Chapter Two: Wild
The storm had quieted. In its wake lay silence and stillness, broken only by the subtle creak of ice settling over the shattered train. Shards of glass glittered like scattered stars across the snow, and twisted metal groaned faintly beneath the weight of frost. The girl stood amidst frozen bodies and splintered wood, her breath clouding in the bitter air. The snow was crusted red where blood had frozen mid-spill.
Her small hands, raw and trembling, moved with purpose — guided not by understanding, but by instinct. She searched the pockets of the fallen bandits, pulling away stiff, frozen cloth with a detached precision that felt too old for her body.
This is wrong, touching the dead is a sin! We should run. Hide. Cry.
Survival is never wrong. Take what you can. Strength is in preparation.
She pulled loose a heavy revolver, the metal biting cold against her palm. Too large for her hand, but not beyond use. Her fingers struggled with the weight, but familiarity bloomed in the back of her mind. The cylinder clicked open; rounds glinted within. She let the muscle memory guide her.
Nearby, leaning against a shattered beam, the Mosin-Nagant rifle loomed — taller than she was. She stared at it for a moment, the child part of her hesitating.
It's too big. Too heavy.
You'll grow into it, came the silent response. She reached for the strap and pulled. It nearly toppled her, but she grit her teeth and steadied herself, dragging it along with stubborn resolve.
A battered satchel yielded cartridges, brittle biscuits, and a water flask half-frozen solid. She took them all.
Her eyes landed on a military knife, half-buried in snow. Its handle was worn smooth from use, its blade still sharp and gleaming faintly in the pale light. The child recoiled.
We don't need that.
Yes. We do. Her hand closed around it.
She did not look at the frozen faces. She did not mourn. But in the silence, a hollow ache stirred within her chest, heavy and unfamiliar.
She paused, the weight of the rifle pulling at her shoulder, the revolver heavy in her coat pocket. She looked up at the endless white expanse beyond the wreckage.
Where do we go?
The answer came in a whisper carried by the wind: Onward.
Each step through the snow dragged the rifle's weight behind her, the strap digging into her small shoulder. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps as the wind picked up, tugging at her ragged coat. The Mosin-Nagant felt impossibly heavy — a burden no child should bear.
Leave it. It's too heavy, the child whimpered.
No, the soldier's voice snapped back. A weapon is security. Without it, we are prey.
She adjusted the strap, trying to sling it across her back, but it slid awkwardly and almost toppled her into the snow. She gritted her teeth, frustration burning behind her eyes.
Her feet stumbled forward again. Every few steps, the rifle caught on a buried branch or snagged in deep snowdrifts. Her arms trembled from the strain, breath rasping in sharp bursts that stung her throat.
Finally, she collapsed to her knees. I can't... I can't do this.
Adapt, came the cold response. If you cannot carry it, drag it. If you cannot drag it, break it down.
Her breath hitched. She wiped her nose with a frost-bitten sleeve and unslung the rifle, setting it across her lap. Her small fingers fumbled with the mechanism, but memory — not her own — of similar weapons guided her motions. The rifle disassembled into smaller parts: bolt, internal magazine, barrel, stock. She tucked each piece into the satchel one by one.
The rifle was still with her. Still part of her. Just manageable.
She stood again. This time, lighter. Stronger.
The wind howled in the distance, but she no longer stumbled. She moved forward.
The forest stretched endless and silent, blanketed by snow that muffled sound and swallowed light. Days blurred into each other as she trudged forward, her body weak, her mind drifting between instinct and exhaustion.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she collapsed beside a half-frozen stream. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and for the first time, fear gnawed at her.
I don't want to die, the child whispered.
You won't, the soldier answered. Endure.
But her limbs would not move.
Darkness began to swallow her vision until a shadow fell across the snow. A figure crouched beside her — not Russian, not a soldier, but an old man with skin weathered like aged bark, eyes like dark amber, and the scent of smoke and pine clinging to him.
He spoke in a language she did not know, but his tone was gentle. Strong arms lifted her, cradling her like a fragile bird.
Where…? her mind tried to form the thought.
Rest. Learn. Survive, came the soldier's quiet, steady response.
-
When she woke again, it was in a small hut, warmed by a crackling fire. Furs covered her, and herbs burned in a shallow dish, filling the room with sharp, clean scents.
The old man sat beside her, murmuring softly in his tongue, weaving patterns in the smoke. His hands were steady, his eyes kind but watchful, as if he knew she was more than a lost child.
He called her something she would not understand for many years: Zimovaya. Winter's Child.
And for the first time in weeks, she closed her eyes, not in terror, but in exhausted peace.
Warmth.
It was the first thing she noticed. The biting cold that had become her constant companion was gone, replaced by flickering heat against her skin. Her lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes to see firelight dancing on wooden walls. Rough-hewn beams, dried herbs hanging from rafters, and the earthy scent of smoke and pine surrounded her.
She shifted slightly beneath heavy furs, her muscles aching but her breath steady. A bowl of broth sat cooling by her bedside. Her stomach clenched with hunger, but caution kept her still.
Where am I?
Safe. For now.
She sat up slowly, the world spinning for a moment before steadying. Across the small hut, the old man sat cross-legged by the hearth, tending to the fire with deliberate care. His face was lined with age, his features sharp and weathered, as though carved from stone shaped by centuries of wind and ice. His skin bore the hue of earth and dusk, his hair long and silver, woven with beads and strips of fur.
When he spoke, his voice was low and resonant, like the deep rumble of distant thunder, yet soft enough to comfort rather than frighten. He spoke in melodic syllables, his words rolling and rising like waves. At night, he sang strange chants into the smoke, lilting songs that filled the air with haunting beauty. The smoke danced to his voice, curling into shapes of birds, wolves, and swirling snowflakes, vanishing into the rafters.
He gestured to the bowl. After a pause, she reached for it, sipping the bitter broth. It warmed her from within, and she felt the first stirrings of strength return.
Days passed in a rhythm of quiet care. He spoke little, but his actions taught more than words. He showed her how to wrap dried herbs, how to stack kindling, and how to read the smoke's patterns as though they were whispers from the wind.
Pay attention, the soldier's voice reminded her. This is knowledge worth having.
Her child's mind wondered at the strange carvings on the walls—spirals and animal shapes that pulsed faintly with magic older than the wizardry she knew.
One morning, he placed a small, polished knife in her hands. Its weight was light, balanced, crafted not for killing but for creation. He demonstrated slowly, shaving wood into the shape of a bird. Then he handed her a block of wood.
She tried. The blade slipped, nicking her finger. Frustration welled up.
I can't.
You can. Slowly. Breathe. Precision.
She exhaled shakily and tried again. The wood resisted at first but gave way under her careful pressure, curls of shavings falling onto her lap.
When she finally carved something that resembled a wing, the old man smiled softly and nodded.
That evening, he gestured for her to build the fire. Her hands trembled as she arranged the wood, her breath hitching as she struck flint against steel. The first spark flickered out. She tried again. And again.
Persistence. No shortcuts.
Finally, the flame caught. Small at first, then growing with the gentle coaxing of breath and patience. The hut filled with warm light.
She felt something stir deep within—a flicker of pride.
On the seventh night, she dared to look beyond the fur curtain covering the hut's doorway. What she saw stole her breath.
The hut sat at the very heart of a swirling blizzard, yet none of the snow touched it. Great walls of ice towered in a protective circle around the clearing, frozen arches and crystalline spires refracting the pale light of the storm. Snow danced along the boundaries, but never crossed them. The air hummed with ancient power.
The old man's voice rose behind her in one of his chants, this time stronger, more commanding. The smoke twisted into the shape of a great stag, which bowed its head toward her before dissipating.
She turned to him, her heart pounding. He approached, placing his hand on her head. His breath smelled of pine resin and burning sage.
"Zimovaya," he said softly.
She didn't know the word, but she understood its meaning all the same. She was the storm's child. The ice itself protected her.
She met his gaze and, for the first time, nodded with quiet understanding.
She was more than a survivor now.
She was becoming.
-
Seven years later, 1912 A.D.
The forest sang beneath her feet, its breath carried on the crisp scent of pine, the crunch of snow beneath each stride, and the whisper of wind curling around her like a playful companion.
Snow fell in soft curtains, whispering through ancient pines that stood like watchful sentinels. Zimovaya's breath steamed in the frigid air as she glided across the crusted snow, weightless and swift, her boots scarcely leaving a mark. The wolves ran with her — gray shadows weaving between the trees, their golden eyes gleaming with challenge and companionship.
She laughed softly, the sound light and free. Her fur-lined cloak billowed behind her as she darted over drifts, vaulting fallen branches. The rifle slung across her back no longer felt like a burden but a promise. Its wooden stock bore intricate carvings of runes and ancient symbols, etched by careful hands and softly sung into life by the old shaman's voice. The rifle's totems glistened faintly in certain lights, resonating with subtle warmth near ley lines or in moments of strong emotion. Among the enchantments was silence — the rifle would fire without thunder, its presence respectful of the forest's quiet.
She stopped on a ridge, the wolves gathering around her, their breath misting in the cold dawn light. Below, a lone caribou grazed on frozen lichen, oblivious to the predator above. Zimovaya laid prone, steadying the rifle. Her hands moved with grace: chambering a round, aligning sights, exhaling slowly.
The crack never came.
The rifle shuddered faintly in her grasp — recoil without sound, a soft hum of magic trailing through the air as faint shimmering runes briefly glowed along the barrel. The caribou dropped, graceful even in death. She rose, whispering thanks in the old tongue.
The wolves dispersed into the trees, their hunt complete.
She walked back slowly, savoring the cold against her cheeks, the feel of the snow shifting beneath her steps. The wind tugged at her hair, whispering secrets only the wild could know.
But as she neared the clearing, her chest tightened. The hut stood quiet, its chimney dark. The scent of burning sage, ever-present, was gone.
She stepped inside.
The hearth was cold.
The staff — carved with twisting symbols of storm and sky — leaned against the wall. On the hearthstone rested the bone-and-stone amulet, warm to the touch. There was no letter, no farewell.
She sank to her knees.
He's gone.
He left with purpose. The old know when to step aside.
Her throat tightened. But I wasn't ready.
He knew you were. You will not find his body; he would not want that.
She clutched the staff to her chest, breathing in the lingering scent of pine and fire, her heart twisting with grief, gratitude, and a quiet resolve that settled deeper than words. Her heart ached, but she understood.
That night, she built the fire alone. The sparks rose high, and she sang — soft and halting at first, then stronger. The song was one he had taught her, a hymn to winter, the sky, and the spirits that watched over them.
The smoke curled upward, taking the shape of a stag, then a great wolf, before fading into the night.
She carved a small figure from pine: the old man sitting cross-legged, staff in hand. She placed it on the mantle, beneath the protective runes.
"Thank you," she whispered.
At dawn, when she stepped outside, the world was still. The storm that had raged for days had broken, the sky painted in pale gold and silver. The silence was profound, and the air seemed lighter, as though the barrier that had sheltered her for seven years had lifted. The forest shimmered with dew, and distant memories of spring floods, summer storms, and autumn leaves swirled in her mind, each season having taught her patience, caution, and resilience.
At the edge of the forest stood a great stag, its antlers heavy with frost, its presence a silent echo of the shaman's spirit and nature's blessing. It bowed its head once — a gesture of respect.
Zimovaya returned the bow. The forest had accepted her.
She shouldered her rifle, feeling its weight settle naturally. The wolves howled in the distance, calling her forward.
She answered in silence and stepped into the woods, the path her own to carve. As the wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of distant smoke and iron, she heard something faint yet unmistakable: the distant whistle of a train, beckoning from far beyond the horizon.