The underground auction house beneath Petrograd had once been an imperial theater.

Its tiered balconies still bore faded gold ornamentation, while red silk banners hung beneath soot-stained chandeliers. Gaslamps illuminated the gathering of aristocrats, wealthy collectors, syndicate representatives, and black-market brokers who had come to purchase the evening's offerings.

The conversations gradually subsided as the auctioneer approached the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please."

He tapped his gavel twice.

"For our next offering, I present something truly exceptional."

A heavy curtain parted behind him.

Two armed attendants escorted a tall figure onto the center stage.

Sol.

Forty-five years old. Six feet three inches tall. A demi-human of the old Imperial Northern Army.

His lean, muscular frame was concealed beneath an oversized, oil-stained military greatcoat. Pale ash-blonde hair fell unevenly around his scarred face, while silver-tipped charcoal fur emerged from beneath his frayed sleeves.

Heavy restraints secured his wrists.

He stood beneath the chandelier with his shoulders squared and his pale blue eyes directed toward the audience.

There was something unmistakably military about his bearing, though his posture lacked the rigid perfection of a soldier standing inspection.

His gaze moved occasionally across the balconies, observing the unfamiliar faces, the guards stationed near the exits, and the ornate ceiling overhead.

Behind him, a large placard displayed his details.

LOT 47 | MALE | RUSSIAN | AGE: 45 | HEIGHT: 6'3" | STARTING BID: 2,000,000 ₸

The auctioneer extended one arm toward him.

"Behold, ladies and gentlemen. One of the last surviving combat specimens of the Imperial Northern Army's experimental northern division."

He began pacing across the stage.

"A veteran of the industrialized war. Exceptional endurance, remarkable physical strength, and decades of combat experience. A specimen who has survived conditions that would have broken ordinary soldiers many times over."

A few interested murmurs spread through the audience.

"But his true value lies in something far more extraordinary."

The auctioneer smiled.

"Discipline."

He stopped beside Sol.

"Years of military conditioning have made this particular specimen exceptionally responsive to instruction. He requires little supervision, understands complex assignments, and possesses the intelligence to carry out responsibilities without constant direction."

A gentleman in the upper balcony leaned forward.

"Is he dangerous?"

The auctioneer laughed softly.

"My dear sir, he's extraordinarily dangerous."

He gestured toward the restraints.

"Under the wrong circumstances, certainly. But with proper handling? An invaluable investment."

Sol's eyes briefly shifted toward the man speaking.

The auctioneer continued.

"Security. Protection. Labor. Combat. Whatever your household or organization requires, Lot Forty-Seven possesses the training to fulfill it."

A woman near the front raised her hand.

"Does he have a name?"

The auctioneer glanced toward the soldier.

"His military designation is Forty-Seven. The previous handlers occasionally called him Sol."

He gave a dismissive wave.

"Naturally, a purchaser may choose whatever designation they prefer."

Sol remained silent.

Only a slight movement of his ears suggested that he had heard the exchange.

The auctioneer returned to his podium.

"Now, I should emphasize that this is no mindless animal. He can read, speak, reason, and perform a remarkable variety of practical tasks."

He adjusted his waistcoat.

"However, years of conditioning have made him exceptionally compliant. You won't find him particularly troublesome."

A quiet murmur of approval passed through the audience.

Sol shifted his weight.

The restraints had begun pressing against an old injury near his wrist. He adjusted his hands slightly, then returned his attention to the room.

He had heard similar presentations before.

The descriptions changed from one auction to another, but the purpose remained familiar.

Above him, the chandelier flickered.

Somewhere in the audience, a glass shattered, followed by a brief burst of laughter.

Sol glanced toward the sound.

The auctioneer raised his gavel.

"Now then, ladies and gentlemen!"

His voice carried across the theater.

"An extraordinary opportunity to acquire one of the empire's last surviving military prototypes."

He surveyed the balconies with a practiced smile.

"Shall we begin at two million credits?"

A brief silence settled over the amphitheater.

The auctioneer lifted his gavel higher.

"Two million for Lot Forty-Seven."

His eyes traveled expectantly across the assembled guests.

"Who will make the opening bid?"

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Petrograd was a city that had learned to celebrate peace without quite knowing what to do with its soldiers.

Steam locomotives rolled through crowded stations. Factory whistles announced the beginning of another working day, and newspaper boys shouted headlines beneath the towering facades of old imperial buildings. Gaslamps still lined the cobbled streets, though the wealthier districts had begun replacing them with electric lights.

The war had ended years ago.

Yet its remnants remained everywhere.

Men with missing limbs begged outside railway terminals. Former officers sold their medals for bread. Demobilized soldiers crowded employment offices, competing for positions that paid barely enough to survive.

Among them was a tall, pale-haired demi-human wearing a worn military greatcoat.

Sol.

Forty-five years old. Six feet three inches tall. A veteran of a war that had forgotten him long before it ended.

For the first time in decades, there were no guards escorting him through the streets.

No restraints around his wrists.

No assigned destination.

He had been free for seventeen days.

And for seventeen days, he had been attempting to find employment.

---

"Previous occupation?"

"Military service."

The clerk behind the employment counter sighed, dipping his pen into an inkwell.

"Yes, you've mentioned that. What sort of military service?"

"Infantry. Reconnaissance. Equipment maintenance. Transport operations."

The clerk looked up.

"All of them?"

"At different times."

"Right."

The man wrote something on the application.

"References?"

Sol considered the question.

"None that would be appropriate."

The clerk stopped writing.

"Meaning?"

"My former superiors are either deceased, imprisoned, or otherwise unavailable."

A long silence followed.

"Wonderful."

The clerk set down his pen.

"Listen, I don't doubt you've got experience, but most employers want documentation. Previous wages, recommendations, proof of residence. Something."

Sol glanced at the papers arranged across the counter.

"I understand."

"Do you have any of those?"

"Not presently."

The clerk leaned back.

"Then I'm afraid there isn't much I can do."

Sol nodded once.

"Thank you for your time."

He collected his application, carefully folded it along its original creases, and stepped aside for the next person.

Outside, the morning air was cold enough to sting his exposed hands.

He stood beneath the employment office awning, examining the application.

Fourteen establishments had declined his services.

Three had refused to interview him after noticing his demi-human features.

One factory supervisor had offered him a position as an armed enforcer.

Sol had declined.

He was looking for work.

Not another war.

He returned the papers to his coat.

Then he unfolded a small, handwritten list.

Railway maintenance — rejected.

Warehouse assistant — no vacancies.

Factory mechanic — references required.

Dock laborer — position filled.

Beneath the crossed-out entries remained several addresses.

He studied them for a moment.

"Well."

The word escaped quietly.

"At least the list is getting shorter."

He folded the paper and continued down the street.

---

By late afternoon, a thin drizzle had settled over Petrograd.

Sol had visited two additional workshops and a freight depot. Neither had offered him employment, although one elderly mechanic had been kind enough to share a piece of bread and recommend another establishment.

That recommendation had brought him here.

A modest building stood along a busy commercial street, its windows illuminated against the gathering dusk.

Sol paused outside.

He examined the sign above the entrance, then the handwritten notice displayed near the door.

There was no indication that military references were required.

That was encouraging.

He straightened the collar of his greatcoat and checked his reflection in the window.

The coat was clean enough, though the cuffs were badly frayed. His hair remained uneven, and the scar across his face was impossible to conceal.

He attempted to smooth the front of his clothing.

It made little difference.

"Presentable," he murmured.

After a moment's consideration, he added:

"More or less."

He opened the door.

A small bell chimed overhead.

Warm air greeted him, carrying the familiar scents of an establishment occupied throughout the day.

Sol stepped inside, careful not to track too much rainwater across the floor.

His pale blue eyes surveyed the interior with quiet interest.

Then he noticed someone nearby.

He approached at a respectful distance, removed his worn cap, and inclined his head.

"Good afternoon."

His voice was low, calm, and slightly gravelly.

"My name is Sol."

He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his coat.

"I was informed that this establishment might have employment available."

He paused, glancing briefly at the paper before returning his attention to the person before him.

"I have experience with machinery, maintenance, transportation, inventory, and physical labor. I can also read, write, and perform basic accounting."

A moment passed.

"Although I should mention that I have no civilian employment references."

His expression remained composed, but his fingers adjusted the edge of the paper.

"I understand that may be inconvenient."

He considered something, then continued.

"I am willing to learn unfamiliar work. Provided it is legal."

A faint pause.

"Preferably."

He seemed to reconsider that final word.

"No. Definitely legal."

For the briefest moment, something resembling embarrassment crossed his face.

He cleared his throat.

"Apologies. I am still learning how these conversations are usually conducted."

Sol straightened slightly.

"May I ask whether you are currently hiring?"

He hesitated, then added with quiet sincerity:

"And if not, perhaps you could tell me what qualifications I should acquire. I would rather improve my chances than continue making the same mistakes."

He waited, his pale eyes attentive.

Not for an order.

For an answer.

Petrograd had always been remarkably efficient at losing people.

During the war, entire families vanished beneath military conscription orders, forced relocations, and the quiet machinery of the imperial bureaucracy. Children were transferred between orphanages, soldiers were assigned numbers instead of names, and records disappeared into government archives that few ordinary citizens were permitted to enter.

When the fighting ended, the empire declared peace.

The missing remained missing.

For Sol, that distinction had become increasingly difficult to ignore.

---

The Municipal Registry of Petrograd occupied an aging government building near the eastern railway district.

Its stone facade was darkened by decades of soot, and the enormous clock above its entrance had stopped working sometime during the war. Inside, narrow corridors smelled of damp paper, furniture polish, and coal smoke drifting from the heating pipes.

Sol had been visiting the building for nearly three weeks.

At first, the clerks had dismissed him.

His records were incomplete. His identification had been issued only recently. His former military designation appeared in several conflicting registries, and the orphanage that had originally processed his adoption no longer existed.

But he had continued returning.

Not every day.

Not always with new information.

Simply whenever he discovered another name, another address, or another document worth examining.

Today, however, something had changed.

"Here."

An elderly clerk placed a yellowed folder on the counter.

"I found the transfer records you asked about."

Sol looked up.

The clerk adjusted his spectacles.

"Most of these documents were recovered from a provincial orphanage after it closed. They're incomplete, naturally. Half the names are misspelled, and the other half have been crossed out."

He opened the folder.

"But there's something here you might find interesting."

Sol stepped closer.

The clerk pointed to an entry near the bottom of the page.

TRANSFER RECORD — IMPERIAL CHILD WELFARE AUTHORITY

Origin: Northern Provincial Orphanage No. 12 Status: Guardianship reassignment Related dependents: Three Destination: Petrograd Administrative District

Sol read the entry once.

Then again.

"Three," he said quietly.

"Yes."

The clerk glanced at him.

"Does that mean something?"

Sol rested his fingertips against the edge of the counter.

"There were three of us."

The old man said nothing.

Sol examined the names.

Two had been partially obscured by water damage. The third was written in handwriting so faded that several letters were impossible to distinguish.

But beneath them was a familiar date.

He remembered very little of the orphanage.

A narrow courtyard.

Winter sunlight through barred windows.

A younger child holding tightly to the sleeve of his coat.

And the sound of someone calling his name before the doors closed.

For years, those memories had existed without context.

Now there was a document suggesting they might have belonged to something real.

"May I have a copy?" Sol asked.

The clerk hesitated.

"These are restricted records."

"I understand."

"And technically, they aren't supposed to leave the archives."

"I don't intend to remove the originals."

The old man sighed.

"You're a persistent fellow."

Sol considered that.

"I've been told."

The clerk almost smiled.

"There's a name attached to the transfer authorization. Someone who may be able to explain where the children were sent."

He turned the page.

Unfortunately, the following sheet was missing.

The clerk frowned.

"Of course."

Sol studied the empty space in the folder.

"Is there another copy?"

"Possibly. The original registry was divided between several departments. Some records ended up in private collections after the war."

"Can those be accessed?"

"With considerable difficulty."

The clerk closed the folder.

"There's one other possibility."

He reached beneath the counter and retrieved a small envelope.

"This was delivered to the archives yesterday. Someone has been requesting information about the same transfer records."

Sol's ears shifted slightly.

"Someone else?"

"Apparently."

The clerk handed him a note containing a name and an address.

"I can't promise anything. But if you're looking for answers, this may be the closest thing to a lead you'll find."

Sol accepted the paper.

"Thank you."

He folded it carefully and placed it inside his coat.

Then, after a moment, he added:

"You've been very patient with me."

The clerk waved dismissively.

"Just doing my job."

"Even so."

Sol inclined his head.

"I appreciate it."

---

By late afternoon, the rain had begun falling over Petrograd.

Horse-drawn carriages rattled along the cobblestones, their wheels sending muddy water into the gutters. Street vendors hurried to cover their stalls, while the first gaslamps flickered to life beneath the gathering clouds.

Sol stood beneath the awning of a modest building, examining the address written on the note.

He had checked it twice already.

The location was correct.

He looked toward the entrance.

For a moment, he remained still.

He had spent most of his life believing that his siblings were either dead or beyond his reach. It had been easier, in some ways, to leave the question unanswered.

Now he had a name.

An address.

And the possibility that someone knew what had happened to them.

Sol folded the note.

"Well," he murmured.

"There's only one way to find out."

He approached the entrance and knocked.

Three measured taps.

Then he stepped back, leaving a respectful distance from the doorway.

When the door opened, a tall, pale-haired man stood outside in a worn military greatcoat, rainwater clinging to his shoulders.

His icy blue eyes settled on the person before him.

"Good afternoon."

He removed his cap.

"My name is Sol. I apologize for arriving without an appointment."

He withdrew the folded note from his coat.

"I was directed here by the Municipal Registry. I'm searching for information concerning a group of children transferred from a northern orphanage approximately forty years ago."

He paused.

"Two of them were my siblings."

His voice remained steady, although his fingers tightened slightly around the paper.

"I don't know whether they're still alive. Or whether the records are even accurate."

He glanced briefly at the address.

"But your name was connected to the inquiry."

Sol returned his attention to the person standing before him.

"I was hoping you might know something."

A moment passed.

Then, more quietly:

"Even if the information is unpleasant, I'd prefer to hear the truth."

He waited.

"May I ask how you became involved with these records?"