The forest swallowed him whole, but it refused to hide him.
Snow clutched at his boots, sucking him down with every step. Branches clawed his face, tearing skin, leaving lines of fire. His breath rasped like torn cloth, the white vapor betraying him in the moonlight. Behind, voices echoed; Russian, urgent, merciless. Torches bobbed between the trees like fiery eyes.
They thought he was one of them. A deserter. That was his only shield. If they knew he was German, they would not waste their dogs or their patience. They would have shot him where he stood.
He forced his body forward, every nerve on fire. Tricks drilled into him returned by instinct: he doubled back, dragging his boots through old tracks; he scrambled into a stream, the water burning him colder than knives, and let the current drag his scent away. He staggered out again, scattering his prints through the brush.
But the forest betrayed him too. Every branch he snapped, every gasp of breath seemed to shout his presence. Dogs bayed, closer and closer, their cries spearing through the night.
"Hold the line! Spread out!" a voice barked behind him. "He won't slip us!" Christian plunged into a hollow and pressed himself under the roots of a frozen pine. Snow covered him like a shroud. His heart hammered against the earth, so loud he feared it would give him away.
Silence. The silence was worse than pursuit. Boots crunched overhead. A torch beam swept across the drifts, a dog whined, pawing at the earth. A soldier cursed and yanked it away.
Christian closed his eyes, and the faces came.
Müller's voice first, oily and cold: "Fail me once, and your family will pay for it."
Kristina's face next, her eyes searching him, hopeful, fragile. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Hope was a luxury he no longer deserved.
He hated himself for wanting to live. He cursed the weak dog heart that kept beating in his chest, dragging him from one master to another.
The forest broke open into a clearing. His legs carried him there before his mind could stop them and that was when he saw them.
Two soldiers. Boys. Their torches wavered in trembling hands, rifles aimed badly. The oldest couldn't have been nineteen.
"Stop!" the taller one shouted, his voice cracking. "Hands up!" The shorter boy's teeth chattered louder than his rifle. His eyes were wide, filled with fear. They were children dressed in uniform.
Christian froze, chest heaving. If he surrendered, perhaps they would drag him back. Perhaps he could keep the lie alive. For a heartbeat, he let himself imagine mercy.
Then the taller boy stepped forward, rifle steel glinting but instinct screamed.
He lunged.
The knife met flesh. Warmth spurted across his hand, so hot it startled him. The boy gurgled, clawing at his throat as blood sprayed the snow in black ribbons. His eyes locked on Christian's, wide with disbelief, then glassed over.
The other screamed. His voice high and broken, not a soldier's scream but a child's. He dropped his rifle and fled into the trees, shouting, "Help me, he killed Petrov!"
Christian stumbled back, staring at the dying boy. This was no war. No battle. It was slaughter and his hands were the butcher's.
The forest erupted in fury. Shouts tore the night apart, vengeance burning in every syllable.
"Don't kill him!" voices roared. "Take him alive!"
They no longer cared if he was deserter or German. He had spilled their blood. They wanted his life.
He ran, body screaming with pain. His chest heaved like it would burst. He clawed up icy ridges, slid down ravines, smashed through branches. His vision blurred, black sparks dancing across the snow. But the forest was endless. His strength was not.
He stumbled. His knees buckled. The snow claimed him. Torchlight closed around him, a ring of fire and rifles. Bayonets gleamed like teeth. Hands seized him, yanking him to his feet. A rifle butt slammed into his ribs; another cracked against his jaw. His mouth filled with blood.
The Soviet captain stepped forward, a hard shadow framed in fire. His eyes swept Christian once and saw the blood on his coat, the madness in his eyes and hardened further.
"Not a bullet," he said, voice flat as stone. "Comrade Stalin would want to make an example of this deserter and murderer."
The soldiers spat on him, cursed him, struck him with fists and rifle stocks. One hissed, "Coward."
Another: "Child-killer."
They bound his wrists so tight the rope cut to the bone, then dragged him through the snow, stumbling and half-conscious. Behind them, the boy's body lay cooling under the moon, the snow already swallowing him.
Christian's head sagged forward. Blood dripped from his mouth. His vision narrowed into tunnels of black.
His last thought before darkness claimed him was not of honor or faith or even Kristina. It was a single, bitter question:
Was this the end or the beginning of something worse?