Author's Note: Huge thanks to ProfessorPalmarosa for beta reading! This story updates faster on AO3, but will be cross-posted here for convenience.
Please note this story contains elements that may disturb some readers. I will include chapter-level content warnings.
Content Warning: Graphic violence and death
Briggs Mountains, Drachma – January 22nd, 1915
Galina kicked her boot against the ice, testing the bite of her snow grips. This winter had brought tricky weather. Whatever melted in the daytime refroze overnight, making the terrain especially treacherous. Nevertheless, General Leytenant Lenkov had insisted on bringing over a dozen of the Drachman Imperial Army's finest multi-operator siege guns.
Beside him, the foreigner – a slim man with angular features and a thin black ponytail – exuded quiet confidence. Everything about him seemed sleek and sharp, like a sword with a razor thin edge. Despite the bitter cold, he dressed in a simple all-white suit with matching fedora; his neck exposed save for a dark purple tie. If the cold affected him in any way, he never showed a sign.
He was clearly an Amestrian, though no southerner should possess such resilience to Drachman winters. It was unnatural. Perturbed, Galina recalled a disquieting rumor she'd heard around the campfire last night. Her comrades had whispered that the foreigner was not only a traitor to his country, but also one of their notorious State Alchemists.
Dog of the military, her mind supplied, though she couldn't remember where she'd heard the term.
"SOLDIERS, HALT!" Lenkov bellowed, his voice cutting through the icy wind.
Taking her place beside the right flank siege gun, Galina adjusted her rifle strap so the gun laid flat against her back. If all went according to plan, she wouldn't need it. According to the Amestrian defector, the soldiers of Fort Briggs were already on the verge of mutiny and the sight of Drachman forces on their doorstep would be the catalyst for an unstoppable wave of treason.
Galina squinted at the massive fortress, trying to imagine the allies who waited inside. Were they imperialist sympathizers? Perhaps descendants of Drachman families trapped behind the border when the Amestrians annexed Letomgrad Oblast nearly a century ago? Or were they simply opportunists with no cause more noble than ousting an unpopular commander? The inscrutable façade of Fort Briggs yielded no answers.
"GUNS READY!"
Clearing his throat, Polkovnik Utkin waddled through the slushy snow with hands clasped behind his back. Each stiff-legged stomp lent new meaning to the term 'goose-step', but while the enlisted men laughed about it in secret, none were brave enough to raise a comment in his presence. Utkin slowly examined his battalion, dark eyes glinting from beneath his tall fur hat. Though his beard twitched, the hair was so bushy no one could discern whether he smiled or frowned.
Galina rocked on her heels, watching as the cannoneer shoved an iron ball into the chamber. Despite the bitter cold and his muscular frame, the exertion left his face flushed and sweaty. They had practiced this routine more times than she could count, but her heart still raced at the prospect of pitting these powerful weapons against a real enemy. This day would go down in history. She could feel it.
At the cannoneer's signal, Galina retrieved the first bagged charge and immediately frowned. It felt wrong somehow. Unable to tell whether the gunpowder was wet or simply cold, she poked the soft silk and cursed under her breath at the remaining indent.
"Problem, soldier?" Utkin suddenly asked.
"No, sir!" she stiffly saluted, mortified that she hadn't heard him approach.
His eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed. "Load the powder, girl."
Galina bristled as he waddled away. That word, that one word, had soured her entire mood. She was a soldier, dammit. Not some foolish child playing make-believe.
Quietly seething, she grabbed a second charge. The moisture probably hadn't seeped in far, leaving the interiors dry enough to combust. Better to hit Fort Briggs extra hard than miss the target entirely. She passed the charges to the cannoneer, satisfied when he weighed them with an approving nod.
"Want me to tilt this gun a little lower?" he asked, a piece of hard licorice rattling against his teeth. "We could always make the old duck fly."
Galina snorted, playfully punching him in the shoulder. "Oh shut up, Nikita. You'll get us killed if he hears you."
Nikita shrugged, shoving the charges behind the enormous cannonball. Galina had expected him to laugh, but his expression remained unnervingly serious. She didn't bother to ask. They didn't have time and she wasn't so sure she wanted to know.
"READY!" Lenkov called, his voice cracking.
He cut an impressive figure in his billowing overcoat and fur hat decorated with a gold and purple tassel. His dark beard and long nose gave him a distinguished, almost regal appearance reminiscent of the medieval icons gracing every altar of the Drachman Orthodox Church.
"AIM!"
Nikita squinted, tilting the gun a few degrees higher. He cheeked the candy, sucking in deep concentration as he shooed Galina away. She stepped back, eagerly anticipating the final command.
"FIRE!"
At once, the siege guns exploded in an ear-splitting crescendo of smoke and red-hot iron. The cannonballs tore through the air, racing towards the looming fortress at frightening speed. The siege gun lurched backwards, spitting up clouds of black soot and leaving residue on Nikita's face, neck, and arms.
Galina bit her lip and ignored the ringing in her ears as their own cannonball zipped past the others like a stubborn comet. With a thunderous crack, it flew into the defensive wall, leaving a deep pockmark on the fractured concrete and crumbling the frames from two casemates. With their protective housings destabilized, the mortars within would be too dangerous to operate.
Galina's heart pounded in giddy excitement. Basic training had hardly prepared her for the rush of real battle! Once the mutineers gained control over Fort Briggs, the fight would quickly draw to a close. Still, the Drachmans had managed this much by themselves and Galina could proudly put her own name to one of the fortress's new scars.
"READY!"
The command snapped her from her reverie. Already, Nikita was shoving another cannonball into the siege gun's chamber, careful not to touch the scorching metal with the bare fingers poking through his gloves.
"Gunpowder," he grunted, holding the cannonball in place.
Immediately, Galina picked more charges from the middle of the crate. If two sodden bags could cause that much damage, she couldn't wait to see what two intact ones would do.
Suddenly, a series of deafening booms erupted over the battlefield.
Startled, she dropped the charges in the snow, already internally griping at the mistake. The other teams needed to get their acts together. Sure, she both understood and shared their eagerness, but Lenkov hadn't even given the order yet!
Galina scowled at the line of siege guns, but her stomach twisted when she saw only three still upright. The others lay in pieces, either upside-down or turned on their sides. Her neighboring crew lay prone in the snow, their cannoneer pinned through the neck by a broken axle. Beside him, the charge handler choked out ragged screams, the smoking barrel crushing his body and cooking his skin. Foot soldiers ran for cover, slipping against the ice as bullets rained overhead.
Nikita shoved Galina's head to the ground, swiftly kicking away the gunpowder crate. She lay rigidly still, watching in confusion as the bullets mowed down her comrades like vermin. How had everything changed so quickly? Where were the Amestrian defectors?
Abruptly, the machine guns stopped.
From the snow, a lump she'd mistaken for a dead soldier poked up its head, hat sitting lopsided atop a nest of fluffy white hair. Utkin scrambled to his feet, limply waddling to the abandoned crate. Galina's warning cry came out garbled, too faint to reach the officer's ears.
A single bullet pierced the crate. In a split second, bluish-white flames erupted, rapidly swelling in a spectacular crackle of light. The explosion blew everything within a few meters' radius into smithereens. Wind scattered the charred remnants over the battlefield, depositing a burnt scrap of fur just within Galina's reach, its tiny tassel still perfectly intact. No wonder the machine guns had stopped. By now, snipers were more economical.
"Run," Nikita said, his voice low and deadly serious.
"No! I'm a soldier of Drachma, same as you!"
"Not the same."
"I signed up for this!" Galina bitterly argued. "I know you mean well, but you can't protect me forever, Nikita. From the moment I put on this uniform, I swore to eat, sleep, breathe, fight, and die for Drachma! Same as you!"
Nikita didn't answer immediately. Instead, his brow furrowed in an unreadable expression. Time had deepened the fine lines of his face, and his dull eyes looked back at her as if through frosted glass.
"Not the same," he repeated softly. "You're here to fight. I'm here because I made a promise and I mean to keep it."
Galina knew her lips moved, but she didn't catch whichever words came out. Perhaps none did. Her tongue felt dry and unwieldy as it stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Slowly, Nikita pulled himself up. He bent with a violent cough, drops of blood trickling from his lips. "Run," he choked. "Run."
Though numb, Galina vaguely felt her head shaking. Nikita's hand trembled at his side, fingers tightening around the holstered revolver. For a brief second, the barrel pointed right between Galina's eyes. She held her breath as he raised the revolver, hands clasping the grip as if in prayer. He nodded to the dense mountain forest on the horizon.
"Run. I'll cover you."
"Nikita, please! I'll go, I promise. Just don't make me go alone!"
The cocking gun cut off her pleas. Realizing she'd lost the argument, Galina rose to her feet, unsteady on the slippery ice. Nikita made no motion to help her, instead keeping his silent vigil with haunted eyes trained on the battlefield.
Across the plain, dark shapes lay crumpled in pools of angry red. Where the snow was more porous, the blood left an oddly beautiful stain of pink. Crimson coagulated into purplish-black sludge, smeared here and there by frantic boot prints. The air hung heavy and strangely still, punctuated only by the rare zip of bullets, each aimed with deadly precision.
Galina turned to the mountains. The tree line was close, but in between lay a slick field littered with freezing bodies and overturned war machines. Heavy winter clothes weighed her down, but Galina could afford to part with none of them. In her scramble to reach that sprawling taiga, she'd be easy prey for the Amestrian snipers.
But staying here was not an option. Though the siege gun provided shelter for now, a single high explosive shell would ignite the gunpowder still caked within. At any moment, this temporary refuge could become the instrument of both hers and Nikita's deaths. His eyes bored into her back, willing her to leave.
"I'll run," she said, rounding on him with a determined glare. "But you better follow."
Nikita wearily nodded.
Satisfied, Galina bent her knees and prayed that the impending burst of activity would invigorate her stiffening limbs. She sprinted over the ice, pumping her legs with more energy than she'd ever thought she possessed. Her snow grips bit through the hardened spots, but left her slipping and sliding over the slush.
At the sound of a gunshot, Galina glanced over her shoulder. Nikita brandished the smoking revolver as he staggered in the snow, already hopelessly far behind. She wanted to turn around, throw her arm around his back, and drag him to safety beyond the looming tree line. But she was already running too fast to stop.
Nikita's figure grew smaller and smaller as he struggled to keep up and the wind drowned out his shouts. Galina strained to catch his words, her eyes growing wide as he raised the revolver again.
The bullet wasn't meant for her, but she swerved regardless. Something blocked her path, and the collision knocked her to the ground in a graceless heap. She hissed at the pain, straightening her legs that definitely weren't meant to bend that way. Whatever she bumped into was soft…and warm. It had to be a person, but Nikita wouldn't have fired at a comrade.
Her gaze fell on a shoe that had once been white. Slowly looking up, she examined the white slacks speckled with crimson pinpricks, then the matching waistcoat and jacket, both now sullied with gunpowder residue.
The alchemist.
His ungloved finger rubbed a smudge on his waistcoat then rose to his beaklike nose. After a quick sniff, his lip curled with bemusement. In a single movement, he grabbed hold of Galina's throat and dragged her up with more strength than his slender frame belied.
Her windpipe contracted, nearly collapsing under the force of his grip. She squirmed and scratched, trying in vain to tear that contemptuous grin from his face.
Another shot zipped over their heads. The wind carried Nikita's shouts, but his words were lost amidst the painful pounding in Galina's eardrums. The alchemist straddled her torso, his acrid breath tickling her ear.
"Well, aren't you a firecracker?"
Though black spots swam across her vision, Galina saw a splayed hand rising over her face. Its fingers curled over a tattooed palm, where tiny nonsensical words encircled an upside-down triangle. In the very center, a distinct dot drew her in with almost hypnotic power.
Galina gasped for breath, but the palm clamped over her face. Heat rose beneath her skin, prickling her like thousands of fire ants biting her all at once. She writhed under the alchemist's weight, kicking wildly but hitting nothing. Though she frantically clawed, her thick gloves reduced her efforts to pitiful swats.
A bullet whizzed past her attacker's head, sending his fedora flying and his ponytail fluttering. A couple of long dark hairs fell into Galina's face. The alchemist cupped his ear, his face contorting as blood seeped between his fingers. Shoving her roughly to the ground, his knee dug into her chest as he released her throat.
Galina fell into a coughing fit, her lungs screaming for air. She needed to run – she knew that – but her body just wouldn't obey. Her arms and legs felt numb and prickly as she lay on her side, greedily sucking in air with each painful inhale.
From her snowy bed, she could just discern Lenkov breathing raggedly and bleeding from a gash over his eyebrow. The blood ran down his face and crusted in his beard. His fingers twitched at the shrapnel embedded in his thigh, and his trembling hand held aloft a revolver still smoking from the fired bullet.
The alchemist rose to his full height, clutching his bleeding ear. Though Galina couldn't see his face, the hunch of his shoulders radiated pure rage. Slowly, he took a step towards the dying man. Lenkov held the revolver steady, but did not fire another shot.
Oh God, he's out of bullets, Galina realized. She felt ill.
Appearing to reach the same conclusion, the alchemist's shoulders relaxed. Calmly, he stalked towards the Drachman officer. Every step heightened Lenkov's breath, the revolver shaking so badly it slipped from his fingers. In a matter of seconds, the alchemist closed in, reducing his target to a blubbering mess.
"No, no, no…mmph!"
His hand clamped over Lenkov's face, cracking his skull against the ground. The officer wildly thrashed, muffled screams still loud enough to make Galina's eardrums throb. Lenkov swiped at his attacker, but his fingers grazed uselessly against the dirtied white suit. Suddenly, a crackle of red lightning erupted from beneath that tattooed palm. Releasing his victim, the alchemist stepped back, his sleek face gleaming with anticipation.
Lenkov's shriek echoed through the battlefield. His strangled screams grew hoarse as his eyes bulged from their sockets. His skin bubbled and darkened, turning deep purple as it swelled. Slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster. His body ballooned, sending pins and buttons flying as they popped off his stretching uniform. An inhuman screech escaped his throat, suddenly muffled by his expanding mass until…
BOOM!
The uniform ripped, its shredded ribbons dancing in a visceral red mist. Galina flinched as the hot droplets dotted her skin and clothes. Weakly, she rubbed her sleeve against her face. Her tears mixed with the blood, filling her nostrils with the scent of raw salted meat.
A nearby crunch caught her attention. The alchemist crouched beside something Galina didn't recognize but knew deep down was all that remained of poor Lenkov. Steam rose from the bubbling mass, condensing in the cold air and dripping from the tips of sharp, oddly curved protrusions sticking up from the…the spine.
Spine. Rib cage.
She choked up a mouthful of bile. As long as she didn't think about it, the pink snow felt pleasant against her flushed cheek. But how could she not think about it? Galina whined in agony, curling into a ball. The overwhelming stench filled her sinuses, her eyes drawn to the single shred resting by the tip of her nose. A wisp of condensation rose from the strip and into the frigid air. Up close, it wasn't black. Just deep, dark purple.
The alchemist gracefully straightened, his long fingers caressing Lenkov's revolver like a cherished pet. With a gentle push of his thumb, he popped the cylinder open. The hairs on the back of Galina's neck prickled when he pulled a single bullet from his pocket and slid it into one of the gun's six chambers. He turned around, eyes and grin too large for his angular face as he tipped the cylinder, conspiratorially showing Galina the lone bullet. With a flourished spin, he popped it back into place.
"Let's play a game. Maybe a round of Drachman roulette?"
Galina scrambled to her hands and knees, cursing as she slipped against the ice. Unfazed, the alchemist took another step and cocked the gun. He closed an eye, pressed the barrel to his temple, and pulled the trigger.
At the empty click, his grin nearly cleaved his face in half.
Once again, he stepped forward and cocked the gun. Galina struggled to stand upright, her limbs stiff and lungs still clamoring for air. Her boot slid, but stopped as the grips snagged against the icy surface. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, setting her heart nearly beating out of her…her…rib cage. She bolted full speed towards the mountains.
Nikita, please be safe! Oh please, oh please, oh please…
The next shot tore through Galina's coat, lodging between her shoulder blade and neck. The pain shot through every nerve of her body and she slipped in a pool of purple sludge, collapsing to the frozen ground. With trembling fingers, she probed the wound, horrified to find her hand covered in blood.
The familiar sound of footsteps on snow dragged her back to the present. Wasn't this over yet? How could it not be over yet?! She held in her breath and her sobs, trying to remain as silent as possible. Yes, part of her wanted it to be over. It just hurt so damn much! But she'd promised Nikita, promised her family, and promised the tsar. She would protect Drachma, and to do that she had to live on.
Just survive today, she ordered herself as the footsteps drew near.
Galina remained utterly still as the alchemist's shoes – those fucking white shoes – stopped just a breath away. Carefully, he pushed a pointed toe into the gunshot wound, probing for any sort of reaction. Her jaws clamped, nearly cracking a tooth as she drew on every reserve of her remaining strength to suppress the scream building in her chest. But eventually the pressure stopped, and the footsteps crunched softly away.
After a few seconds, Galina squinted through her tangled bangs. The air hung damp and heavy, the wind blowing flecks of dark red, purple, and black. The alchemist stopped to pick up his fallen fedora, adjusting it neatly atop his disheveled hair. He either failed to notice or simply ignored the bloody fingerprints he left on the hat's white surface.
He walked leisurely across the silent battlefield, running his bare fingers over the twisted corpses. Beneath the fedora's brim, Galina couldn't tell if his eyes were closed or if he was simply basking in the enormity of his macabre handiwork. Either way, his mad grin had dwindled to a jarringly tranquil smile.
In moments, he stood small against the horizon. His white suit would have blended into the frozen landscape were it not streaked with the blood and fluids of Galina's massacred countrymen. The ponytail whipped across his narrow back as he stared up at the unyielding fortress. With a steady hand, he removed the fedora and gracefully bowed, as if paying homage.
He played us for fools, Galina bitterly thought. They all did.