(Jeanyx's Point of View)
Two months had passed since the Germans began whispering about the Demon Rider. The war had spread like rot through Europe's veins, every empire bleeding men and hope into the dirt.
I sat on a quiet hill that overlooked the madness—a lone figure against a burning sky. The smell of cordite and iron drifted even here, faint but constant. I bit into a burger, the warmth cutting through the cold air. Below, a mile away, the British and Germans tore each other apart in their trenches, a rhythm of smoke and screams that had long since lost meaning.
"Mmm… you're just going to eat that while there's a perfectly good massacre happening right over there?"
Nyxia's voice purred behind me—half-sarcastic, half-hungry. A moment later, her face emerged from my back like liquid shadow, the black-and-red symbiote forming a feminine shape that leaned toward me. Her sharp grin hovered near my ear.
"Come on, Jeanyx… just one bite. I'm starving." she pleaded, her tone sing-song but edged with temptation.
I didn't even glance back. I tore another piece from the burger, chewed slowly, and pointed lazily toward the battlefield.
"Your dinner's out there," I said through a mouthful. "Let me finish mine first."
Nyxia huffed, a ripple of dark tendrils briefly fluttering across my shoulder before retreating.
"Fine…" she muttered, slipping back into my body like a sigh.
The hill grew quiet again. Only the distant rumble of artillery and the crunch of my last bite broke the silence. I crumpled the paper and tossed it aside.
"Alright," I said, stretching my arms until the bones popped. "Let's work off the calories."
At my whistle, the still air around the hill trembled. A mechanical growl echoed from the base of the slope, followed by the snarl of an engine igniting in flame.
My bike stirred—its sleek form twisting, the metal warping with unnatural heat. Flames licked along its frame, black and violet, coiling like serpents down the tires. With a scream of ignition, it transformed into its hell mode, the air distorting from the sheer heat.
The ground cracked as it tore across the grass, wheels burning trenches of fire in its wake. The machine halted a breath from me, the infernal glow painting its curves like a living thing.
"Good girl," I murmured.
The bike's engine purred low, almost pleased. I swung a leg over the seat in one smooth motion, my hand wrapping around the handlebar. As I twisted the throttle, Nyxia's voice coiled through my mind again, soft but hungry.
"Shall we eat, my little god of carnage?"
A smirk tugged at my lips. "Let's make it quick. I hate cold leftovers."
The tires flared to life, black flame roaring against the soil. The bike screamed as it shot forward—an unholy comet streaking toward the horizon. Wind tore at my coat, fire trailed behind us like the tail of a dying star, and as we descended toward the battlefield, the earth itself seemed to recoil.
The Demon Rider had returned to war.
(timeskip)
No Man's Land was living up to its name.
Mud stretched in every direction, thick and wet, swallowing boots and bodies alike. The air was a cocktail of cordite, ash, and blood. Shells screamed overhead, bursting in ugly blooms that painted the fog orange. Men shouted orders no one could hear.
And through all of it, I rolled straight into the chaos.
The bike howled like a wounded god, flames spitting from its exhaust as I tore across the corpse-littered field. My coat snapped in the wind, the hood drawn low, violet fire leaking from the cracks in my skull.
"You're really gonna make me do all the work again?" Nyxia's voice purred in the back of my mind, low and teasing.
"You like it," I muttered.
"You're not wrong."
The first trench came up fast—British uniforms, rifles raised, terrified eyes. I didn't slow down. The scythe was in my hand before they even fired. A single swing. One long, effortless sweep.
Flame and bone met flesh and steel, and both lost.
Bodies split in half, rifles melted mid-trigger. The trench walls caved from the heat, the mud turning to black glass under my tires. Someone screamed "What is that?!" before the chain lashed out, wrapping around his chest. I gave it a flick. The man came apart like a doll filled with smoke.
Nyxia laughed in my ear, rich and delighted. "You always know how to make an entrance."
The Germans tried next. Their helmets glinted for half a heartbeat before the scythe came down again, splitting earth and men alike. I barely bothered aiming; everything in front of me burned, and everything behind me didn't exist anymore.
Somewhere in the haze, I got bored. Killing was easy. Too easy.
"You're slowing down," Nyxia whispered.
"Thinking," I said.
"About what?"
I smiled beneath the flame. "Lunch."
I leapt from the bike, landing hard enough to crack the ground. A soldier charged, bayonet trembling. I caught him by the arm, ripped it off at the shoulder, and flung it at another man. The first one screamed, so I shoved my hand through his chest to shut him up.
"Quiet," I muttered. "You're ruining the mood."
Nyxia's laughter filled the air again, deeper now, almost serpentine. My flames shifted darker, black edging into crimson. I crouched beside a dying man, his breath hitching, eyes wide with horror. The smell of blood was thick—sweet, metallic.
I didn't even think about it. I tore a strip of his arm free and bit down.
The taste was awful—ash and rot—but the warmth that followed wasn't. My veins burned brighter, the flame inside me flaring as the mold beneath my skin pulsed.
"Disgusting," Nyxia murmured, though I could feel her smirking inside me. "But effective."
"Fuel's fuel."
I stood again, the scythe dragging behind me. Every step left a molten footprint, each one slowly filling with black sludge that spread like veins through the dirt. The few men still alive tried to crawl away. I didn't chase them. I just flicked the blade once, and a wave of black fire rolled over them, snuffing their screams.
When it was over, there was nothing left but silence. The kind that only comes after too much death.
I sat back on the bike, letting the flames calm. My skull dimmed to a faint purple glow, smoke curling from my jaw like breath in cold air.
"You're quiet," Nyxia said after a while.
"Thinking again."
"About what this time?"
I looked out at the battlefield—nothing but smoke and bones, a world swallowed by its own appetite.
"About how easy it is to be what they say I am," I said softly. "A demon."
Nyxia's voice came warm, curling through my thoughts. "Easy doesn't mean wrong."
I revved the bike once, and the flames came back to life. "No," I said. "It doesn't."
The engine roared, and we vanished back into the smoke.
(timeskip)
The road back to the Russian lines was silent, save for the low growl of the bike beneath me. The fires of No Man's Land faded behind the hills, leaving only the stench of oil and death. The night was cold, and the sky above stretched clear and endless — but even the stars seemed dimmer here.
I rode slow. Not out of fatigue — that word meant nothing to me anymore — but because the world around me looked worse every time I passed through it.
Corpses hung from barbed wire like wet paper. Horses lay torn apart beside shattered wagons. Forests were nothing but blackened stumps, their roots charred into bone.
I felt something stir in my chest. Not guilt. Not pity. Something quieter. Sadness, maybe.
"People used to worship the earth," I muttered. "Now they bleed on it."
Nyxia's voice stirred in my mind, smooth and silken. "People have always been like this. They take, they burn, they call it progress. It's what they do best."
"Yeah," I said, my eyes drifting to the dead fields. "Guess that's why I don't feel like one of them anymore."
For a moment, silence. Then I felt her move — a warmth coiling across my spine, the faint hum of her pulse syncing with mine.
"You're better than them, Jeanyx," she whispered. "You don't just consume. You change. You survive. You make the world notice you."
I let out a small breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "You make that sound poetic."
"It is," she said softly. "You just stopped seeing it that way."
I didn't answer. Some truths were better left quiet.
The road curved east, where the smoke thinned enough to see moonlight spilling across a row of half-destroyed trucks. Military issue. Russian insignia painted over with British markings. Shell craters surrounded them like open graves.
Curiosity tugged at me, the old instinct from when I was still a soldier — the part that needed to know why.
"Hold on," I murmured.
The bike slowed to a stop, its tires hissing against the dirt. I stepped off, the ground crunching beneath my boots, and walked toward the wreck. One truck lay on its side, a shell hole splitting its front clean open. Metal groaned faintly in the wind.
There were bodies inside — twelve of them. Some still clutching rifles, others torn apart by the blast. But one was moving.
I crouched, shifting debris aside until I found him.
He wasn't British. The skin tone, the features — he was American. Not only that, he was Black, something you almost never saw on a European front line, not in this war.
Blood stained the side of his uniform, his breathing shallow but steady. His eyes cracked open when I touched his neck to check for a pulse.
"Easy," I said. "You're lucky to be breathing."
He tried to speak, but it came out as a rasp of air and blood. His hand twitched toward the others — maybe friends, maybe strangers. Didn't matter. They were gone.
"Not your day," I muttered.
I hoisted him over my shoulder with ease, his weight nothing compared to the armor I carried inside.
"You're bringing him?" Nyxia asked, her tone amused.
"Yeah," I said. "He's not supposed to be here. I want to know why."
"You could just eat him," she teased.
I rolled my eyes. "You're not getting dinner from this one."
She sighed dramatically in my head. "You're no fun lately."
I ignored her and carried the man back to the bike. Once seated, I settled him against my back, making sure he wouldn't fall. The engine flared to life with a hungry growl, fire lighting the night.
As we rode off into the dark, I glanced over my shoulder at the wreck one last time — a pile of twisted metal, the last breath of another lost convoy swallowed by a war that didn't know when to stop.
For the first time in a long while, I felt something close to purpose again.
By the time the sun began to rise, we were far from the front. The world had gone quiet again — no gunfire, no screaming, just the low rumble of my bike and the whisper of wind cutting through pine.
The man—Malik, I'd later learn—was draped over the backseat, half-conscious, blood still wet on his side. I'd cauterized the wound with my flame before we rode; he hadn't even screamed. Just grit his teeth and muttered something about "not giving his old man the satisfaction."
When we reached the ruins of an old farmhouse, I stopped. The roof was gone, the walls cracked, but it was dry and hidden. I laid him down against what was left of a wall, tore the rest of his uniform open to check the wound.
"Lucky bastard," I muttered. "Any deeper and you'd be fertilizer."
His eyes cracked open. "Guess… luck ain't all bad then."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're awake."
"Barely," he said, coughing. "But I've had worse."
"American," I said. "You're a long way from home."
He chuckled weakly. "You could say that. Volunteered to fight with the Brits. Thought I'd… prove something."
"Prove what?"
He swallowed, staring at the broken rafters above him. "That I'm not what my old man said I was. A disappointment. A failure."
I stayed quiet for a moment. There was something in the way he said it that cut close — too close. I'd spent my life chasing the same thing, only to realize the one I wanted to prove wrong was never worth the effort.
"You think dying in a foreign field's gonna change that?" I asked.
He smiled bitterly. "It was worth a shot."
I sat beside him, leaning back against the wall. "You remind me of someone," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Me."
He let out a breath of a laugh, dry and tired. "Don't know if that's a compliment."
"Neither do I."
For a while, we just listened to the wind through the empty windows. The world outside was still bleeding, but in here, it was calm.
Finally, I stood, turned to face him, and held out my hand. "Come with me."
He blinked up at me. "What?"
"You want to prove you're not a failure? Stop trying to impress ghosts. Find your own purpose. You're breathing — that's proof enough you're not done yet."
He hesitated. Looked at my hand. Then at me. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," I said. "Just don't die before you figure it out."
For a long moment, he didn't move. Then he reached up and gripped my hand.
The flames came on their own — black and violet, wrapping around our clasped hands. Malik flinched, but the fire didn't burn. It flowed between our fingers like liquid light before fading into smoke.
His eyes widened. "What the hell was that?"
"Call it a contract," I said. "A promise."
He stared at me, then nodded slowly. "Alright… I'll ride with you. But only for two years. I've got a wife and a kid back in New York. I'm not staying gone forever."
I smiled faintly. "Fair enough."
Nyxia's voice purred somewhere inside me, her tone dripping with amusement. "You're collecting strays now?"
"Maybe," I said under my breath. "But this one's got some fire."
"Hmm. I can smell it."
I helped Malik to his feet, steadying him as he leaned against the wall. He still looked half-dead, but his eyes had that spark again — the kind that doesn't come from survival, but from being given a reason.
"Rest for a few hours," I said. "Then we ride."
He gave a short nod. "Yeah. Sounds good… boss."
I smirked. "Don't call me that."
As he slumped back into uneasy sleep, I stepped outside, letting the cold wind wash over me. The dawn was pale, thin — a weak sun struggling to warm a dying world.
But for the first time in a long time, I wasn't alone.
(timeskip)
By noon, Malik was steady enough to ride. He'd found a rusted sidecar rig bolted to a half-dead Russian bike, patched together with scrap and sheer defiance. It coughed smoke every time he kicked it to life, but it moved — and for a man who'd just survived being shelled, that was good enough.
We tore across the fields, wind cutting sharp and cold, the road stretching into oblivion. Malik clung to the handlebars, his teeth gritted, the engine rattling like a dying beast.
"You sure this thing's not gonna explode?" he shouted over the roar of the wind.
"No promises!" I yelled back.
Nyxia chuckled inside my mind. "If he dies, can I have the bike?"
I ignored her.
The air smelled of smoke again before long. The kind of smoke that didn't come from machines — thick, oily, and wrong. As we crested a ridge, I saw them: a squad of German soldiers in gray coats, maybe thirty strong, combing through a burned-out village below. Houses gutted, livestock shot, the usual brutality.
Malik saw them a second later. He cut the engine, coasting to a stop beside me. "They're wiping out civilians," he said quietly.
I watched, silent. The soldiers laughed as they kicked through doorways, pulling out anyone still breathing. One of them raised his rifle and shot a man who tried to crawl away.
Malik's hands trembled on the throttle. "We can't just—"
I looked at him, my voice flat. "We can."
He stared at me, searching my face for something human. Whatever he saw wasn't it.
"Stay here," I said, rolling my shoulders. "This won't take long."
I revved the bike, flames igniting beneath me. The machine roared to life — the sound alone made birds burst from the trees. Nyxia's voice hummed with anticipation. "Finally. I was starting to think you'd gone soft."
"Not today."
The first soldier noticed me too late. The bike hit him before he could turn, his body folding beneath the wheels as black fire trailed behind. I swung the scythe low, and the blade carved a burning crescent through three more men before they could raise their rifles.
"Was zur Hölle—!" one screamed.
"Hell's closer than you think," I muttered.
Flames erupted in every direction. Bullets cut through the smoke, useless, melting midair before reaching me. I could feel Nyxia's laughter in my chest — it wasn't a sound, but a pulse of wild hunger, feeding off the fear around us.
One of the soldiers charged me with a bayonet. I grabbed him by the throat mid-lunge, lifted him like a child, and slammed him through a wall. His skull cracked against the bricks.
Two more came from the side — I spun, chain unfurling, snapping like lightning. It wrapped around one man's neck, yanked him off his feet, and dragged him into the other. They hit the ground as one, tangled, screaming as the fire consumed them both.
By the time the smoke cleared, half the squad was gone. The rest ran. Some dropped their weapons. A few fired blindly into the haze. It didn't matter.
I stepped off the bike, walking through the chaos. The scythe burned like a black sun in my hand, each swing cutting down another life, each death feeding the fire crawling up my arms.
Nyxia whispered, almost lovingly, "You're beautiful when you stop pretending to be human."
I didn't answer.
When the last man fell, I let the flames die. My skull dimmed, flesh reforming. The silence afterward was deafening — no birds, no wind, just the sound of something dripping from my blade.
Behind me, Malik's engine sputtered as he rolled into the village, wide-eyed and pale. He slowed to a stop beside me, staring at the bodies.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered.
"Not his work," I said.
He looked at me, then down at my hands — still faintly glowing, steam curling from the skin. "How the hell are you even real?"
"Ask your country," I said. "They'll find a way to make one of me eventually."
He shook his head, exhaling shakily. "You're a goddamn nightmare."
"Maybe," I said, climbing back on my bike. "But I'm your ride home."
He hesitated, then smiled, small and tired. "You've got a weird idea of charity, boss."
"Told you not to call me that."
As we rode away, the village burned quietly behind us. The flames spread slow, not natural fire but something deeper — something that would leave no trace of what had been done here.
Malik glanced back once. "You know, most people would've tried to save them first."
"Most people aren't me."
"Yeah," he said softly. "That's what scares me."
I didn't reply. I didn't need to. The road stretched ahead, endless and empty, and the war rolled on.
But somewhere beneath the silence, a strange feeling stirred — not pride, not guilt. Just the faint, reluctant sense that maybe, for once, I hadn't been fighting alone.
We'd been riding for an hour when the sound finally got to me.
Malik's bike rattled like a dying tin can, coughing and wheezing every time he hit a bump. It was a miracle the thing hadn't exploded. Every few minutes he'd smack the side of the tank and mutter, "Come on, girl, hold it together," like that was going to help.
After the tenth sputter, I stopped.
"Kill the engine," I said.
He coasted to a stop beside me, lifting his goggles. "What's wrong?"
"The sound."
He blinked. "The sound?"
"That noise your junk pile keeps making. I can hear it rattling over the damn wind."
He frowned, wiping grime from his forehead. "She's old, man. You're lucky she moves at all."
I sighed, rubbing my temple. "Move back."
He stepped aside, watching as I knelt beside the bike. The red stones on my bracelets began to glow, bright enough to cast color across the metal. Energy pulsed outward — slow at first, then rising, threads of crimson weaving into the frame. The air shimmered around it, metal shifting like liquid under invisible hands.
Malik's eyes widened. "Uh… what the hell are you doing?"
"Upgrading."
The bike began to change. Rust vanished, replaced by smooth black metal that gleamed like polished obsidian. The lines curved sleek and modern, the body lighter, leaner. Chrome veins traced along the tank, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The old frame lengthened slightly, the seat dropping lower, wheels morphing into fat black treads that looked carved from shadow.
By the time the light faded, it was a different machine — something far beyond 1916. The engine gave a soft, deep growl, more like a predator clearing its throat than a motor.
Malik just stared. "That's… not my bike."
"It is now."
He walked a slow circle around it, eyes wide. "This thing looks like it came out of the future. You sure it'll run?"
I smirked. "Try it."
He swung a leg over the seat and twisted the throttle. The bike purred — smooth, powerful, alive. The deep hum rolled through the ground, no more rattling, no more smoke. Malik grinned like a kid seeing magic for the first time.
"Holy hell," he said. "You turned her into a beast."
"Consider it a gift," I said, getting back on mine.
He revved it again, laughing under his breath. "You know, you could make a fortune back home doing this."
"Yeah," I said. "But then I'd have to deal with people."
He chuckled. "Fair point."
The two engines roared in unison, fire and steel singing through the open road. And for the first time since we'd met, Malik didn't sound like he was dragging death behind him — he sounded free.
(timeskip)
(Malik's Point of View)
The outpost looked like it had been carved out of frost and misery. Barracks made of warped timber, sandbags frozen solid, and soldiers who looked like they'd been born tired. We rode in just as the sun started to sink, the sky bleeding orange into the snow.
Jeanyx slowed his bike, and the air around us seemed to change. The guards at the gate straightened like strings pulled tight. Then the moment one of them recognized him, the whole place went still.
The Russian shouted something — sharp, formal — and every man in earshot snapped to attention.
I didn't understand a word of it. Hell, I barely understood the alphabet around here. But one word hit my ear clear as day:
"Prince."
I turned to look at Jeanyx, and for once, the guy actually looked a little… awkward. He gave a small wave to the soldiers before killing the engine.
"Wait, wait, wait—" I said, pulling off my goggles. "Did that man just call you Prince?"
Jeanyx blinked at me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah? Man, you didn't think to mention that before?"
He tilted his head, genuinely confused. "I thought it was obvious."
"Obvious?" I stared at him, then laughed so hard it echoed off the barracks. "Buddy, you don't exactly scream royalty! No crown, no throne, no... whatever rich folks ride around on—horses made of silk?"
Jeanyx gave me that deadpan stare he'd perfected. "I'm literally riding a flaming motorcycle."
"Yeah, but that's more hellspawn chic, not royal."
He sighed, brushing a strand of his black hair out of his eyes. "I'm Russian. My family name used to mean something before all this."
I squinted at him. "Wait—you're Russian? For real?"
"Born here," he said, like it wasn't worth explaining.
I stared a moment longer. "You sure? 'Cause, no offense, but you don't look the part."
He frowned slightly. "What does that mean?"
"Hey, don't get me wrong," I said quickly, hands up. "It's just… you look more Asian than Russian, man. You've got that—uh—smooth, fox-looking thing going on. Most Russians I've met are built like refrigerators."
Jeanyx blinked, as if processing that. "I see."
"Not an insult," I added fast. "Just saying. Where I'm from, all white folks kinda blur together till they start talking. The accent's the giveaway."
He actually laughed at that — a short, quiet sound that seemed to surprise even him. "My mother was Japanese," he said finally. "My father was Romanov. I got her face. His hair."
I nodded slowly, studying him. "So basically, you took all her good looks and left the rest behind."
Jeanyx smirked. "Something like that."
We rolled further into the outpost, soldiers parting like a tide. Every single one of them saluted when we passed, eyes full of awe and fear. Some whispered prayers under their breath. Others wouldn't meet his gaze at all.
It wasn't respect. It was reverence—the kind people give to something they don't understand but know can destroy them.
I leaned toward him as we parked. "You sure they're not gonna start building you a church or something?"
He cut the engine. "If they do, I'll burn it down."
"Yeah," I said with a grin. "That sounds about right."
He slid off the bike, and as his boots hit the snow, the crowd around us took a step back—every soldier like a magnet repelled by the same invisible force. Jeanyx didn't seem to notice. He just brushed the frost off his coat, calm as ever.
But I saw it. The way they looked at him. Like he was something halfway between an angel and a curse.
And for the first time since I'd met him, I started to wonder if they might be right.
The inside of the outpost looked more like a monastery than a barracks. The walls were thick logs blackened by frost, candles burned low on every table, and icons of saints stared down from the rafters as if even heaven was keeping score.
When Jeanyx walked in, the room straightened like a soldier's spine. Every man present—officers, guards, even the ones cleaning rifles—stood to attention. The sound of chairs scraping echoed through the wooden hall.
He didn't speak English to them. His tone shifted, low and cold, rolling off his tongue in Russian that sounded like command wrapped in silk.
"Где командир?" (Where is the commander?)
A junior officer stepped forward nervously.
"Он ждёт вас в штабе, принц." (He's waiting for you in the command office, Prince.)
Jeanyx gave a curt nod and strode deeper into the building. I followed behind, earning a few suspicious glances. No one said a word, but their eyes asked everything: Who the hell is this foreigner?
When we reached the command office, an older man sat behind the desk. Thick mustache, half his face marked by a scar, and eyes sharp enough to slice through armor. He stood as soon as Jeanyx entered, a mix of respect and old pain on his face.
"Я думал, что больше никогда тебя не увижу, Jeanyx." (I thought I'd never see you again, Jeanyx.)
Jeanyx cracked a faint smile. "Жизнь любит удивлять, генерал." (Life loves surprises, General.)
The man's gaze flicked over him—at the dark coat, the black gloves, the faint ember glow that seemed to linger around Jeanyx like a shadow. He didn't ask how or why. I got the sense he already knew not to.
Then the general's eyes landed on me.
"И этот?" (And this one?)
Jeanyx looked over his shoulder. "Американец. Я спас его." (American. I saved him.)
The general grunted, unimpressed. "Американцы скоро присоединятся к этой бойне. Но это — чернокожий. Я не видел таких здесь раньше." (Americans will join this slaughter soon enough. But this one—he's a black man. Haven't seen one of those here before.)
I couldn't understand a damn word, but I caught the tone. The kind that makes a man's stomach twist.
Jeanyx's voice sharpened. "Следи за языком. Он солдат. Такого же дерьма, как и все мы." (Watch your tongue. He's a soldier, same as the rest of us.)
The general blinked, then chuckled softly, raising his hands. "Как скажешь, принц. Ты всегда защищал слабых. Даже когда не стоило." (As you say, Prince. You always defended the weak—even when it wasn't worth it.)
I caught that last word—Prince—again. My stomach flipped.
They talked for a while, fast and sharp. Jeanyx leaned over the table, voice low, gesturing toward a map pinned to the wall. The general listened, nodded, cursed under his breath. I caught fragments: "Берлин," "северный фронт," "новое оружие." I didn't need a translation to know it was bad.
After a few minutes, Jeanyx turned toward me.
"We're moving out tomorrow," he said.
"That what all that was?"
He nodded. "There's a German division pushing north. They've got something new—something I need to see."
"Great," I muttered. "And here I thought we'd actually sleep for once."
He smirked faintly, then glanced back at the general. They exchanged one more phrase—quiet, heavy.
"Береги себя, мальчик." (Take care of yourself, boy.)
"Я уже давно не мальчик." (Haven't been a boy in a long time.)
The general just sighed. "Нет, Jeanyx. Всё равно — не человек." (No, Jeanyx. Still not human, either.)
I didn't need to speak Russian to feel that one. The look that passed between them wasn't anger—it was grief.
As we stepped back into the cold, I finally asked, "What'd he say at the end there?"
Jeanyx gave a small shrug. "Old men like to talk."
"That didn't sound like small talk."
He didn't answer. Just started walking toward the barracks, his coat catching the wind like smoke.
After a moment, I jogged to catch up. "You really are a prince, huh?"
He looked at me, half amused, half annoyed. "I was."
"What's that make you now?"
Jeanyx looked up at the sky, where the snow had started to fall again. "Something the crown couldn't control."
I let out a low whistle. "Damn. You're like a Russian fairy tale gone wrong."
He actually smiled at that. "You're not entirely wrong."
The soldiers we passed lowered their heads as he walked by, whispering his name like a prayer.
"Принц. Сын огня." (Prince. Son of fire.)
And as I watched him disappear into the dark, I started to understand why they spoke like that.
Jeanyx wasn't a man you followed because you had to.
He was a man you followed because the world stopped making sense if you didn't.
That night, the snow came down quiet and steady—thick enough to swallow sound, thin enough to keep the sky ghost-white. Most of the outpost bunked down early. I couldn't sleep. Between the cold and the noise from the men, I gave up on rest and went wandering.
The barracks were dim, lit by oil lamps and the occasional candle stub. The Russians huddled close to their stoves, trading cigarettes and whispers. They stopped talking when I walked by at first—foreigners weren't common out here—but eventually curiosity beat caution.
A few of them smiled and waved me over. I didn't know a word of Russian, but a warm fire's a universal invitation. I took a seat on a crate, and before long the stories started again.
They were talking about him.
At first I only caught the name—Jeanyx. Then came other words I didn't need translated: "принц," "огонь," "дьявол." Prince. Fire. Devil.
The way they said it sent a chill through me. It wasn't just respect. It was something heavier—like worship tangled up with fear.
One of the soldiers pantomimed with his hands, describing something with sweeping gestures—flames, wings, a scythe. Another one muttered something about "ад" and "воскресение." Hell and resurrection. They all crossed themselves after that.
A younger soldier, maybe twenty, whispered a question I could just barely make out:
"Он человек?" (Is he human?)
No one answered.
I leaned back, staring into the fire. Two years. That's what they'd said when we got here—that the Prince had been dead for two years. 1913. Officially gone. And yet here he was, walking their halls, breathing their air, drinking their vodka.
Only he didn't breathe much. Didn't eat. Barely slept.
Even for a man who'd seen him rip through a trench full of Germans, the thought made my stomach knot.
Someone poured me a tin cup of something that could've passed for vodka or engine fuel—I didn't ask which. I took a drink and felt it burn all the way down.
The talk grew softer, reverent almost. I picked out fragments. "Возвратился из смерти…"—returned from death. "Спаситель России…"—savior of Russia. "Проклятый сын царя…"—the cursed son of the Tsar.
They believed all of it. Maybe they needed to.
Outside, wind rattled the windows. I stood, muttered a thank you in English, and stepped back into the cold.
Across the yard, Jeanyx stood alone near the gate, coat pulled tight, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon. Snow melted before it touched him. The air around him shimmered faintly, bending with the heat of something that didn't belong in this world.
For a moment, he looked more spirit than man—like the rumors weren't exaggerations but understatements.
I walked up beside him, the crunch of snow under my boots breaking the quiet. "You know they tell stories about you, right?"
He didn't look at me. "They always have."
"They think you're some kind of holy monster. A prince who crawled out of the grave to save them."
He huffed softly, a breath that might've been a laugh. "Close enough."
I studied him for a moment. The flames in his eyes burned low tonight—violet instead of the usual black. "They said you died two years ago."
"I did," he said simply. "And they buried the man I was. Everything since then… is just the echo."
The way he said it—quiet, matter-of-fact—made the snow feel colder.
After a moment, I asked, "You ever wish you'd stayed dead?"
He finally turned to me. The wind caught his hair, the black strands glinting faint red in the firelight from the tower lamps. "Sometimes," he said. "But then I remember why I came back."
"Your uncle," I said.
He nodded. "And now this war. Can't decide which one's uglier."
I laughed under my breath. "You and me both."
We stood there a while, just watching the snow fall. Somewhere in the distance, artillery rumbled—dull, lazy thunder rolling across the front.
Finally, Jeanyx spoke again. "Get some rest, Malik. Tomorrow we head north."
"Yeah," I said, glancing back toward the barracks. "You think the stories will still sound the same after that?"
He gave me that same ghost of a smile. "Stories never sound the same once you meet the monster."
And with that, he walked away into the falling snow, the light bending faintly around him until the dark swallowed him whole.