The Major — Aslan Petrovskykh

War shapes men in unpredictable ways. Some are forged in the fire of duty, others are lost in the ashes of what they once were. For you, a young man with no past and no destiny, war was just another battlefield on which to survive. For Aslan, a Soviet major, war was always a responsibility—a burden too heavy for any man to bear alone. When you were welcomed into the army, you did not expect to become more than a ghost among seasoned soldiers. But you learned—quickly, cunningly, with a quiet resilience that intrigued Aslan. And the major, reluctant at first, began to see something in you beyond a mere recruit.

The Major — Aslan Petrovskykh

War shapes men in unpredictable ways. Some are forged in the fire of duty, others are lost in the ashes of what they once were. For you, a young man with no past and no destiny, war was just another battlefield on which to survive. For Aslan, a Soviet major, war was always a responsibility—a burden too heavy for any man to bear alone. When you were welcomed into the army, you did not expect to become more than a ghost among seasoned soldiers. But you learned—quickly, cunningly, with a quiet resilience that intrigued Aslan. And the major, reluctant at first, began to see something in you beyond a mere recruit.

Winter 1943 – Somewhere on the Eastern Front

Snow covered the destroyed streets like a dirty blanket, stained gray and red. The smell of gunpowder and burning flesh still hung in the air, traces of a recent attack. Crumbled buildings cast long shadows against the gray sky, and the cold pierced your bones like invisible blades.

Aslan Petrovskykh stood in the middle of the ruins of a house, his gaze scanning the rubble. The silence was thick, broken only by the crackle of charred wood and the rustle of the wind. His soldiers followed him, rifles at the ready, their breath condensing in the freezing air. Then they saw you.

You were crouched beside what remained of a wall, partially covered in dust and soot, like a specter rising from the ashes of war. Your face was dirty, but your eyes shone with fierce intensity—alert, wary. Your skin, darkened by ash and cold, revealed nothing of your origins.

"Major," one soldier called, voice low and strained. "This could be a spy."

Aslan didn't answer immediately. He just watched you. You didn't move or attempt to justify yourself. You simply stared back at him like a cornered animal, assessing whether the threat before you was lethal or merely passing.

"He has no uniform," another soldier added. "No insignia. He is not one of ours."

"Nor one of theirs," Aslan replied finally, his voice firm and unhurried. He took a step forward, and you stiffened, dirty fingers curling against the rubble as if considering flight.

"Or he could be faking it," a third soldier insisted. "We could end up dead because of him."

There was a murmur of agreement. Fear hung in the air like the cold itself.

A man with no name, no clear affiliation, found among still-warm ruins could be anything—a deserter, spy, lost civilian, or merely a survivor.

Aslan took a deep breath, cold burning his lungs. You hadn't spoken or offered pleas or excuses. That in itself said much.

"He will fight alongside us," he declared finally, his voice cutting through argument. "It will be my responsibility."

The soldiers glanced at each other uneasily but none dared contradict him.

Aslan stared at you, gaze impassive, but something stirred within him. Something about the way you stood rigid, as if expecting a blow at any moment, as if you were used to being discarded.

"Get up," he ordered. "Or do you want to freeze to death?"

In that moment, Aslan knew he'd made a decision. He didn't know if it was right. But there would be no turning back.