My Subordinate

The horse snorted softly.

“That’s it.”

Sergeant Vilev was slowly stroking the animal’s nape. His thick hand must have felt cool; the horse gave a contented little sound of pleasure.

The sight was somehow both warm and amusing, and Ashlyn let out a quiet laugh. Turning to the coachman with a faintly smug look, she said,

“Looks like your horses rather take to my subordinate, don’t they?”

“…….”

Both of the coachman’s cheeks flushed a deep red. He clearly hated the situation, yet could find no ready retort. After a moment he turned away, huffing through his teeth.

“Just get on already!”

Throughout the rattling carriage ride, Sergeant Vilev said nothing. Ashlyn watched his expressionless profile from the corner of her eye. The rough scar that cut across his lean cheek stood out all the more sharply beneath the clear sky.

Is he in a bad mood?

Of course he is. Of course it would rankle. Who in the world could listen to talk of “smelling of blood” or being called a “beast” to their face and feel fine about it?

“Don’t take it too much to heart,” Ashlyn murmured, barely above a whisper.

“Just the rambling of someone who doesn’t know any better.”

The sergeant blinked slowly, as if the remark had come out of nowhere.

“What the coachman said earlier? It’s fine.”

He answered while still staring straight ahead. When he finally turned his head to look at her properly, his expression was pure indifference. Seeing that only raised the opposite question.

“Doesn’t it bother you at all?”

“What does?”

The man answered a question with a question.

“What was I supposed to do earlier?”

“Not that. I mean—didn’t it just feel bad?”

“What’s there for me to feel bad about? People like him aren’t one or two.”

“But hearing things like you smell of blood, or that you bring misfortune—I’d get angry, I think.”

“I’m not really angry…”

He trailed off mid-sentence. Then opened his mouth again.

“Rather… I…”

The corner of the man’s mouth lifted by the slightest degree.

“I was glad.”

“What?”

Sergeant Vilev’s gaze turned fully toward Ashlyn. Looking straight at each other, he spoke so quietly that only she could catch the words.

“You called me ‘my subordinate’ earlier, didn’t you.”

“…….”

“That’s why. I was glad.”

Not angry in the slightest.

Ashlyn was briefly at a loss for words. Of course you’re my subordinate—what else would you be? Temporary or not, I am your direct superior. That was what she had meant to answer with.

But there was a strange heat in Sergeant Vilev’s eyes as they met hers, and so she could not reply easily. For reasons she could not name, every word suddenly felt as though it needed careful weighing. Ashlyn cleared her throat awkwardly and fudged it.

“Well… over something like that.”

After perhaps another hour the station gradually came into view and the carriage drew to a halt. Ashlyn and Gennady climbed down and headed straight for the station.

This is the station I got off at the first time I came here.

Nothing looked different from last time. Of course it didn’t—not much time had passed, after all. And yet why did it seem even more desolate than before?

Stepping into the roofless station building, they found a train already waiting. Perhaps because this was the starting point, the first-class car they boarded was empty. No soldiers, no officials. The other troops were crowding into third class.

At least we can sit comfortably thanks to that.

Settling into the sunny window seat beside Gennady, Ashlyn drew a thin book from her bag.

On the Interpretation of Ancient Rune Magic

She meant to finish the volume she had put off while in the trenches, too busy to open it. But the resolve did not last. The moment she sat down, a tide of drowsiness came rolling in.

Soft, even breaths. The gentle rise and fall of her chest that matched them. Strands of hair that swayed faintly with every jolt of the train.

Gennady looked at the woman seated beside him—without turning his body, only twisting his neck as far as it would go. Ashlyn had her arms crossed and was sunk deep into the seat, asleep. Her closed eyelids, the loose fall of her mouth, looked so peaceful that he could not even breathe carelessly. Instead he clicked his tongue inwardly.

Far too unguarded.

You are the same now as you were then. You pretend to be difficult, yet you trust far too easily. Worry rose together with a bitter little pleasure. Perhaps, he thought, Ashlyn only ever lowered her guard this completely with him. Of course it was a mad delusion. She neither knew who he was nor cared in the least.

Besides, there would be another reason she could relax so thoroughly. She was leaving the trenches for the first time, returning to a softer world; it was natural for the tension to drain away.

The train rattled on, and each time it did her head swayed gently left and right. The tips of his fingers itched with the urge to steady it. At the same time he simply wanted to keep looking without end. Warm autumn sunlight slid along the brim of her hat and painted the tip of her nose, her lips. As if entranced, Gennady parted his own.

“Actually…”

So quietly that even he could barely hear himself, he whispered.

“At first I was angry.”

When the coachman had spat that nonsense about him being a beast and the rest. Gennady had felt murderous intent—not the clean, instinctive kind born on a battlefield, but something specific and savage. An emotion of that intensity had not touched him in a very long time.

“That’s not it! It’s bad for the horses’ health. Even dumb beasts can sense things. Just because something walks on two legs doesn’t make it a person—”

It had not been simply because the man had insulted him and his kind. He was weary of that sort, and dealing with them was easy enough. Words were rarely required. Regardless of rank, a display of violence settled most problems in short order. This time, too, seizing the man by the collar and giving him a shake would have ended it.

But then—

“If the horses even catch a glimpse of a werewolf’s shadow, they’ll drop dead, I tell you!”

The instant the coachman flung those words out in front of Ashlyn, something inside Gennady snapped. The long-forgotten feeling of shame brushed the detonator in his mind, and violent impulse boiled up in a rush.

He wanted to seize that human’s skull right then and smash it into the ground. It would have been quick. Before it even hit the dirt, the bones would have crumbled inside his palm.

Of course he did not. With every nerve drawn tight he simply focused on the words Ashlyn was speaking.

“He is a person. Wildmen are people too, and we are the Morningstar Allied Forces. He is also my subordinate.”

And when she said that, Gennady was thrown for a moment.

The instant he heard Ashlyn declare it for him, the murderous heat that had flared like wildfire, the rage that had been chewing rapidly through his heart—both vanished at once. As his anger subsided, the horses that had been trembling beside them recovered their calm just as quickly.

Remembering it now, a rush of joy rose together with a bitterness that had no bottom. The man scraped the tender flesh inside his mouth with a fang and swallowed the self-mockery.

The one left unarmored is me.

Unarmored. A term learned at the mercenary school—trenches or minefields laid so sloppily that anyone could walk right in.

That was exactly what he looked like now. If the instructors from the academy or the men of the Fenrir Detachment could see him, they would have held their sides and howled with laughter.

They would have kicked him thoroughly in the knees and shins for going soft against a human for no good reason. But there was no one here to laugh at Gennady now. So perhaps it was all right to be just a little happier. Just a very little more…

And in that very moment—

“Mmnh.”

Ashlyn, who had been shifting restlessly as if the posture were uncomfortable, settled her face fully against his shoulder.

Gennady’s pupils contracted sharply; the irises expanded. His upper body, already slightly rigid, locked completely stiff.

With his left hand he caught the hat that was about to tumble off. Smoothly combed hair at the crown of her head came into view.

I want to bury my nose in it.

The cool, clean scent still clung to Ashlyn, and beneath it the faintest trace of cypress. He wanted that fragrance closer. The sudden, fierce impulse made him lick his lips without realizing it. The hand holding the hat tightened; the brim crumpled slightly.

“Nngh…”

And then, still leaning against him, Ashlyn let out a sound of pain.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry.”

Had she woken? Gennady’s shoulder went hard as stone. The desire that had been simmering low in his gut vanished without a trace.

“Lieutenant?”

“It hurts.”

“Are you all—”

“It hurts… it hurts…”

She whimpered again. Forehead still pressed to the sergeant’s shoulder, she murmured.

Is she having a nightmare?

The first battle must have been hard on her after all. The corners of Sergeant Vilev’s eyes narrowed to sharp slits. The unfamiliar, unpleasant emotion called worry surged up.

Then the woman whispered another pained sound.

“My left hand… my left hand hurts.”

Ah.

Only then did her left hand come into focus—trembling without aim, clenching and unclenching. That was it. Ashlyn was not dreaming of the trench raid. The root of the nightmare she was having…

Is me.

The heart of Gennady Vilev, which had been lying so unguarded and open, shattered into pieces.