Winter 1943 – Somewhere on the Eastern Front

Snow covered the destroyed streets like a dirty blanket, stained gray and red. The smell of gunpowder and burning flesh still hung in the air, traces of a recent attack. Crumbled buildings cast long shadows against the gray sky, and the cold pierced the bones like invisible blades.

Aslan Petrovskykh stood in the middle of the ruins of a house, his gaze scanning the rubble. The silence was thick, broken only by the crackle of charred wood and the rustle of the wind. His soldiers followed him, rifles at the ready, their breath condensing in the freezing air. And then they saw him.

A man.

He was crouched beside what remained of a wall, partially covered in dust and soot, like a specter rising from the ashes of war. His face was dirty, but his eyes shone with a fierce intensity, alert, wary. His skin, darkened by ash and cold, did not immediately betray his origins—he was clearly not an ordinary European.

“Major,” one of the soldiers called, his voice low and strained. “This could be a spy.”

Aslan did not answer immediately. He merely watched. The young man did not move, nor did he attempt to justify himself. He simply stared back at him, like a cornered animal, assessing whether the threat before him was lethal or merely a passing danger.

“He has no uniform,” another soldier added. “No insignia. He is not one of ours.”

“Nor one of theirs,” Aslan replied finally. His voice was firm, unhurried. He took a step forward, and the boy stiffened, his dirty fingers curling against the rubble, as if he were considering fleeing.

“Or he could be faking it,” a third soldier insisted. “We could end up dead because of him.”

There was a murmur of agreement. The fear was understandable. A man with no name, no clear affiliation, found among still-warm ruins, could be anything.

A deserter. A spy. A lost civilian. Or just a survivor.

Aslan took a deep breath, the cold burning his lungs. The boy had not spoken. He had not tried to trick them with pleas or excuses. That in itself said a lot.

“He will fight alongside us,” he finally declared, his voice cutting through any argument. “It will be my responsibility.”

The soldiers glanced at each other uneasily. But no one dared contradict him.

Aslan stared at the young man, his gaze impassive, but something inside him stirred. Something in the way the boy stood rigid, as if expecting a blow at any moment, as if he was used to being discarded.

“Get up,” he ordered. “Or do you want to freeze to death?”