August 8, 1918


Jaune had learned quickly that fighting in the unadulterated forests of Northern Russia demanded approaches that had been nullified by the cratered, fissured plains of France.

Back in the west, he sat in a muddy trench all day and endured hails of dirt, clouds of poisonous gas, and deafening barrages of artillery. Then the attacks and counter-attacks over uneven ground. It was straightforward for the most part—classic 'bite and hold.' Here in the northeast, however, they were either constantly on the move or constantly on their bellies behind some trees, encountering locals were very ambiguous about their loyalty.

And the Bolsheviks were unlike the harried German infantrymen. Some either fled while others kept pressing until they impaled themselves on their bayonets, an experience that shocked many in his unit.

Their advance down the Northern Dvina River was marked by constant skirmishes against Bolshevik scouting parties (who were surprisingly better equipped in regards to the weather and the environment than they were) and some 'misunderstandings' with elements of the White Army. And then there was rasputitsa—the damning sludge of snow and icy mud that paralyzed vehicles, hampering logistics, and entrapping the unsuspecting Western Allies in puddles of hardening soil, making them perfect targets for Red Army sharpshooters hidden in the wilderness.

Thankfully, casualties were low. So far. They had dug in east of the river, not far from a settlement called Dvinskoy. A small lake stretched before them, sheets of ice cresting by the embankments.

"Ey, Jaune," nudged his squad-mate, a lanky grenadier he nicknamed Baz. "Vous avez vu ça?"

Jaune followed Baz's finger across the water. Yes; he saw them. Their white coats melded them with the snowy ground but their rifles gave them away. The blonde corporal dropped into the trench and began running, startling the rest of their unit, half of whom were waking from their naps. "Des bolchéviques! Des bolchéviques de l'autre côté du lac!"

Causson emerged out of one of the culverts, binoculars in hand. "Jaune, Bazoulle, est-ce que vous les voyez?"

Baz nodded nervously. "Nous les avons vus, Capitaine."

Jaune took up a static position not far from their elevated machine-gun nest. "Avi, Gosse, vous les voyez?"

"Oui, Jaune," answered the machine-gunner Avi while rifleman Gosse opened fire at the encroaching dots.

Something cracked in the air and a bullet whistled past their heads which was countered by the Lewis gun rattling to life. Battle was now joined.

Across the lake, the Bolsheviks dropped prone amid the puffs of dirt. Their shouts echoed over the water to them. They returned fire while more emerged from the wilderness. Jaune peeked over the sandbags; the silhouettes had tripled. A red flag then appeared above their heads, signaling the arrival of an entire division. Which meant one thing.

"C'est la Sixième Armée!" someone announced and it was soon repeated up and down the trench line.

Almost immediately, the Bolshevik enfilades intensified forcing the French unit to duck their heads with only Avi bravely contesting the barrage with his Lewis gun.

"Où sont les Blancs!?" Baz screeched. Good question. Where were the Whites?

"Je ne sais pas!" Jaune barked back. First real contact with the enemy and already things seemed to be snowballing downhill. The monarchists should be responding to their plight by now. In fact, where in the damn world was Hillard and his men!? They should be following up their rear!

A cartridge shattered against the plank above Baz's head, causing the young private to flinch and whimper. He started whispering and pleading to whatever deity he believed in to deliver him from this torment. Jaune wanted to roll his eyes at that; he had seen worse.

"Levez-vous, soldat!" the blonde corporal ordered.

Baz stared at him. "Jaune?"

"Lèvez-vous, Baz! Nous devons aider Avi," Jaune repeated more forcefully, hauling his comrade up by his arm and dragging him towards the machine-gun nest where Avi had crouched low, frantically digging through the ammunition boxes for a fresh magazine pan.

Jaune and Baz clamored over, occupying their makeshift hole. Great. All that was needed now was a lucky grenade and their whole squad would go up in pieces. Except for him, maybe. Baz, Avi, and Gosse would die in an instant because they lacked Aura, leaving him the sole survivor once again. As it always had and always would be.

A click and the Lewis gun cackled back to life. The blonde corporal repositioned himself beside the stuttering grenadier who by now had gotten some control of his nerves though he could see how tight he held his rifle to keep his hands from shaking.

Corporal Arkos nudged him and calmly said, "Ne pensez pas. Tirez."

And Jaune took aim at a Bolshevik soldier running across the field and squeezed. The rifle bucked against his shoulder and the man dropped like a sack. Beside him, he could hear Bazoulle's heavy breaths under the cackling of his own rifle as he tried to follow his example.


Weiss had never been this incapacitated before. Her Aura was constantly skirting depletion while her Semblance was becoming more of a health hazard than a lifesaver. She had become a casualty, a liability, a burden that could very well need a stretcher if this damn walking stick she was using broke.

It took her Aura three days to heal the gash she received from the piece of tree that ripped across her temple. Weiss grit her teeth; until she could find a mirror, she would have to accept this new scar to remind her of her frailty.

"How much farther?" she asked between huffs.

"Not more than a day's walk," replied Mister Dverko. "We are almost to the shores of the Dvina. From there, we can follow it upstream to the Allied lines."

"How can we tell they're not Bolshevik?"

"Well, freylina, hopefully they won't shoot at us on sight. And maybe they would speak English better than me. Even with a better accent."

"Fair enough," she huffed, trudging through the hardening mud in her worn boots, her makeshift cane enabling her to avoid falling on her rump every time she lifted one foot in front of the other.

"Maybe, they could provide the proper treatment for your condition," he gruffly added.

"Come again?"

Mister Dverko grunted as he tossed aside debris from a broken fence to clear the road they were on. "You are blessed but at the same time cursed. I have realized that."

"What exactly do you mean?" Weiss inquired.

"You can use magic—"

"It's not magic."

"Your abilities. To me, it looks like you have an illness. It gives you strength at later cost." He must have been expecting a reply when he went on in silence, pausing to look back at her. "I meant no offense, freylina."

"None taken," she answered softly. "Is it that obvious? Am I...weak?"

"No, no! Not at all! I never meant that," the monarchist apologized animatedly. "Forgive me for any offense that may have come from that."

"I am not of noble rank so you don't need to pander," Weiss rebutted.

Mister Dverko still bowed slightly before continuing onwards. This quagmire of a highway—or lack thereof—stretched for miles. Boot marks, horse hooves, and wheel tracks caked over each other resulting in a freezing sludge that was notorious for breaking logistics. "If I may ask, freylina..."

"Go ahead."

"You say you are not of noble birth. How did you come to be in the company of the tsar?"

Weiss grunted loudly as she finally fell in step with the monarchist though she still struggled through the mud. "Circumstance. I was lucky."

"How lucky?"

She leveled her gaze at him. No harm in opening up to their guide. "I had to fend for myself on the streets for a while. Then a cavalry detachment came and whisked me away to safety." Safety being the Alexander Palace in Tsarskoye Selo where she was confined alongside the Romanovs under house arrest.

"Ah. You were caught in the riots."

More like dropped in the middle of an anarchic city and forced to defend herself from angry mobs and rogue soldiers with only an officer's saber and her Semblance. It was also her first real human kill; running through a man's gut with her sword only to find out that Aura simply did not exist in this world. "I was swept up in it, yes."

She could never forget those wide blue eyes that gawked back at her as the life drained out of them. The militant even had scraggly blonde hair and a youthful face. Some twisted part of her brain snickered at the agonizing resemblance to that dolt—

"I heard from the tsesarevich that you used your skills to escape execution."

"I had to." Weiss exerted enough control to avoid cracking. "They mean so much to me."

"Freylina."

The white-haired girl nearly bumped into the monarchist. "Oh! Sorry."

Mister Dverko helped her stand to lean against the fence. "We have gone far enough ahead. Let us wait for the rest."

"Right. Thank you." Looking back, they had indeed proceeded further up the trail. With a few handicaps, it would take the main body of their group to reach them. So far, this was a nice spot to rest. Carving through this damn mud was like wading through a pool of molasses.

"Freylina. Do you have family waiting for you?"

She was dead and this world was her afterlife. "I don't think they are."

"I am sorry then. I did not mean to bring any sad memories—"

"It's not your fault, Semyon Klementovich. What I meant was that my father...thinks I'm dead. Probably my mother as well. My sister and my brother." Weiss bit her lip to keep herself from spilling out. "It would be better if they would not worry about a missing sibling."

"I...can understand that."

"You do?"

The farmer wore a fragile smile. "False hope is a great pain. Even if it were true, I think it would be healthy for some people if they moved on. I am learning that."

They sat in silence for a while before Weiss uttered, "I lost a friend in a battle."

"You do not have to share the story if it hurts you..."

"No. It's fine. This is healing." She breathed deep then continued. "She was a skilled...tournament fighter. She was the best at it but she had never killed someone in a duel. She always followed the rules. Then there was a battle and...she decided to stay behind and fight."

Whistling breeze.

"I am sorry, freylina."

Weiss wiped her face clean. She had blocked most memories of Beacon from her mind. Talking about Pyrrha, dredging up the past, the chaos of that fateful day... She was crying more often now. With a dignified sniffle, she forced herself back onto the road in time to see the rest of their motley group coming up the path.

Anya waved at her. The two of them waved back.

Weiss noticed the faint shimmering on her palm. Her Aura was fluctuating. Deep down, she started praying to whatever listened for some other guardian angel to protect them from harm for at least a day. Goodness knows, she was tired of being one.


Either the Bolsheviks were equally as green as the members of his unit or they simply did not have the means to deal with a mounted machine gun breaking apart their frontal attacks. Bodies piled in and around the lake as far as Jaune could see. Ducking down to reload another clip into his rifle, he caught Causson marching through the trenches, back straight and head defiantly exposed, barking orders and slogans.

Hold the line.

Be steadfast.

Help is on the way.

Rarely had he ever seen his superior march out among his troops in the thick of things. In France, Causson was coordinating the defense three trenches back, letting his lieutenants do the rounds. Now, he was the marching along the first line of defense, risking much more than he could have by staying in a tent further back. For Jaune, he had already earned the respect accrued his rank.

Perhaps that was why the blonde corporal felt a sudden wave of righteous fury when a bullet ripped into the side of the captain's neck.

"Merde! Tireur!" screamed an infantryman.

Jaune could feel the environment feeding his mounting rage; Avi abusing the Lewis gun, Baz panicking, Gosse screaming, Causson gargling on his own blood. A burning energy began to flow through his veins, condensing into a glowing light on his hands. His Aura was manifesting again. More forcefully now.

With a mighty roar, Corporal Arkos leapt over the trench. The voices of his comrades were muffled by his craze, rushing up to the Bolsheviks and engaging in a melee with his rifle. To any other man, this would have been clear suicide. Unlike any other man, Jaune 'Forked Lightning' Arc had immense Aura reserves that not only protected him from the cuts and bruises inflicted by the Red Army but also empowered his blows, knocking back soldier after soldier into the trees.

It was cathartic.

By the time he wound down, he was standing on the other side of the lake. Like a peal of forked lightning, he had struck fast and hard at the Bolshevik division, hitting them hard enough to make them reel back as though they were attacked simultaneously on several points along their lines. Bodies, many bleeding and some writhing, surrounded him.

Jaune was still in a daze when he plucked the red flag off its clay perch and walked back to the Allied line, passing by his own squadron who was panting from their own individual battles. Baz stood over a corpse, close to hyperventilating while blood dripped from his bayonet. Gosse worked the bolt on his rifle to expend a used cartridge. Avi clumsily rifled through the pockets of a fallen Bolshevik.

Boots crunching against snow, heels squelching on mud. Jaune trudged back to the trench, ignoring the stares of his squad mates who were by then coming to grips with themselves and mustering after him.

The British and the Whites were already there, some sitting comfortably on their saddles, watching him intensely. In a culvert in the trench, Causson looked up at him, a medic holding a stained towel over his neck. The French officer was still breathing.

"Jaune," he rasped.

"Capitaine," he acknowledged, standing on the wooden plank that served as the bridge over their ditch. "C'est fait."

Causson forced himself to sit straight. "Vous êtes blessé."

Wounded? Oh. Right. Looking down, he saw the rips in his uniform, a few holes where the enemy got lucky. Blood leaked and spread across the fur of his winter coat. Jaune grunted and crossed the trench and closed the gap to the white mare at the front of the British marine division that responded belatedly to their skirmish.

"Corporal Arkos," Hillard greeted formally.

"You're late, sir," Jaune growled, tossing the red banner by the hooves of his steed. "I'm going to take a nap."

"You're injured."

"I know, sir." The blonde corporal continued walking, a little intrigued that the soldiers parted to let him through. He began to hear the same gossip filter through the ranks.

Forked Lightning destroyed an enemy assault.

Those wounds should have killed him.

He was glowing on the battlefield.

Glowing, huh. That was a first. His Aura must have kicked into overdrive. Maybe if he worked himself into a greater fury, he might finally unlock his Semblance. But would it even matter at this point? He was already a weapon more than a person. His Aura was enough of a game changer; how much more when his Semblance—whatever it would be—would come into play? Would it actually make a big enough difference in this war? And the next?

Frankly, Jaune could care less.


Hiding in the snow was more uncomfortable than she anticipated. Even with the thick fur coat, Weiss still felt the cold seeping through the fabric to her skin which, debunking common Atlesian stereotypes, was not impervious to the cold. She was freezing and if she dug her bare fingers into the snow long enough, she would get frostbite.

"Do you see that?" whispered Mister Dverko.

She squinted. With the sun having already set, there was not much light to draw from. But there were lanterns spread about and with a few handheld oil lamps flickering brightly enough to illuminate the small village. There were about six trucks parked in the middle of the settlement with Red Army soldiers loading the backs with wooden boxes. "I see them. Are they in the way?"

"They are occupying our stop-over. We need to get into the village."

Weiss studied their chances. Along the tree line, she traced the lumps of the prone militia, all eying the Bolshevik presence. A bit behind were the imperial family and their retinue. Equipped mostly with pistols and limited ammunition while their escorts had cycling rifles, disadvantaged by their small numbers compared to the company size that was all over the settlement. The diminished visibility would also make it difficult for either side to cause any harm to the other. Maybe with a bit of her Semblance...

"I don't know how I can be of much help," she admitted.

"It is okay, freylina. I understand. We can take them by surprise. You can shoot, yes?"

Weiss rarely used traditional firearms and her handling of the revolvers she confiscated from Commander Yurovsky's men were amateurish at best. "I can try."

Mister Dverko reached behind him and handed her a semi-automatic pistol, vastly different from the cylindrical shooter she had familiarized herself with. "American-made. Easier to use than my Nagant. Seven bullets. Please be wise with them, freylina."

The former heiress accepted the pistol and was adjusting to the grip when a louder hum resonated from the road ahead. Heads turned to see...

"Are those...?"

"Armored cars." Mister Dverko huffed in disbelief. "They have armored cars."

Weiss observed the three vehicles pulling up next to the trucks. It appeared as though someone had mounted riveted steel armor over a taxi. They seemed sturdy though with how they handled the mud on the way in. Then the drivers and gunners emerged, some brushing off the sweat off their brow in the cold weather. So it was probably cramped and humid in there. Compared to the trucks which had more space...

She looked at her fingers. Can she use the same tactic again? The Fiat looked lighter compared to these larger trucks.

"We should wait for them to fall asleep," mused Mister Dverko, "then we go into the village and steal a truck...no, two trucks...and some of the cars. Hopefully, not many guards would be alert at that time." He turned to her. "Freylina, you will have to stay back to protect the imperial family."

"I trust that you have a plan thought out?"

"We strike shortly after midnight when they are in deep sleep. That I am sure of."

She was still unsure yet nodded anyway. "Alright."

The monarchist carefully crawled back into the bush. Weiss followed and snuck back to the Romanovs who were huddled further behind.

"What did you see?" asked Anya.

"Vehicles and troops. Don't worry. Just stay here."

"But what if they come into the woods?" pressed Tatiana.

"I don't think they would have a chance to do that," Weiss answered evenly. Honestly, Mister Dverko was quite vague and she herself did not have the confidence that their small band of a dozen militia could pull off something this daring against what could be very well be a full platoon with mechanized support. "They might launch a surprise attack later tonight."

Anya took her hand and felt the cold steel of the pistol. "A gun? You are not going out to fight again, are you?"

"Not this time," Weiss replied definitively. "I'm staying here with you. I was told to. Don't worry. I'm going to help keep you safe." Even if it was going to hurt her more than she could recover.

"You said they have vehicles," Olga said.

"Supply trucks and armored cars."

"They would be empty because the drivers and the gunners would be asleep elsewhere," intoned Tsar Nicholas. "Semyon Klementovich will steal the vehicles from under them, I believe. He would need capable drivers and a means of communicating between them if they are to commandeer several cars. They must also care not to damage the headlights lest we might ride into a tree."

The former heiress had to remember that the tsar had advocated for the mechanization of the Imperial Russian Army before it fragmented which meant that he had already seen the design, production, and operation of these 'pioneering' war machines. "How many people can each of those cars carry?"

"Not many and it is dependent on the model and variant. In general, I remember there is enough space for at least three to five including the crew. The steel should be thick enough to protect from most bullets."

"The trucks could be used to transport you while the armored cars would serve as escorts," Weiss remarked. "Assuming the vehicles would not be damaged."

Tsar Nicholas nodded. "Then I pray that he will succeed."


ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 25, 2018

LAST EDITED: September 7, 2018

INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 9, 2018