The smell of cooked meat curled into the air, faint and clean, mixing with pine sap and melting snow. A spit crackled softly over the firepit, its smoke trailing upward through bare branches, disappearing into a sky the color of faded steel.
Ilya sat beside the flame, cloak drawn tight over his shoulders. Steam ghosted from the heat of the fire, but he barely felt it. The warmth didn't reach his skin, not really.
His fingers, reddened from cold, were stained at the nails with blood from dressing their catch. A clean kill. One shot. Arvid had barely said a word, just a nod, then silence. Ilya wasn't sure if that meant he did well or if it just didn't matter.
Across from him, Arvid sat on a smooth, barkless log, methodically turning the spit with one hand and adjusting the flame with the other. His rifle leaned against the log beside him, never far from reach. Always within a single motion.
The woods were too quiet.
No wind. No birdsong. Just the pop of firewood, and once in a while, the faint shifting of snow from branches high above.
Ilya lowered his gaze to the fire. It danced strangely today, less chaotic, more rhythmic, like it was listening to something he couldn't hear.
He thought about that last step during the hunt, when he lined up the shot and hesitated just before pulling the trigger. The rabbit hadn't moved. But his breath did. Just for a moment. As if something old had tapped his shoulder.
You've done this before.
He hadn't.
Not here.
But the angle had felt familiar. The weight in his hands, the sound of the snow under his boots. And that pause before the shot, it felt like listening to a memory someone else buried in his bones.
Then, there was a hum.
It started faint, like a held breath vibrating through the bones of the earth. Then, slowly, it built. Not thunder. Not magic. Something stranger. The fire's smoke twisted sideways, pulled by pressure. Wind stirred the branches in an unnatural rhythm.
Ilya tensed. He didn't know who it might be, but he could tell that it was not a great sign.
Arvid stood slowly, rifle sliding into his hand with practiced ease. His eyes searched the treetops, then the sky. His voice was low. Quiet.
"So they actually came."
Ilya looked at him.
"Who?"
But Arvid didn't answer.
He was watching the clouds now, watching the way they split like fabric under invisible weight.
Then it came.
A streak through the sky, sharp, fast, silver and flame. It curved down through the canopy, trailing smoke and light. A shockwave rolled across the snow as it descended, not loud, but deep, like pressure shifting behind the ears.
The fire nearly blew out.
The smoke cleared in slow, swaying tendrils, curling like fingers across the snow.
The first figure stepped forward through the haze, boots crunching softly, long coat swaying, hands raised in mock surrender. Her hair caught the firelight, glinting silver-blonde, and her grin landed somewhere between genuine joy and playful danger.
She didn't speak right away. She just looked around the clearing, eyes lingering on the fire, the half-roasted hare, the makeshift training marks carved into tree trunks nearby.
Then she spotted Ilya.
"Well," she said, voice light with frost and amusement. "So this is the child."
Ilya blinked. "What—?"
Before he could finish, she was already in front of him, crouched just enough to meet his eye level. Not too close. Just close enough to study his face.
"Bit pale and skinny. That cloak's doing half the personality work." She tilted her head. "But I see it."
He stepped back slightly, eyes narrowing.
Arvid spoke, his voice flat. "Lilya."
She turned toward him and offered a lazy, two-finger salute. "Nice to see you still cooking like a hermit. Missed the stew, by the way."
Arvid didn't move. His expression hadn't changed, but Ilya noticed the shift in his stance—the subtle weight behind his silence. Like he was holding something back. Words, maybe. Or regret.
The second figure entered the clearing with none of Lilya's flair.
She moved like someone who'd never stopped being a soldier. Her steps were measured. Her coat, pristine. Her gloves, black. Her eyes sharp and unreadable. She scanned the camp in one sweep before stopping on Ilya.
He felt it immediately.
The weight behind that gaze.
Ilya swallowed once, suddenly aware of how loud his own breathing sounded.
Arvid's voice came again. Quiet. "Anastasia."
She didn't look at him.
Just took one step forward.
Ilya took a cautious half-step back, hand brushing against the hem of his cloak.
Ilya's heart started to beat faster, not in fear, but in something more familiar.
The way soldiers look at targets.
The way wolves look before they lunge.
Without a word, she moved.
She moved before Ilya could ask a single question.
A blur of shadow and speed, one boot crunching forward in the snow, her weight pivoting with lethal grace, and her fist cut toward his head.
Ilya ducked. Reflex, not decision. It was too clean to be training. Too sharp to be panic.
The strike passed just above his ear. He flinched as the cold wind from it grazed his face. His boots shifted in the snow, half-slipping, but he didn't fall.
"What the—"
Another blow. A feint first, then an elbow aimed for his ribs. He twisted away, his cloak flaring behind him. She didn't slow down.
Arvid rose slowly from the log, posture tight.
"Are you going to stop her?!" Ilya shouted.
No response.
It was Lilya who answered, her tone far too casual for the situation.
"She's testing you, kid."
"Testing?! She's—!"
"She hasn't hurt you."
Another strike, this time her leg swept low toward his ankles.
Ilya jumped back, nearly tripping. He landed harder than he wanted, boots skidding across the snow. He turned toward her, fists raised.
She didn't stop.
Ilya's pulse thundered in his ears. He wasn't thinking anymore. No strategy. No stance. Just movement. He shifted his weight—
—then stepped into her strike.
His body twisted low, beneath her arm, and redirected her momentum, pushing her off balance with a move that came from somewhere he couldn't place. A rhythm buried in his bones.
She slid back a step through the snow.
And stopped.
The air between them changed. Like something old had just spoken.
The wind picked up again. Thin and dry, just enough to carry the smell of char and pine through the clearing.
Anastasia said nothing else.
She held Ilya's gaze for one breath longer, as if measuring something he hadn't yet uncovered in himself. Then she turned and began to walk.
As she passed Arvid, she didn't stop. She didn't nod. She didn't speak.
She only glanced at him.
And in that single glance was a storm of things unsaid, fragments of a shared past neither of them had named aloud in years.
Then she disappeared into the trees without a sound, swallowed by snow and distance.
Lilya let out a long, theatrical exhale. "Well," she said, stepping beside Ilya, "congrats, kid. I didn't even expect you to win, but still, good job."
She turned to Arvid next. "You really weren't going to tell us, were you?"
Arvid remained silent.
"Still as chatty as ever," Lilya muttered.
She mounted her Astra again, silver hull still faintly warm from its descent, and swung one leg over with graceful ease. "We'll be back," she said over her shoulder, more to Ilya than Arvid. "And next time, maybe I'll be the one throwing punches."
She offered a casual wave and vanished upward, trailing steam and laughter in her wake.
And just like that, they were gone.
The clearing felt colder without them.
Ilya stood still, his breath finally steady, but his thoughts restless. He turned toward Arvid, who had resumed tending to the spit as if nothing had happened.
"…Who were they?" Ilya asked.
His voice wasn't sharp. Just tired. Honest.
Arvid didn't answer at first.
Then, without looking up, he said, "Old friends."
"That didn't feel like friendship."
Ilya sat down slowly beside the fire, pulling the cloak tighter around himself. He watched Arvid move, trying to make sense of the quiet weight behind every word.
"Are they going to come back?"
Arvid didn't answer.
Which, to Ilya, felt like a yes.