, the smell of oil and fur. It all felt strangely grounding. For a brief moment, it was as though the weight she had been carrying since Poland eased from her shoulders. But then another scent hit her, cutting through the mixture of diesel and dust. It was sharp, unmistakable, and painfully familiar.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She froze, scanning the yard, her eyes darting from one face to another. The smell was close. Very close.

  A door to the main building swung open with a heavy creak. A figure stepped out, caught mid-step, and stopped cold. The two of them locked eyes, both staring as if afraid to move and break the illusion.

  “Eira?”

  The word came out as a whisper, disbelieving.

  She blinked, her throat tightening. “Dieter?”

  Then he was moving, charging forward with a wild, unrestrained hoot that split the air. Before she could even brace herself, he slammed into her with all the force of joy and relief pent up for weeks. The impact nearly sent her off her feet. His arms crushed around her, his muzzle buried in her shoulder, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

  “Dieter!” she gasped, laughing and choking on the same breath.

  He pulled back just far enough to look at her, his hands gripping her shoulders as if she might vanish at any second. His eyes were wide, wild with disbelief and happiness.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said, his voice breaking halfway through the words. Then, without waiting for her reply, he pulled her into another fierce hug. The strength of it made her ribs flare with pain, but she didn’t care. She returned the embrace, pressing her head against his neck, breathing in his scent.

  Falkner stood a few paces away, his brows raised high, clearly uncertain whether to intervene or simply let the moment play out. He chose the latter, watching quietly with the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Dieter finally stepped back again, grinning wide enough to bare his teeth. “Oh, little sister,” he said, laughing an unsteady, almost manic sound that carried too much emotion to be contained.

  Eira felt her vision blur for an instant. She blinked hard, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “It is so good to see you, Dieter. I…” Her voice faltered as the question formed on her lips. The moment of joy cracked, and dread crept in behind it. “Where are the others?” she asked quietly. Her ears began to flatten.

  The light in Dieter’s face dimmed. His hands dropped from her shoulders. He looked away, his grin fading into a hollow line. The silence stretched thin between them, heavy and telling.

  Eira didn’t need to hear the words. His eyes said enough.

  Her chest tightened, and she drew a slow, uneven breath. Around them, the yard fell quiet, the other hybrids lowering their gazes in quiet recognition of the truth neither of them wanted to say aloud.

  Eira sat quietly on the edge of the cot, her elbows resting on her knees as her hands trembled faintly in her lap. The room felt smaller than it was, the air heavy with smoke and silence. Dieter sat beside her, his posture stiff, eyes hollow. The way he said it still rang in her head.

  “Dead.”

  The word was flat, final.

  She repeated it, almost as if saying it aloud would make her believe it. “Dead.”

  He only nodded once, his jaw tightening, the motion sharp and weary.

  Eira leaned forward, her ears lowering as she exhaled slowly, the sound shaky. Her chest felt hollow, as if her heart had been scooped out. Dieter’s hands were clasped tightly together, knuckles pale beneath his fur. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, unfocused, as though he were watching ghosts pass through it.

  “That night,” he began, voice low and rough, “when we attacked the Russians… and you disappeared.” He paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “We lost four. Three more were injured. That left just myself and Roald to carry the wounded during the retreat.”

  He reached into his coat, the motion slow and deliberate, and withdrew a small tin. The metallic click of it opening filled the silence.

  “I thought you had gone into the woods. That maybe you’d slipped away, found your own path back. We waited at the rendezvous point for hours.” He took out a cigarette and tapped it gently against the tin, eyes distant. “When you didn’t come, I went to look for you. I caught your scent, faint, but it was buried under smoke and gunpowder. I couldn’t track it for long. The Russians were swarming the woods like ants. I was forced to fall back.”

  Eira listened, motionless, her hands curling into fists.

  “I went back to the rendezvous point. Roald was still there with the injured.” He flicked the lighter open, the tiny flame wavering in the still air. “When I returned…” He hesitated, staring at the lighter like he could see it reflected in his memory. “They were dead. All of them. The Russians had found them.”

  He tried to light the cigarette, but his fingers fumbled the lighter. It slipped once before he caught it again, jaw flexing. “Roald tried to move them. Even when they slowed him down. They died because I wasn’t there.”

  The lighter finally sparked, steady this time. The cigarette caught with a faint hiss. Dieter took a long drag, then just stared at the glowing ember for several seconds. The smell of smoke filled the small space between them.

  “I went back into the woods. Hoping you’d come back. You didn’t. So I made my report. They reassigned me to Stosstrupp Zwei.” He let the smoke drift from his nose and mouth, the bitterness in his voice softening into quiet resignation. “I deserve the blame for their deaths. And I’m sorry, Eira, for not finding you.”

  He slumped forward, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the words.

  Eira reached out without thinking and leaned into him, wrapping one arm around his back. She rested her head against his shoulder. “I missed you, Dieter,” she said softly.

  A small, broken laugh escaped him. “I missed you too, little sister.”

  They sat like that for a long time, the only sound being the faint creak of the old structure settling and the murmured conversation of soldiers somewhere outside. The warmth of his shoulder, the rhythm of his breathing, it almost felt like home again. Almost.

  Then Dieter straightened, exhaling slowly through his nose. “What happened to you, Eira? Where did you go?”

  Eira froze, her gaze dropping to the floorboards. She hesitated, then looked at the cigarette between his fingers. “You’re smoking?” she asked quietly.

  Dieter blinked, surprised by the question, then gave a small laugh and shrugged. “Ya. It helps. In its own way.” He smiled faintly. “And Oberleutnant Haller doesn’t seem to mind.”

  Eira nodded, but her eyes were far away. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees again. “Do you remember that morning we tracked what we thought was a Russian scout near the outpost?”

  Dieter frowned. “Of course. The one that led to the patrol engagement?”

  Eira turned to face him, her expression hardening. “He wasn’t Russian,” she said quietly. “He was an American.”

  Dieter’s cigarette froze halfway to his lips. His ears perked, and his eyes widened in disbelief. “An American?” he repeated.

  Eira nodded slowly. “Ja. And I met him.”

  She leaned back against the wall, her gaze distant and dark. The memory of Emmett Granger came rushing back, and the long miles she had spent with the man.