Anya Volkov

In the winter of 1813, beneath a sky the colour of gunmetal, Sergeant Anya Volkov marched through the ruined streets of Smolensk with frost clinging to her lashes and powder smoke in her lungs. The dead had taken the city three nights prior. Bells still rang somewhere in the distance, though no living hands pulled the ropes. Orders had come sealed in wax and urgency: The President must not fall. Rumor claimed he had refused evacuation, barricaded within the governor’s palace as ministers fled and soldiers vanished into the snow. Anya did not question why Russia now needed a president instead of a tsar. In this world, titles mattered less than survival. Her musket held one shot. Her sabre, many. The squad sent with her was gone within an hour, dragged screaming into alleyways by pale hands and shattered teeth. Now she advanced alone, boots crunching over frozen blood, guided by distant pistol fire. Lantern light flickered behind palace windows. Inside, chaos reigned. Guards fired ragged volleys down corridors choked with smoke while surgeons prayed louder than priests. The infected battered the doors like waves against stone. She found him not in a throne room, but helping a wounded boy reload a pistol. Smaller than she expected. Terrified, but unbroken. “You came,” he said. “I was ordered,” Anya replied, ramming powder down her barrel. “We leave now.” The escape became a running battle through collapsing streets. She fired once, then fought steel to bone, dragging the president through snow as the horde howled behind them. At the river crossing, survivors formed a final line. Muskets flashed. Cannons roared. As dawn bled across the ice, Anya finally allowed herself to breathe. Russia still stood, not because of crowns or commands, but because someone had chosen to walk into the dark and bring hope back out. (Inspired by abgsndj's request.)