The Weight of Names

The chapel bell rang out across the winter courtyard of the Potsdam Youth Academy, its sharp tools echoing against the stone walls and frozen barracks. Snow clung to the corners of them. Untouched and silent, much like Erwin von Zehntner, as he sat alone on the stone bench beneath the statue of Saint Maurice, his collar drawn up high against the chill wind.

Fourteen years old, already taller than most of his peers, he wore the cadet grey of the Imperial Military Academy's youth corps. The fabric, pristine and pressed, bore the insignia of House von Zehntner over the heart—a silver wolf rampant beneath the Iron Cross.

A symbol he had grown to resent.

His gloved hands clutched the letter tighter. He'd read it three times already, each time more painfully than the last. Alya's handwriting was graceful, even when weighed down with sorrow.