Nikolai Volkov
The ringing in my ears from the gunshots had faded to a low, persistent buzz, but the weight in my chest hadn't eased. Every part of my body was tense, wired for war. Smoke still drifted in thin wisps through the air like phantoms refusing to leave. The coppery scent of blood mingled with the acrid tang of gunpowder, creating a cocktail that clung to my skin, my clothes—my soul.
I crouched low near the tall corner window of the east wing, my back pressed against the cool stone. My eyes stayed locked on the shadows moving outside across the manoir’s vast lawn. The golden afternoon light had long since surrendered to dusk, and now everything was bathed in hues of smoke, flame, and chaos. The kind of chaos that eats everything in its path.
Figures darted between trees and sculptures, flitting through hedges like wraiths. Muzzle flashes burst like fireflies in the dark—short, brutal flashes of violence, gone as quickly as they came. Some of the shadows I recognized. My
