The railroad stretched west like a scar across the wild.
Years had passed since Zimovaya left the shelter of the storm-wreathed clearing. She no longer moved with hesitation but with honed certainty. The rifle on her back was worn smooth with use, its runes now etched deeper with time and magic. Her hair had grown long, bound in thick braids, often flecked with frost. The wolves still followed her — older now, as she was, but loyal as ever.
For months she had stalked the edge of human movement. Military supply trains rattled westward. Soldiers, dirty and haggard, whispered across campfires. Smoke clung to the sky. Gunfire echoed across the hills. And through it all, she observed from the snowbound forests, a pale blur amid the trees, never seen for more than a heartbeat.
That day, she followed the scent of fire and blood toward the front. They were near the Carpathians now — deep woods, twisted hills, and ancient stones buried under snow.
She saw the Russian line faltering before she heard it. Screams, panicked orders, spells loosed into the sky. A German push, overwhelming and fast, broke through the hastily dug trenches. Officers shouted to hold the line, then screamed to retreat.
But the creature stood.
It towered above the field — a shaggy titan of black-furred muscle and tangled antlers crowned with ice. Its eyes burned like coals, its breath a fog of fury. Zimovaya had heard tales of such beasts from the shaman's chants — a Leszyr, guardian of ancient woods, rarely roused, never tamed.
Yet here it was, chained in blood-forged iron, armor bolted to its limbs. A Russian mage stood behind it, pale and trembling, directing it like a weapon. And it fought. Gods, how it fought.
The Leszyr swept aside enemy soldiers like snowflakes, bellowing in agony and rage. Artillery cracked its ribs. Spells scorched its hide. Still, it rose and struck down yet more Germans.
Zimovaya knelt on a slope above the battlefield, snow drifting silently around her. The wolves sat behind her, silent, wary.
A guardian of the forests... They use it for war? Zimovaya wondered.
Yes. And now, they abandon it.
She saw the mage flee, his wand snapping from recoil as he vanished into the smoke. The last harried Russian troops retreated in disarray, leaving the beast alone in a field of fire and death.
The Leszyr fell to one knee. A dozen wounds poured black steam into the air. Its antlers were shattered, one eye ruined. Still it turned, facing the enemy.
The most dangerous opponent, is a cornered one. The woods yet stand, and so shall it.
Zimovaya watched its chest rise and fall. Its breath came slower now. The snow around it was melted and churned into ash-mud. German forces approached cautiously, unsure if it still had fight left.
The beast raised its head. It met her gaze.
Not with plea. Not with fear.
But with understanding.
Zimovaya rose. Slowly. The wind pulled at her cloak. The wolves did not move.
She did not interfere. Not yet. But the ice beneath her feet creaked. The air tasted of coming snow.
The world watched.
And so did she.
Then came the howl — deep as the earth, high as the wind. It cracked through the air like shattering branches, followed by the eerie clatter of bells — a sound both sacred and terrifying, like wind chimes over a grave. The bells echoed with old rites, evoking ancient woodland rituals long forgotten by men, their cadence both mournful and triumphant, as though the forest itself was ringing out in defiance. The Leszyr rose once more, its limbs trembling with power as it cast off the rusted chains and bolted armor with a roar of defiance.
The wind swirled around it, no longer just air but song — the song of the woods, the cry of ravens, the rattle of trees in deep winter. The forest answered. Snow whipped through the battlefield in a spiral, revealing the eyes of wolves, the wings of owls, the hooves of elk, and things far older — a long-necked shadow crowned in antlered mist, the silver-furred bulk of a six-legged bear-creature, and a sinuous, scaled thing that shimmered like starlight. They surged forward with the storm, embodiments of a time when men still bowed to the wild.
Some German soldiers broke ranks and ran. Others stayed, fighting with desperate valor: bullets, grenades, even magical fire roared against the mythic beast. Spells arced, and bayonets clashed with beast-flesh. But the Leszyr did not fall.
When the last German soldier crumpled into the snow, the Leszyr stood tall. It did not collapse — it knelt.
Majestic. Solemn. Regal.
The king of a dying forest, crowned with broken antlers and ash.
For a heartbeat, she stood still, the cold wind catching the edge of her cloak. A choice lay before her — not of battle, but of acknowledgment. Something ancient had passed between them, something sacred.
Zimovaya moved then.
At Esdeath's urging, she stepped down the slope with deliberate grace. The wolves remained behind, heads low, eyes reverent. Her boots left no mark in the snow as she approached the kneeling giant.
It turned its head toward her.
Not in warning.
In welcome.
She placed a hand upon its scorched hide, between ribs that no longer bled. Her breath mingled with its final exhale.
And the world shifted.
From where she stood, the snow rose in gleaming spirals, catching the light like starlit dust. Ice sprang from the earth — not wild, but shaped with reverence and clarity. Where bodies had fallen, translucent trees took root, their trunks smooth as crystal, branches etched with the silhouettes of wolves, elk, and ravens. The Leszyr's blood spilled outward and became rivers of sapphire ice, threading through frozen roots and into lifelike sculptures of the fallen — man and beast alike — frozen mid-roar, mid-flight, mid-defiance, a still echo of the chaos and courage that birthed them.
The battlefield became a frozen forest — not lifeless, but eternal.
It would never melt.
And at its center, the Leszyr remained. Not dead.
Entombed.
Honored.
NOTES: Another chapter translated and improved. It was tricky to find the right magical creature to use here, I admit, as I'm not the best at slavic mythology. Still Akagi made a good choice with the Leszyr (Leshy in Russian?) For those of you who want the action to pick up; don't worry, soon. Spoiler: it will *technically* be a crossover, though it won't have much impact again later on. (No, it is not Codename Bakery Girl, as someone in the discord had guessed, though Jefuty IS looking similar to Zimoviya about now).
Do you have a preference for our heroine's name, between Yekaterina, Zimoviya or Esdeath, dear readers? And do you want the trope of named/magically talking wolves, awoo? (Kill meeee)
