One Day's Grace
She had said it herself, hadn’t she—that she had no right to interfere? So why was he offering to help?
“What? Why would you—”
“Then is there another way?”
“…No.”
It stung her pride, but it was the truth. No one here would help her. Superiors, peers, subordinates—all of them kept her at a distance. In the end, there was only the werewolf standing in front of her.
Gennady spoke to Ashlyn’s bowed head in an even quieter voice.
“We’ve already hit trenches more than ten times. I can’t guarantee success, but I know for certain how to stay alive. So don’t wor—”
—ry about it.
He hadn’t even finished when Ashlyn cut in.
“More than ten times?”
“…Yes.”
As far as Ashlyn knew, no one in this battalion had ever carried out that many raids. In an instant his words took on enormous weight. Gennady let out an awkward sigh and muttered,
“At least stop them from leaving tonight. Give me roughly a day and I’ll get everything ready properly.”
Ashlyn studied the man again, carefully, as if examining some strange alien creature—or someone who had suddenly sprouted a third arm. Come to think of it, this was the first time she had spoken with Gennady Vilev at any real length since he had joined the 4th Platoon.
“How am I supposed to persuade Captain Gordon?”
“That’s for you to handle.”
It was a little cold, but he was right. No—already the man was helping her more than anyone else here. Ashlyn simply nodded.
“All right. I’ll buy as much time as I can.”
Gennady gave a curt nod and turned away without waiting for her answer. Ashlyn stared blankly at his retreating back and blinked.
Me, taking help from a Wildman.
In her dazed mind the conversation from the banquet hall rose up again.
“Don’t waste energy on useless worries. You’re becoming a mage—afraid of Wildmen? That would disgrace the ancestors who fought in the Twilight War.”
“I know, but who can say what those bastards might pull behind our backs? Better they were enemies than allies.”
“You’re becoming an officer. Can you be afraid of your own men? Don’t worry.”
And I said all that so confidently.
She clenched her fist. The scar on the back of her left hand seemed to sting more sharply than usual.
“Yes. Leaving tonight does look difficult. I’ll give you one more day’s grace.”
Captain Gordon smiled with the air of a man bestowing a great favor. Of course Ashlyn had not a single reason to feel grateful. He was shoving her and her platoon into a deathtrap without any real plan. But there was no time even to be angry at the injustice. She made no further reply and hurried toward the soldiers’ area.
By the time she arrived, the trench-raid team had already been assembled.
“Sergeant Vilev ordered it, ma’am.”
“…I see.”
He’s certainly competent.
Ashlyn ran her eyes over the members of the raid team. Seven in total—the senior of 1st Squad and veterans pulled from the other squads. Counting herself and Gennady, nine.
There was the practiced ease of a man who had done this kind of selection and team-building countless times. She suddenly remembered the personnel card she had looked at a week earlier.
Outstanding command ability; functions as the de facto leader of the detachment.
The selected men were all quiet. No usual cursing, no grumbling, not even idle jokes. Each of them, faces solemn, oiled weapons and checked ammunition.
That grim resolve made Ashlyn’s stomach churn beyond control. She had only now truly realized it: she was the officer in charge of this operation.
It was a strange feeling. However hard a trench raid might be, she had studied and simulated them endlessly during officer training. She had scored highest in every one of those exercises. Yet right now she felt like the worst fraud alive. An impulse rose to confess on the spot that she knew nothing, that she was unfit for this.
Behind her, cold sweat beading on her skin, came a loud clatter of metal.
“……?”
She turned and saw Gennady. He carried enormous crates in both hands; ammunition belts hung thick around his neck.
“Take more weapons.”
“Sergeant!”
“Whoa, you hauled all that yourself?”
The gloomy atmosphere lightened just a fraction. Without answering the soldiers at all, Gennady set the heavy crates down with solid thuds. One held shotguns; the other, short blades. Ashlyn asked him,
“Any particular reason you chose shotguns?”
“Best thing in a trench. Enemy pops up behind you, you just spray wherever.”
“Right.”
Still bent over, Gennady checked each weapon’s condition one after another with almost invisible speed. Finished in moments, he handed guns and knives out to the raid team.
Watching him, Ashlyn felt something off. She asked in a low voice,
“These aren’t the model issued for trench work. Where did they come from?”
“Fenrir Detachment issue.”
He answered without looking at her.
“Fenrir Detachment? Don’t tell me you just took them without a word.”
By the crateful, no less.
Still hunched, Gennady lifted his head toward her and replied with perfect calm.
“I didn’t.”
“What?”
Ashlyn’s mouth fell open. For an instant something like mischief sparked in Gennady’s yellow eyes. Then his face turned serious again and he added quickly,
“It’s fine. We’re heading straight into a fight. What does it matter whose is whose?”
“That doesn’t make stealing all right.”
“Out here it’s not the one who steals who’s wrong. It’s the one who gets robbed.”
Three seconds of silence. Glancing at her severe expression, Gennady shrugged one shoulder.
“It’s really fine. You don’t need to worry. Our own people are probably stripping this place bare right now anyway.”
“This is…”
Come to think of it, meat had been strangely scarce in the recent rations. That left little reason to argue with him. If they were stealing from us, then we had no choice but to steal… no, temporarily borrow. Ashlyn went on,
“Yesterday I got the trench positions and surrounding terrain from the recon team. Let’s go over it together.”
“Yes.”
The sergeant answered without a second’s hesitation. That clean decisiveness left a quiet ripple deep in Ashlyn’s chest—a still, unfamiliar ripple.
Half a day vanished in the blink of an eye. Throughout it Ashlyn had skipped both sleep and meals, working side by side with Sergeant Vilev. Together they drilled the men, studied the enemy trenches, and built the plan. They were still at it. Eight hours remained until departure.
Ashlyn kept blinking grit-dry eyes. She tried to force her attention onto the map in front of her, but after a sleepless night her mind kept fogging. Normally one all-nighter was nothing, yet the tension had left her thoroughly drained. After she had silently blinked several times more, Sergeant Vilev beside her spoke abruptly.
“It would be best if you closed your eyes for a short while.”
“…I’m fine.”
“You’re not. There’s a saying: nothing is more dangerous than a sleep-starved commander.”
“You know all sorts of things.”
“I’m a werewolf, not an idiot.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Ashlyn lifted her head and looked at him—and felt a small jolt of surprise. Of all the faces she had seen on Sergeant Vilev, this was the softest. The lips that usually pressed into a hard line now curved naturally; even his thick brows had eased into a gentle slope.
Perhaps because of the ease in his expression, right now he looked… not bad. She could find no better phrase.
Objectively, of course, his features were still far from perfect. He remained fierce-looking. Fresh blue stubble was already rising on his freshly shaved jaw, and the hollows of his cheeks looked knife-sharp.
And yet…
In that brief moment of distraction the man tugged one corner of his mouth upward into a faint smile.
“I know. You didn’t mean it badly.”
That was the point at which Ashlyn came back to herself.