Try as I might, I couldn’t make sense of it. After years in the wilderness, killing had become a matter of necessity, done solely for the sake of survival. Something died so that I could live. It had been easy to forget that people killed each other all the time, sometimes for no reason at all.

In the street ahead, the air turned sallow like deer fat, beams of sunlight captured in the gelatinous atmosphere. Vanya grabbed my shoulder and yanked me behind a wagon. He squatted to hide himself, pulling me down with him.

Through the gaps between the wheel spokes, I watched as rocks flew in slow motion, as if the flow of time had thinned to a trickle. A boy staggered forward, his run reduced to a sluggish, jerky dance. A man in uniform lunged into view, as fast as a wolf in comparison, and drove the fleeing boy to the ground.

“Shit,” Vanya whispered as the man reached for his saber. Resting one knee against the ground, he drew his rifle into a shooting position, its stock snug against his shoulder. As the saber blade emerged from its sheath, Vanya’s finger curled around the rifle’s trigger.

The rifle blast reverberated against the alley’s walls. In the street ahead, the air’s jaundiced tint dissipated, and the uniformed man collapsed onto his side.

Even before the soldier’s sword clattered against the ground, Vanya was rising to his feet. The scent of gunpowder hung in the air like a gasp. I stumbled to follow, my fingers clammy against my musket’s oak understock. By the moment, the gun felt as if it were changing in my hands, its shape becoming bulky and unfamiliar. Even as I found the familiar curve of the trigger, the sense of disorientation remained.

“These bastards will prey on anyone they can,” he growled, twisting back his rifle’s bolt to clear the spent shell from its chamber. The brass casing tinkled to the cobblestones. “That’s Yuriy. He just turned thirteen. That damn idiot. He shouldn’t even be out here.”

As we ran from the alleyway, I caught a brief glimpse of the dead soldier’s disfigured and gore-stained face—and then we passed him. Vanya yanked up the sniveling boy by the arm.

“Come on, there’s no time to cry,” Vanya urged, his voice as sharp as a saber blade.

“B-b-blood,” the boy blubbered, gripping onto Vanya’s sleeve with both hands. Red flecks were streaked across his cheeks. “Blood. There’s blood on me.”

“Be glad it’s not your own. We’re going to the temple. You have to keep up.”

“You’re okay,” I said gently, trying to comfort the younger boy. Something about the way he clung to Vanya’s sleeve made me think of Galina. “Just breathe in and out. You’re safe now.”

Yuriy sniffled and nodded, wiping his teary eyes with his shirtsleeve.

Vanya released Yuriy’s arm and ran forward, slowing to a manageable speed to allow the weeping boy to maintain pace. When Yuriy fell behind, I took his wrist and led him.