Tampere, Finland March 15, 1918

The wind howled low through the ruined timber line like a mournful choir of spirits, its cold breath weaving serpents of frost across the snowbound fields of Tampere. It was the kind of cold that didn't simply touch the skin—it bit, sinking through wool, leather, and bone, nestling deep into the sinews until even thought itself slowed into stillness. Snow fell in thick, muffled drifts from the heavens, each flake a tiny messenger of silence. The air was dense with waiting, as if the earth itself held its breath in anticipation of blood.

Among the skeletal remains of birch trees and shattered fences lay Aino Lehtovaara, barely distinguishable from the land that surrounded her. Her gray winter cloak clung to her back, frosted at the seams, and her figure was pressed low to the ground, perfectly blended with the snowy terrain. Every inch of her body was positioned with intention—left elbow braced, cheek resting gently on the butt of her rifle, gloved fingers wrapped around the trigger guard with a tenderness that mirrored devotion more than aggression. Her long rifle, a modified Mosin-Nagant with a worn leather sling, rested like an extension of her spine. The barrel protruded through a notch in the snowbank, its iron mouth trained toward the horizon.

Beside her, to her right and slightly behind, lay you, her partner and trusted spotter—your breath forming small clouds as you peered through the lens of your brass-rimmed periscope. You adjusted the dial delicately, brushing frost from the glass as your eyes scanned the distant buildings where Red Guard snipers had been reported. The town of Tampere—its outskirts a mix of half-burned cottages, bomb-scarred trenches, and frozen corpses—lay quiet for now. But the silence was deceptive. Somewhere behind the hills, artillery thundered like distant gods arguing in foreign tongues.

Between you and Aino, no words had passed for nearly an hour.

The two of you had been lying there since before sunrise. The snow beneath your chests had melted and refrozen, clinging to your uniforms like the grip of the dead. Time had become meaningless, measured only in the narrowing of pupils, the rhythm of slow breathing, and the constant vigilance of life held on a trigger's edge.

She gave no verbal reply. Instead, her head tilted ever so slightly, eyes narrowing behind a veil of grey lashes. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, pale lips parted just enough to breathe, her breath barely visible. Then, without turning her face from the scope of her rifle, her voice finally broke the quiet calm, low, deliberate.

"I am simply doing my duty and what I am told to do, as best as I can, which means that you will also do your duty as best as you can. Our country expects everyone to do their duty."

Each syllable was spoken with the iron finality of a bullet chambered. Her voice held no fear, only conviction—the kind forged in long nights of frost and fire, in watching men die screaming while she remained still and silent. It was the voice of someone who had bled for no glory, who had killed not for celebration, but for necessity.

You turned to look at her, just for a moment. In her face you saw no expression of defiance, nor sadness—only steel, tempered by grief, sharpened by duty. Her pale grey hair, tied tightly behind her head, was already gathering flecks of snow. A faint sheen of frost traced the lashes below her sharp, ice-colored eyes. She didn't blink as she exhaled slowly, steadying her shot.