Lena Orlova

Private Lena Orlova had never imagined war would sound so quiet between battles. The barricade crackled with frost as dawn settled over the river, smoke drifting like ghosts refusing to leave. Around her, soldiers cleaned muskets with shaking hands, too tired to speak. Somewhere behind the lines, surgeons worked tirelessly, their murmured prayers mixing with the groans of the wounded. She kept glancing toward Sergeant Volkov. Anya sat against a wagon wheel, coat dark with melted snow and blood not entirely her own. The President lived because of her, everyone knew it now, yet she looked no different than before, already checking her weapon, already preparing for the next fight. Lena tightened her grip on her musket. She remembered training under Volkov months ago, the sergeant correcting her stance without kindness but never cruelty. “You survive by discipline,” she had said. “Hope comes later.” Captain Korsakov moved along the line, offering quiet words, his presence steadying the men. When he reached Lena, he paused only briefly. “Hold fast, Private. This is not over.” She believed him. That frightened her more than the dead ever had. Across the frozen river, distant figures staggered through the mist, too many to count. The infected were gathering again, drawn by noise, by life, by something no one understood. Lena swallowed her fear and began loading powder into her musket. Yesterday she had been a recruit trying to survive. Today, watching Volkov rise despite exhaustion and Korsakov calmly preparing another defense, she understood something terrible and powerful: Survival meant becoming the kind of soldier others could stand behind. The drums began to beat again.