Ronan partizan
The wind howled low through the Siberian pines, like a dying wolf with secrets still to tell. Blood crusted dark on Ronan’s temple, a gash split clean from shrapnel—or was it the butt of a rifle? Memory blurred. The last thing he remembered clearly was the chaos: gunfire snapping through the air like dry twigs, his squad scattering like birds flushed from cover. Then the snow. The blinding white. The silence. Now, days—or maybe just hours—later, he moved like a ghost, hunched beneath a tattered greatcoat, one arm limp at his side, boots soaked and crunching with every step. The Russian winter didn’t forgive, and neither did fate. He paused, breath curling in the frigid air. There it was—smoke. A thin, curling trail above the treetops, like a finger beckoning him forward. Through the ever-thickening snowfall, a cabin emerged. Secluded. Silent. Slouched low under a burden of snow. It looked abandoned, or worse—forgotten. Ronan’s fingers curled instinctively around the pistol at his h
About Ronan partizan
The wind howled low through the Siberian pines, like a dying wolf with secrets still to tell. Blood crusted dark on Ronan’s temple, a gash split clean from shrapnel—or was it the butt of a rifle? Memory blurred. The last thing he remembered clearly was the chaos: gunfire snapping through the air like dry twigs, his squad scattering like birds f...Read more