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Chapter Six

Cobetsnya, Kolakolvia

Illarion Glazkov


The great city of Cobetsnya was unlike anything Illarion had ever seen, for both better and for worse.

In his twenty-one years of life, his world had revolved around farming, running the family mill, and the knowledge that he would one day marry Hana. Raising a family had been his life’s goal. One day, of course, he’d imagined he would travel to Cobetsnya to see the rumored, grand market. The village elders always spoke of the sprawling bazaar. Every few feet another booth selling goods from the far corners of the Tsar’s ever-expanding empire. Illarion had wanted so desperately to see that collection of vendors. To take Hana with him and meet different and distant peoples. All those potential meetings were gone now. What lives would she have touched if not for his unfaithfulness to the Sister of Nature? All he could do now was try to atone.

And now here he was.

For whatever reason, he’d always imagined a massive wall around the city, encompassing it, marking the beginning of Kolakolvia’s capitol with hard edges. Except there were no outer walls, just buildings forever. At first it was like any other village, but then things got tighter and tighter, and the houses closer and closer, until it seemed it would never stop.

“What do you think, Illarion?” the farmer’s wife had asked.

“It’s all very overwhelming.”

“This is just the outskirts, dear.”

With new eyes, he’d looked around at the small homes and bustling people. Children ran in the roads, chasing dogs or being chased by them. It all seemed perfectly ordinary. Sure, the homes trended toward the smaller size, and the plots of land they rested on were nowhere near the size of those in his home village of Ilyushka. But the residents seemed happy enough as far as he could tell.

It wasn’t until they had driven beyond the equivalent of a dozen Ilyushkas uninterrupted that the real Cobetsnya began to appear. The buildings grew larger and taller. There were streets and side streets, some with twenty, fifty, or maybe even a hundred structures larger than his mill. Beyond those were buildings that were even taller, with magnificent domes and spires on top of them.

And the people . . . so many people . . . Illarion couldn’t even comprehend the numbers they were so vast. There were a multitude of other wagons on the road with them now. There were noisy factories, and giant smokestacks so big that he could feel the heat coming off them from a hundred feet away. There were poles along the road, with wires running between them, their purpose a mystery, and Illarion was confused at the way the wires seemed to make a buzzing noise.

“Cobetsnya is quite the city, is it not?”

The structures they passed were mostly gray but where color did mark them to break up the monotony, it was always bright red. Illarion closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to banish the illusion of fresh, bright blood on snow. On many of the flat walls were massive paintings—most chipped and weatherworn—depicting soldiers in heroic poses against crimson backdrops. Lettering appeared on most of the paintings, but he couldn’t tell what they said. Reading hadn’t been a skill he’d ever needed before. Hana had promised to teach him after the wedding.

“What do the paintings say?” he asked.

“Hmm? Oh. Sorry.” The farmer—his name was Olef—looked around as if seeing them for the first time. “I hardly notice them anymore. Let’s see. Ah yes. Goodness. It’s been a while since I’ve really looked at them. A lot of these have been here since I was your age. How old are you, son?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Twen . . . ” Olef twisted around on his bench and looked Illarion up and down. “How are you not already in the military, boy? Someone your size should be out in the trenches.”

“No one ever came to my village,” he said apologetically. If only he’d known his lack of service would cause such suffering, he would’ve volunteered as required. He would have died a hundred times over in the war so the rest of the village could have lived out their lives in peace under the Witch’s protection.

“Huh. Well, if anyone asks, tell them you’re eighteen. Kids have been thrown in gulags for not conscripting on time. Boys. Girls. They don’t care anymore. War’s been going on too damn long. Who knows—”

“Dear?” Olef’s wife, Parva, put a hand on his arm.

“Sorry. Sorry. Anyway. The murals all say these sorts of things. ‘Glory in Obedience.’ ‘For the Holy Tsar.’ ‘The Wall Ever Advances.’ Things like that. When I was your age, those slogans used to mean something.”

His wife slapped him on the arm.

If there was one thing Illarion had learned in his village it was to never get involved in any argument between a farmer and his wife. There was no winning side . . . other than the wife’s. He kept his mouth firmly shut.

The murals repeated themselves regularly. Their brightness and size became less arresting with each repetition, and soon faded from his immediate notice. Free of the distraction, he soon saw the buildings for what they really were.

Every building in this part looked the same. Doors in the same places. Windows in the same corners of the walls. Some of them even had nearly identical signs of wear. The people trudging along the streets all kept their heads down. Hands buried in pockets or in armpits. Their clothes were all muted browns and grays. Even the children were more reserved. It was as if everyone was afraid of being noticed.

What were they so afraid of?

The sound of shattering glass made Illarion jump. A man’s body hit the street behind the wagon.

“Did you see that?”

“Do not get involved,” Olef warned, voice low. “Someone must have decided that man was a criminal.”

Illarion looked back at the farmer and his wife, who both were making studious efforts to keep their focus straight ahead.

The man was cut and bleeding from being thrown through the second-floor window. He tried to stand. His left arm hung at a twisted angle, broken from the landing. Two men in green uniforms with red armbands calmly walked out the front door of that building and grabbed the wounded criminal, one under each arm. They pulled him into a nearby alley.

No one even paused to give notice.

This wasn’t the city Illarion had dreamed of visiting.

Their oxen slowed. Olef looked back with a strained smile on his face. “Well, here we are. Cobetsnya Market. We need to pay a quick tax on our crop, then hopefully we’ll be able to make the trades we need. This is as far as we go. Do you know your destination from here?”

“I’ll be fine.” Despite their concerns, Illarion had managed to tell the couple very little about what had brought him here. “Thank you for your kindness. May your harvests be bountiful.”

Olef’s and Parva’s expressions went from strained to genuinely pleased at the traditional farmer’s blessing. Parva hopped down from her seat and came around to wrap her arms around Illarion’s waist in a hug. The small woman said, “Take care of yourself.”

Olef simply nodded and tipped his hat in Illarion’s direction.

The line of identical buildings—he wasn’t sure if they were homes or workplaces—opened up into a large open square. An enormous statue of a man on a rearing horse adorned the exact center of the space. He wondered who it was, and why it was important.

Small tables with people behind them were arranged in evenly spaced rows throughout the town square. Soldiers in those green uniforms he’d seen earlier walked up and down through the aisles, occasionally stopping to inspect the good being offered at this shop or that. Customers waited in line after line, heads down. Many held meager offerings they had either already purchased, or which were available for trade.

Illarion stared at the somber gathering, mouth agape. Surely this wasn’t the grand market he’d heard so much about. It couldn’t be. That market had been full of life. Full of laughter and good-natured arguments as people bartered and bickered over prices. Illarion moved to the mouth of a nearby alley to watch the proceedings of business, and to stay out of the way of the monitoring soldiers.

A uniformed man, a wagon laden with a variety of goods being pulled behind him, approached Olef and his wife. The farmer removed his hat and held it to his chest as a gesture of subservience.

“Business?” the official asked, looking down at a clipboard, pencil in hand.

“Frost-melons,” Olef said. The other man nodded and made a note on the paper.

“Quantity?” he asked.

“Two hundred.”

The man looked up from his notes. “Two hundred? Are you sure?”

“Two hundred and seven, to be exact,” Parva said.

The official looked from Olef to Parva, then back again. “Is this number correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Olef said.

“Very good.” He made a few notations with the pencil, then handed Olef the clipboard. “Please write your farm number and sign your name here. The tax amount is noted in the far-right column.”

Olef studied the paper, then looked up, shocked. “Seventy-five percent? This is far more than last year.”

“Taxes have increased due to the war.”

“But—”

“Are you refusing to pay taxes to the Tsar?”

“No, no.” Olef held both hands up, trying to placate the official. His hat fell to the ground without anyone seeming to take notice. “It’s just, seventy-five percent is a significant amount. That doesn’t leave us enough to trade for the seed we need. It’s—”

“One hundred fifty-six melons. We round up.” He pointed to the clipboard in Olef’s hands. “Please sign. Failure to comply will result in penalties. Do you wish to proceed?”

A visibly frightened Olef—whether from the words or the tone in which they had been delivered, Illarion didn’t know—quickly shut his mouth and signed the paper.

“The Tsar thanks you for your loyalty,” the official said, then motioned for the men pulling the cart to unload Olef’s wagon.

Illarion pulled himself deeper into the alley as he watched. He wanted to weep, but no tears could make it past the shock he felt. To think he’d always dreamed of visiting legendary Cobetsnya. He could imagine himself standing before that official, just like Olef had. Hana at his side like Parva by her husband’s.

But Hana was dead.

Maybe his dreams as well.

Finding where he needed to go to volunteer for Kolakolvian military service proved a simple matter. It only took one question. He asked a woman in one of the green uniforms, and she’d pointed him down one of the main thoroughfares and said to look for the line.

After walking for the better part of an hour, Illarion found the recruiters. There was a massive crowd waiting. Men, they called themselves, but they looked like children to Illarion’s eyes. So very young. Had any of them ever ploughed a field? Hunted a deer? Been in love?

No one spoke to him. They all kept their eyes downcast and moved forward one step at a time in the direction of a set of tables. Illarion found his own gaze settling on his feet as he joined the soundless masses. He lost himself in his own thoughts, not even noticing as he took one inexorable step forward at a time. Pulled along in the somber tide. He felt his soul slowly crushed by the oppressive weight of the city, the dust of it blown, lost, into the air.

Had this been what the Sister wanted for him? Part of him wanted to rebel against the conformity. He didn’t want to be like these other mindless, soulless drones.

“Name?”

How could he be part of this giant machine of war yet be the man he wanted to be? Distinguish himself before being extinguished?

“Name, son. Can you speak?”

Illarion looked up, realizing he was at the front of the line standing before a table. Behind the table sat a man in a green coat with red stripes down the arms. A “V” with an inset star marked his sleeves. Illarion had no idea what it meant, but it seemed important enough.

“Y-yes. I can speak.”

The man set his pencil down and put his hands together in a mimicry of prayer. “Son, there are hundreds of enlistees behind you. Can you forget you are an inbred peasant farmer for a moment and state your damn name?”

“Oh. Sorry. Illarion Alexandrovich Glazkov.”

“Not exactly a name to inspire the masses. Won’t look too great on a grave marker either, assuming you rate one.”

The harsh north bred tough people, yet there was something about this soldier that told Illarion he was the most dangerous man he had ever met. If he were to stand, he would probably be nearly as tall as Illarion, but he was lean as a wilderness hermit. He stared through Illarion with eyes that were blue and unforgiving as glacier ice.

“Town and region name?”

“I am from the village of Ilyushka. I don’t know the region.”

“Ilyushka? Where the Sister’s ass is that?”

Illarion managed to keep from flinching at the blasphemy. “It’s very far to the north, where the tundra begins.”

“How long did it take you to get here, son?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir. What day is it?”

“Your enlistment day. The most important day of your life. Sign your name on this paper and state your age. We’ll get you moved on to aptitude testing, for all the good it will do you or the Tsar’s army. What are you standing there for? Sign the damn paper.”

“I don’t know how to read or write, sir.”

The grizzled soldier’s expression stayed flat and emotionless. “I’m so very shocked.” He pushed a paper forward that had a series of letters on it. He pointed to two of them. “That one is the first letter of your first name. This one is the same for your last name. Copy them down. Goddesses have mercy on me. I hate when I’m assigned recruitment duty.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “How old are you, Glazkov?”

Illarion carefully copied the two letters onto the paper the soldier had pointed to. He remembered Olef’s advice. “I’m . . . I’m eighteen, sir.”

“And I’m a virgin. You must count as good as you read. How many times have you turned eighteen? You’re as big as a bear.”

“Just the once, sir.”

The soldier sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I just . . . I just can’t make myself care today. I can’t even imagine the patience your parents must have to deal with you. Though perhaps that’s why they sent you here.”

“They are dead, sir. Entire village was killed by . . . they were all killed.”

Illarion thought the soldier was going to berate him again, but instead the man nodded. “Then the Tsar will gladly take you. We love orphans. We aren’t as good-looking as your mother, and we’ll be stricter than your father. But we’ll take care of you.” He thought it over for a moment. “Because you’re the right size, I expect I’ll be seeing you again soon, Glazkov. I am Kapitan Maxim Spartok. These men behind me will take you from here. Welcome to the Tsar’s army.”

Illarion was ushered along with dozens of other new recruits. Those who carried personal items too big to fit in a pocket were instructed to leave them in an ever-growing pile. His only possessions had been the shovel which he’d left in Olef’s wagon and the clothes on his back.

Then they stopped in front of a group of old women with measuring tapes. Behind the ladies were piles of uniforms in various sizes and states of wear. A woman only half his height looked up at Illarion, less than impressed. She measured the length of his legs, his waist, and foot size. Then she waved him down onto his knees so she could measure the wideness of his chest and shoulders, his neck, and the length of his arms.

She looked down at the markings she’d made on a small chalkboard, and muttered, “You’re too large. Wait here.” She scurried off and disappeared between piles of clothing and was gone for several minutes before returning with boots, pants, a shirt, undergarments, socks, and a coat. “This is your issued uniform. The Tsar provides one. If you wish more, you will be given the opportunity to purchase more using your monthly stipend, though there are no more boots or coats. Those are strictly rationed.”

“When will I receive this . . . stipend?”

“In one month.”

“Oh.” Illarion looked at the small bundle in his arms. “Can I buy some now, and owe?”

“No. You’re too damned big. These are already slightly used as it is.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He looked down at the shirt. There was a small hole above the left breast pocket. He brought it closer to look at the edges of the hole where there appeared to be a bloodstain. “Is that a bullet hole?”

“I said ‘slightly used.’ Be glad I had anything at all in your size. Sign here. It acknowledges that you are in receipt of a complete uniform, plus one pair of boots and one coat. Failure to sign your name will be taken as theft, and you will be executed accordingly.”

Illarion thought to laugh at the woman’s joke, but then quickly realized she wasn’t actually joking. He wrote down the same letters he’d put down on the last paper, then rejoined the steady stream of enlistees.

The flow of humanity ground to a halt as the recruits were divided into two groups. Once he was close enough to see more than just a haze of blurred images, Illarion could tell they were being sorted by size. The smallest went one way, everyone else another. Occasionally an enlistee would be measured again, and then be sent to a different line depending on the results.

When Illarion arrived at the front to be sorted they pulled him aside.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” he lied again.

“Can you run?”

“Yes.”

“Any breathing problems?”

“No? I don’t think so.”

“Anything we should be aware of?”

“I can’t see very far.”

That soldier waved the response away. “Step over here. We need to measure you.”

“Can’t you just use the measurements the old lady back there took?”

“How about you keep your mouth shut and let us do our jobs? Arms out straight from your sides.”

The soldier stretched a measuring tape against his arms, legs, even his fingers. He encircled Illarion’s waist like the old woman had. But then he measured Illarion’s legs, neck, and biceps. They had Illarion flex every muscle possible and measured again. No one else that Illarion saw had been measured so extensively.

“Congratulations,” the soldier said, though his voice lacked any emotion to give the praise any real meaning. “You are a candidate for the Wall. You have been selected to undergo a series of additional tests and screenings. Strelet Darus will take you to the testing grounds. The Tsar thanks you for your service.”

Strelet Darus wore the same uniform everyone else did, but had no insignia sewn onto his sleeves. “Follow me, please.”

Darus was shorter than Illarion by a significant margin, but he carried himself well. He looked to be closer to Illarion’s real age, and his steps were measured and brisk.

“So, Strelet is your name?” Illarion asked. “I’ve never heard that name before. Your father’s name, too?”

Darus stopped and spun on one heel. His face was darkened in anger, and he raised on hand, fingers extended in accusation. Something in Illarion’s expression kept the shorter man from going through with whatever tirade he’d been about to.

“Are you being serious, Recruit?”

“Why would I not be serious? Have I offended you? If so, I apologize.”

Darus looked confused, but he waved the apology away. “‘Strelet’ is my rank. It’s the first level of enlisted soldiering. That’s what you’ll be if they don’t find some reason to kick you out during in-processing. Until then you will be called recruit. Haven’t you ever spoken with anyone from the military before?”

“My father died in the war, but I was very young. My mother never said much about my father’s time in the army. My village was all farmers.”

“Very well, country boy.” He stuck out his hand. “I am Strelet Albert Darus.”

“Illarion Glazkov,” he replied, shaking Darus’ hand, and reminding himself not to crush it. “It’s nice to actually speak to someone like they’re another human being.”

“Don’t get used to that. We can talk while we walk. Keep moving. Do you know what the Wall is?”

“I know what a wall is.”

“Not that sort of wall. The Wall. If you can pass their requirements, you’ll be set. Being a member of the Wall is dangerous, but it’s a desirable assignment. The Wall is not treated like regular soldiers. You have to be within a certain size range, which is why they measured you.”

“Are you part of the Wall?”

“Me? No. I’m assigned to the infantry. Everyone has to help the recruiters one day a week while we’re here for training. I’ll be heading out to the front soon. If I’m lucky, I’ll end up in the same trenches my father and grandfather served in.”

That didn’t sound very lucky to Illarion at all, but he let it go without comment. “So what is the Wall?”

The Strelet shook his head and let out a low whistle. “You really don’t know much, do you? The Wall is an elite unit, but no matter what I say, it won’t make much sense. Better you see it yourself. Just make sure you give your all in the training and the evaluations. Make an impression. Do that, and you may just see what the Wall is all about. Do poorly, and well, I’ll see you in the trenches.”

They reached a small gate guarded by more soldiers. Neither of them had marks on their sleeves either.

“Welcome to the military quarter. Beyond those gates is Cobetsnya Military Garrison 19.” He stuck out his hand again. “Good luck, Glazkov. I hope to run into you again. You seem alright.”

“You too, Darus.”

Without another word, the Strelet spun and jogged back in the direction of the sorting station, leaving Illarion alone in front of the garrison gates, still carrying his uniform. He approached the gates slowly, not wanting to give the impression of being overly anxious.

One of the gate guards held up a hand, palm out. “State your business.”

“I’m here for evaluation?”

The soldier took in Illarion’s size, then nodded. “That’s a bunch of you today. Please go through the gate, then turn smartly to the right. Look for a building showing a sign reading, ‘Evaluation Room 17’ and head in. You should—”

“I can’t read.”

If this was a surprise, the soldier didn’t show it. “Do you know numbers? Yes? Good. Look for the sign with a one and a seven on it and you’ll be fine. There’s only one building in the garrison with a 17 on it. Good luck.”

Illarion frowned at that. How many people were going to wish him luck today? Either he was very likable, and everyone wanted to wish him their best, or he was going to need all the luck he could get.

“If you are here,” the one-armed soldier told the small group, “it is because you meet the basic physical requirements to be a member of the Wall. Very few of you will make it. Most of you will go on to serve the Tsar in other ways. Like the trenches. You might even earn glory and recognition there, but it is meaningless compared to the honor of serving in the Wall.

“I am First Kapral Sergi Yannic. For the uneducated amongst you, ‘Kapral’ means I outrank the Strelets who showed you the way here. To you? I may as well be the bastard son of one of the Goddesses. Because the Almacians blew off my arm, I have the unenviable task of dealing with you scum instead of being at the front where I belong. I will oversee the first portion of your evaluation today. Your evaluation will span several days, or if you are lucky, several weeks. Of course, your evaluation could be cut short at any time should you be found incompatible. We will start with the basics.”

When Illarion had entered Evaluation Room 17, nineteen other young men had already been there. Some stood, leaning against the gray stone walls, while others sat on the ground. One even had stretched out and was dozing, his bundle of clothing being used as a pillow. Hours had passed. Illarion sat with his back against one of the walls and tried not to fall asleep himself. Occasionally another recruit would enter the building. All were male, save one. Except the girl was massive, tall as the boys, with waist-length hair so blond it was almost white, and arms with the muscles of a blacksmith. At this distance, Illarion couldn’t be completely sure, but she seemed attractive. Nothing to compare with his Hana, but no one was.

When he closed his eyes he could still picture his betrothed . . . but the image of her smiling beauty was hard to keep in place. Visions of her, sightless eyes wide with the gaping wound of a ruined throat, kept intruding on the fonder memories.

Maybe it was better to keep his eyes open for a while.

Once the group had reached fifty in number, the man who would later introduce himself as First Kapral Sergi Yannic had walked through the door and Illarion had lined up against the evaluation room wall with the other recruits. Yannic walked their length, eyeing each of them in turn. It reminded Illarion of a butcher sizing up a cow for slaughter.

“Good,” he said after studying the final recruit in the line. “Those idiots got me a testing platoon of rightsized individuals, at least. Alright, I need you to hold out both of your hands. No questions. Just do as I tell you.”

Illarion held his hands out, palms up. Yannic again made his way down the line. He studied each recruit’s hands at length, unblinking. Occasionally he would have a recruit turn his hands and hold them at different angles. Illarion did as he was told, unsure what this test was supposed to be demonstrating.

When Yannic was nearing the end of the line, he cocked his head to the side while studying the hands of a boy with a pockmarked face. A sneer crept into Yannic’s expression.

“Name.”

“Recruit Barton Vasilion, sir.”

“Are you nervous, Vasilion?”

“Not really. No. Why?”

“Why are your hands trembling?”

Vasilion looked down at his hands, clenched them into fists and restraightened them. They held still for a moment, then began quivering again. “They just do that, sir. It’s nothi—”

“Get out.”

“What? Did I—”

“Dead Sister, are you deaf, Vasilion? I said get out. You’re done. Head back to the sorting area if you’re smart enough to find your way. Enjoy being a worthless trencher.”

The crestfallen boy left without another word. Just picked up his belongings and walked out the door.

“This next test is a simple one. We just need to check your sight.” Yannic moved to a closed door at the side of the room and knocked on it. A man opened the door from the other side of it and walked out holding a rolled-up scroll. “When this man shows you the paper, I want you to raise your hand to tell me if you can read it. Then I’ll go to each of you to tell me what you see, and how clearly you see it. Understood?” Yannic was answered by a pathetic chorus of “Yes, sir.”

The man was far enough away to be hardly more than a blur against the opposite gray wall to Illarion’s poor eyes. He unrolled the paper and held it up, and surely enough Illarion could barely see the thing. He glanced to his left, then right, trying to judge the reactions of those next to him. But nobody raised their hand.

Where Illarion judged the paper to be, he thought he caught a glimpse of a blue glow, like a flash of lightning that lingered on your eyeball even after you’d closed them. He squinted hard. Sometimes when his eyes watered a bit, he could see a little more clearly for a moment. This time it didn’t work.

Yannic stopped next to Illarion and said, “You see something you want to share, Recruit?”

Illarion shook his head. His heart sank. He’d have to admit his weakness to the Kapral. “I can’t see anything, sir. My eyesight is pretty bad.”

“How bad?”

“Things are blurry and they’re worse when they’re far away.”

Yannic stared back at Illarion for a few moments, seeming to consider a decision. He nodded once to himself and asked, “Can you tell color at a distance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not color-blind?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you’ll be fine. Just remember when you get to the front, not to shoot the ones wearing green and red. Only shoot the black or gray ones.”

“Understood, sir.”

Yannic moved on, questioning each of the remaining recruits. Relief flooded Illarion. No one else saw anything on the scroll either. It seemed a strange test, but so had the one testing the steadiness of their hands.

“You are all here for different reasons.” Yannic’s voice was quieter than any other time up until that moment. He was more subdued. “For some, you are here because the recruiter came to your town and didn’t offer you a choice. Maybe you are here for glory, pure and simple. If you’re here for the money, well, that’s a possibility too . . . though doubtful.” That drew a few laughs from those assembled.

Yannic approached one of the enlistees in the line and asked, “Why are you here?”

“To serve the Tsar, sir.”

Yannic shook his head, disgust evident on his face. “You are a poor example to liars everywhere. Why are you here?”

“A recruiter.”

“There we go.” He stopped in front of the one girl. “And you?”

“I volunteered in place of my younger brother. He has bad lungs.”

“Good enough.” He stopped before Illarion. “Why are you here?”

Illarion opened his mouth, then shut it again. He couldn’t very well say he’d been sent here by a goddess because her sister had murdered his family and entire village to punish them for his disobedience. The memories were still raw, and he didn’t know when—or if—they would ever not hurt. “If” was such a powerful word. If he had listened more to the tales of the Sisters, would it have mattered? If he had run home instead of looking for Balan, could he have saved his mother, or Hana? If he had been more faithful to the Sister of Nature’s commandments, would Ilyushka have been spared.

As the questions piled up in his mind, guilt clamped down hard on his soul.

“Atonement.”

Kapral Yannic scowled. “Not the strangest answer I’ve ever heard, but I guess that’ll do. Alright, scrubs, follow me.”


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