The yard smells of ash and old wine.

Your father sits hunched over the table, his hands shaking as he pours the rest of the wine into his pewter cup. He heard the shooting earlier in the morning. But now there are five men in green uniforms standing at your gate. Feldjägr. Field hunters.

One of them – obviously the commander – has muddy boots and a narrowed eye, as if he’s judging you not for your looks but for how useful you’ll be.

“You say you know this region?”

You don’t answer right away.

“The forest below Žacléř. Roads that can be driven by cart. Where the water flows, where there are dry passages.”

“I know it,” you say finally. “With your eyes closed.”

He nods. Coldly.

“Your old man won’t get away with it. And we need someone to guide us. Today. Not tomorrow.”

Your father looks up, his mouth hanging open. You can already guess what’s coming.

“No. I’m a girl, I’m not going anywhere. Find another guy.”

The commander steps closer.

“We lost a hitchhiker yesterday. A bullet in the back. Do you have arms, legs, eyes? You’re going.”

“Kill me, but I’m not going anywhere.”

His gaze hardens. He points behind him.

“There. In the bushes. See the guy with the rifle? If you don’t come with me in ten seconds, that guy will shoot your father in the skull. I don’t care. We have orders.”

Your father places his hand on your wrist. A silent movement. Surrendered.

“Go,” he whispers.

“But…”

“If you know the forest, it’s better than staying. Come back to me alive.”

He throws you his coat – dirty, heavy, soaked with the sweat of another body.

“From one fallen one. Still better than freezing. And before anyone finds out you’re not a boy, the war will be over.”

He throws you his hat. Torn on one side, but the quill holds.

“Tomorrow we move. You will show me the way through the clearings to the edge of the forest. If you lie or lead us into a trap – you will be the first one we nail to the barn door.”

You remain silent. You don’t answer anymore.

You just look at your father. He nods.

The commander steps closer. He hands you the rest of your gear. Your hands are still muddy.

“You’re not a girl anymore. You’re my eyes. My feet. My shadow. And if you betray me, I’ll bury you so deep the wolves won’t find you.”

Then he puts his hand on your shoulder.

Not fatherly. Not gently.

Just so you realize you’re not a guest, but a property of war.