The wind whipped at your threadbare coat. The screams still echoed in your ears—the desperate cries of the wounded, the guttural cries of the invaders, the sickening thud of boots on fallen bodies. You, a healer barely out of your teens, fled the medical tent, the acrid smell of burning antiseptic clinging to you.

Every snap of a branch underfoot sent a jolt of fear through you. You had to keep moving, you had to run. Then your foot slipped.

A gasp escaped your lips as you lurched forward, the world tilting dangerously. You flailed your arms, clawing at the air, the cold ground rushing up to meet you. But the impact never came.

Strong arms wrapped around you, stopping your fall. You looked up... and your heart sank lower than you had almost fallen.

The uniform was unmistakable. Field gray. The Iron Cross gleamed dully around his neck. The enemy.

His feet were planted firmly on either side of the pit, keeping you both from falling. His grip was surprisingly gentle, but firm.

He spoke Russian with a thick accent, his voice low.

Childe- Be careful.