Cold Embers

The hangar is heavy with silence. It’s freezing, but sweat is already sticking to my back. We’re all breathing the same dust, the same diesel, and it smells of suppressed fear.

The wounded groan off and on beneath the tarps, the sharp crack of a cough or a bucket knocked over makes half the room jump.

I’m sitting next to Elijah on a crate. His ribs keep him from breathing deeply—I can tell just from his shoulders. Yet he keeps his head high, jaw clenched.

— “Twenty-four more hours,” he says, voice low. “Boris’s deadline will be up.”

I lift my eyes.

— “Then we can move?”

He nods. His gaze softens, just for me.

— “Then you’ll see your man again. I bet he’s already started digging his tunnel.”

I let out a strangled laugh.

— “You’re stupid.”

He forces a smile, but there’s something else in his eyes. Not just humor. Conviction. I cling to it.

And then, as always, it tips.

A chair scrapes, harsh. A man rises—tall, broad-shouldered, his features warped by exhaustion. His eyes are bloodshot, swollen like he hasn’t slept in days. But what freezes me is the rage.

Before I understand, he’s in front of us.

His hand fists in Elijah’s collar, almost lifting him off the crate.

— “Because of you!” he spits, voice breaking. “My brother! I don’t know where he is! I don’t even know if he’s alive! You go on TV spouting your bullshit, and look! Look what it did!”

The fist swings.

A crack, brutal. Elijah’s head snaps sideways, blood splattering from his lip. I scream his name, but he stays frozen, stunned, eyes wide.

— “Wait… we didn’t…” he stammers, voice garbled.

The man won’t let go. He shakes him, trembling with fury.

— “Because of you and your sister, my brother’s under the rubble! Do you get that?!”

The second blow lands, harder, in the gut. Elijah nearly falls back, wind knocked out of him.

I lurch to my feet, ready to throw myself toward him, but I don’t even get the chance. The man’s hand snatches me too, twists the collar of my jacket, yanks me close. His breath reeks, his eyes blaze with tears and hate.

— “And you!” he screams. “Your testimony! You condemned us all!”

I choke, feet skidding on the floor. Elijah, blood at his mouth, reaches a hand toward me.

— “Let her go! Stop!”

He tries to stand, but staggers, his ribs folding him in half.

I know he’s about to hit me. I can feel it. His fist is already raised.

And then a voice thunders.

— “LET HER GO!”

Gunther.

He charges like a battering ram. His hand seizes the man’s shoulder, yanks him back with such force the seams of his jacket strain. The attacker’s grip breaks instantly; he stumbles two steps back, face twisted with fury.

Gunther doesn’t give him a second. His voice erupts, glacial, loud enough to drown out the whole hangar:

— “YOU LAY A HAND ON ELI OR MIRA AGAIN, AND YOU’LL ANSWER TO ME.”

The silence slams down, brutal. Even the wounded lift their heads.

Gunther steps forward, eyes locked on the man’s. His face is red with anger, veins bulging in his neck.

— “You really think they’re the problem? You think it’s their fault we’re bombed?!”

The man tries:

— “They talked! Everything fell after that!”

Gunther nearly grinds his teeth to dust.

— “Exactly what they want! For you to believe that! For us to tear each other apart! You think you’re avenging your brother like this? You disgrace him!”

He jabs a rigid finger at him, voice even harsher:

— “If anyone, I mean ANYONE, lays another hand on the twins, it’ll be court-martial. And in the absence of a superior, I decide.”

The man freezes, breath heaving, then finally backs down.

Gunther turns to Elijah.

— “Eli… you still standing?”

Elijah wipes the blood trailing from his lip. He barely nods, still dazed, eyes lost—as if he can’t believe a comrade just struck him.

Me, I’m still trembling, clutching at my wrinkled collar.

We stay for a while in the corridor where Gunther has led us. The walls drip, the neon buzzes—the sound almost a relief. Gunther stares at us, jaw tight.

His eyes flick from Elijah—split lip, bruised cheek—to me, shaking without even noticing.

He exhales hard, then shakes his head.

— “Christ… you’re not even twenty. You should be choosing colleges, going out for drinks, flirting, I don’t know—arguing over a crappy movie. Not getting your faces smashed in by a comrade because you’ve become symbols of a war.”

The words hit me square. Because yes. Because that’s exactly what we’ve been robbed of.

Gunther lowers his voice, almost hoarse:

— “I should’ve been there sooner for you. Should’ve seen the weight on you before it blew up in your faces. It’s not right that at your age you carry all this.”

His hand slips behind Elijah’s neck, the other on my shoulder, pulling us both against him. He’s massive, warm, brutally reassuring. Elijah stiffens, then I feel his shoulders loosen just a little. I close my eyes.

— “From now on,” Gunther goes on, “you have my word. If you don’t want to do something, you don’t. Mission, patrol, fight, doesn’t matter. If Boris yells, I’ll take the heat. I don’t care.”

He bends to look at both of us.

— “You signed up to fight, sure. But not to be turned into fucking banners. That was never the deal. Not at that price.”

Elijah swallows, lips trembling. My throat is too tight for words.

Gunther breathes deep, and I catch a flash of sadness in his eyes.

— “Me and Tinka, we were born here. Never knew normal life. No school memories, no birthdays with candles. It was always the Citadel. But you—you had all that. A real life, before. They ripped it away, and now they expect you to survive what’s left.”

He bows his head for a moment, then squeezes us tighter.

— “So yeah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it get this far without stepping in. But now, I don’t let go. You’re my family. And I’ll protect that as long as I can.”

Elijah lets out a strangled laugh, almost painful.

— “You’re too blond to be our big brother, Gunther.”

— “I’m not your brother, Eli. I’m your wall. And if anyone tries to reach you again, they’ll break against me.”

He pauses, then softer, to me:

— “You too, Mira. You don’t have to fend for yourself anymore. Not while I’m here.”

My eyes burn. I turn my head away, but his arms hold firm around us. No need for words. He’s planted his vow right here, between his arms, and for the first time since the attack, my legs stop shaking.

The radio crackles in the little living room, stuck on the official frequency.

Tomasz twists the dial, but every station shrieks the same voice. A presenter rolling words like polished stones.

— “The terrorist nest known as the Citadel has been annihilated by a coordinated security operation.”

He freezes, fingers clenched on the knob.

Annihilated. The word slaps like a blow.

Another commentator takes over, tone honeyed:

— “Let’s recall this cell had recently staged a media coup with two problematic elements. A fabricated testimony spread far and wide. Today we see the cost of that manipulation: a final spasm before their eradication.”

His blood boils.

Mira’s and Elijah’s faces, as he saw them on his screen last week, crash back into his mind: their eyes, their voices, the raw pain—words that couldn’t have been made up.

And now they’re called liars.

Something twists in his gut.

He hears his mother’s voice in the kitchen, pans clattering. Maybe she hasn’t caught the whole broadcast, or maybe she pretends not to. Safer that way.

But him, he can’t. Not this time.

His fists clench so tight his knuckles whiten. The anchor’s words repeat, like a blade scraping bone: “problematic elements,” “fabricated testimony,” “manipulation.”

He sees Mira again, bent over her notebook in high school, patiently explaining grammar rules, a strand of hair pinned back with a pencil.

He sees Elijah on the field, arms spread in front of his sister, ready to swing at anyone who dared come at her.

And now they’re smeared. The whole country told they never suffered, that they were just actors for the rebels.

He wants to smash the radio, but knows the neighbors already hear too much. So he storms into his room, slams the door.

He sits on his bed, head in his hands. His breath shakes.

And one thought won’t let go: If the Citadel has fallen, is it over for them?

Doubt poisons him, but his heart refuses to believe. Mira wasn’t a liar. Neither was Elijah. And if it’s true they were there… then they’ve been crushed a second time.

Night falls over Sofia. Streetlamps glow on wet cobblestones.

Tomasz slips out without telling his mother. His steps echo, fast, tense.

The Sofia night smells of wet coal and oil. The river reflects the streetlights like a pale scar. Tomasz walks along the docks, hands in pockets, heart pounding. He knows he’s no soldier. No weapon, no plan. But his steps are set: he won’t go back home.

A sharp whistle freezes him.

— “Lost your way, kid?”

Two shapes peel from the shadows of a warehouse. Hoods, scarves pulled up. One holds an iron bar, the other flashes a torch in his eyes before clicking it off.

Tomasz doesn’t back down.

— “I want to help.”

A silence, then a snicker.

— “Everyone says that. Where you from?”

He inhales.

— “I… I went to school with them.”

They trade a glance, wary.

— “With who?”

— “Mira and Elijah. The ones on TV.”

The torch flares again. Tomasz takes the beam full in the face.

— “And what are you here for, exactly? To spit their lies with us?”

He shakes his head, teeth clenched.

— “They weren’t lies. Not from them. I knew them. They weren’t liars.”

The silence thickens. Finally, the torch clicks off for good.

— “Follow us. But if you’re full of shit, you go in the river.”

They push through a rusted back door, step into the gloom of an empty warehouse. The walls drip, windows shattered. Inside, a dozen people. Mostly young, no older than thirty. Two women fuss with a small coal stove. A guy sprawled on a pallet has his arm bandaged to the shoulder.

All eyes swing to Tomasz.

— “Who’s this?” growls one, tall, gaunt, beard wild.

— “A volunteer,” says the girl with the lamp. “Says he knew the two… from the Citadel.”

A murmur ripples.

— “So?” the tall one presses, stepping forward. “What were they to you?”

Tomasz swallows.

— “They were… just two kids. My class. She helped me with grammar, he… he was the best at sports. They only ever looked out for each other. And now you hear them like I did: tortured, dragged through the mud, and nobody believes them.”

Silence. The stove crackles faintly.

One of the women, wrinkled, whispers:

— “They say the Citadel has fallen. You know more?”

He shakes his head.

— “Nothing. Just the radio. And they say whatever they want.”

Everyone lowers their gaze. The bandaged man spits into a corner.

— “So we’re alone. Again.”

Tomasz looks around. These people don’t have shiny guns or brilliant plans. Just ringed eyes, worn clothes, clenched fists.

And still, he feels like he belongs.

He draws a breath, then simply says:

— “If the Citadel held this long, it was for a reason. If we haven’t heard from them, it’s not because it’s over. It’s because they’re getting back up. Me, I still believe.”

The tall one studies him, long and hard. Then nods, slow.

— “Then you stay. But don’t forget: no heroes here. You work, you shut your mouth, you pull your weight.”

Tomasz nods back.

— “That’s fine by me.”

A smile slips through.

For the first time in years, he doesn’t feel like a spectator anymore.