The tanks died first.
Engines seized. Fuel thickened, congealed like animal fat. Tracks snapped like brittle bone. They had barely been worth hauling over the sea. Ozerov privately thought he had made a mistake. He should have used the space for more men.
The trucks were next. Russian-built, winter-hardened—good machines. But not for this. Not for Antarctica. This was a cold that mocked engineering, that treated steel like glass.
The machines had failed. But Ozerov did not stop.
Under his command, the men unloaded supplies onto sleds and began to pull them by hand. Not all pulled—some stood guard. Even though they had yet to meet the enemy, Ozerov would not allow vigilance to slip. The Vril-ya would not strike in battle lines, he knew. They would wait for weakness. Wait for warmth, for hope, for one moment of lowered guard.
That was why he had not taken off the Crown. Not even to sleep. Not in the shower. Not for ten years.
Columns of infantry trudged across the white, where the wind tore skin and breath froze in lungs before it could be exhaled. Frost curled like smoke from mouths too numb to speak.
One by one, the machines died—radios, trucks, planes—falling silent in the long march of cold.
As they pushed farther from the ships and the supply lines thinned, the animals brought for pulling sleds—dogs bred for the Arctic—were eaten. One by one.
Only boots remained.
Boots, and blood.
Ozerov walked with them.
Not decked in warm furs—just a thick wool coat, same as his soldiers.
One of them.
He ate what they ate. Not a bite more.
Often less.
He always took first watch.
He didn't sleep much these days.
There was too much to do.
And when he did sleep, he sometimes dreamed of a beautiful city burning.
But more often, he dreamed of music.
Not the music he had known in youth.
This was discord. A clashing of dissonant tones—so harsh it made the Antarctic cold seem gentle as a summer breeze.
It was cruelty, made into sound. Suffering given voice.
The grind of pain, the clash of arms.
And yet—it was true.
Because those things were the truth of the world.
He hummed it as he walked.
And his soldiers began to hum with him.
Even as cold air tore at their lungs.
They hummed. And they sang.
Adding words to the song.
It was a broken pulse. A weak echo of the one in his dreams.
But that— that was beautiful.
A soldier fell near him.
Weak.
But still, Ozerov picked him up.
He carried him.
Halfway through, he realized the man was dead.
Ozerov still carried him, until the time came to stop for a meal.
That was when he fed his soldiers meat.
So the fallen could continue to march with them.
But there were worse weaknesses.
A young soldier, barely more than a boy, stole food.
He was hungry. He was afraid.
"You do not deserve that uniform," Ozerov said.
He didn't give an order.
He didn't have to.
The others understood.
They descended on the boy.
Coat, pants, even underwear—torn from him.
Until he stood naked. Shivering in the cold.
It was cruel.
But mercy would be crueler still.
Rot could not be allowed to spread.
The Vril-ya poison ran deep.
That was the worst of their crimes against mankind.
Not what they did.
But what they had taught.
Once, humans were innocent. Pure.
They lived in communes. Shared everything.
And then the serpent came. And taught them greed. And fear. And the lust for power.
It taught them to divide. To hoard. To build classes where there had been none.
If only Marx had known who to blame for "primitive accumulation of capital."
That poison had sunk deep into mankind.
No matter how harsh the measures, it had to be drawn out.
If Ozerov were a better man—
A better Communist—
He would go to the Vril-ya to teach.
To preach to the oppressed masses.
And they had to have them.
No society built on such lies could be clean.
He would teach them community.
Sharing.
The solidarity of labor.
The dignity of equals.
But he was not that man.
His heart had grown cold.
And it had barely enough room left for men—
Let alone reptiles.
The scouts had failed to return.
That was good news.
One or two might've frozen. The cold still killed, even now.
But all of them?
That meant enemy action.
It meant the Vril-ya had finally found them.
But Ozerov already knew.
He had smelled it—their corruption. The blood. The suffering that clung to them like oil.
He ignored how that stench made him hungry in a way food no longer could.
Ozerov took the point.
That wasn't mere bravery.
It was strategy.
The main weapons of the enemy—their shapeshifting, their psychic staffs—were rendered impotent by the Crown.
Where Ozerov walked, the Vril-ya faltered.
But he had learned a hard lesson early on:
He couldn't be everywhere.
And where he wasn't, man was easily deceived.
Easily turned.
Easily killed.
It took harsh—but necessary—measures to compensate.
Random purges.
Sometimes, it took a hundred dead to root out a single Vril-ya.
But there were always more men.
The Vril-ya were hiding behind a stone ridge, jutting through the snow like the tip of a mountain lost in clouds. Ozerov couldn't see them, but he knew. He knew their stench.
And he was soon proven right.
The bolts lit the ice with sudden fire.
None were aimed at him. By now, after fighting him for so long, the Vril-ya knew better.
But they still didn't know enough. They misjudged the range of the Crown's influence.
It was an easy mistake to make. The Crown's dominion grew—with every victory, with every sacrifice, with every confirmation of their shared purpose.
The bolts sputtered as they neared Ozerov and the Crown he wore, weakening before they could strike his men.
One bolt struck close enough to briefly ignite a wool coat.
It was enough for a minor burn.
But not enough to kill.
"Forward," Ozerov ordered, running toward the ridge.
He didn't look back, and he didn't look to the side. His men followed.
He knew they would, as surely as he knew his own breath.
And he could hear them. Singing the song of his dream. It was a marching song. It was a funeral dirge, accompanied by the screams of men burned alive. Those who stayed too far from Ozerov.
As he ran over the ice plain toward the ridge, Ozerov was the tip of the spear.
It didn't matter that the Vril-ya were in cover. Hidden among rocks. Ozerov would soon reach them.
It did matter that he and his men were exposed. Vril-ya weapons were no match for Ozerov's conviction, and the power of the Crown.
Ozerov was close enough to see the shadow of an arm, or maybe a head, among the rocks. He was not the only one. He could hear shots being fired.
Between the rocky cover and the Vril-ya shields, it was in vain.
"Don't waste ammo," Ozerov said, still running. "We'll need it later. Only fire at my command."
He wasn't running at full speed. His men couldn't have kept up. He had to allow for their weakness.
The Crown had changed him. He no longer tired. And even as his flesh grew more and more gaunt, his strength grew.
As the ridge rose into sight, the shields of the Vril-ya began to flicker. He had come near enough.
When they failed at last, he knew it was time.
"Fire."
There were fewer shots than men in the front row. Ozerov knew the cold was to blame. Even dutifully maintained rifles could not always withstand it. Still, the soldiers whose rifles had failed would need to be punished. But lightly—and only after the battle was won.
Most of the shots missed. The Vril-ya were in cover, and the men were running. Many had already lost fingers to the cold.
But some hit, spilling red blood.
When in human guise, Vril-ya blood was as red as any man's. Otherwise, it would be too easy to spot them.
Ozerov had seen enough of both humans and Vril-ya to know.
It was not enough to kill. Not even one.
Ozerov knew that. It took more than just a bullet or two to put down a snake.
But it hurt. And it would force them to expend a bit of precious Vril.
That was the turning point. His men could hurt the snakes—and the snakes not could hurt his men back.
Not from a distance. Not with those weapons. Not under the protection of the Crown.
What would they do? Would the snakes run?
That would get them killed tired. Snakes were fast—but men endured.
Or would they hunker behind the stone and just await their doom?
Ozerov's heart finally began to beat a little faster. His mouth grew wet.
Wearing the Crown had a cost. Pleasure dimmed. Good food, good drink—lost. Attraction, whether to woman or man, left him indifferent. Even intellectual pleasures. Opera. Ballet. Even music, save for the one he dreamed of.
But he was more than willing to pay the cost. Such things were distractions. Purpose mattered more.
And one pleasure did remain to him. The one that mattered most.
Seeing his enemies crushed. Dying. Suffering.
Instead the snakes charged, emerging from the ridge like ants from a disturbed anthill.
They shook off their human disguise, revealing scales and talons.
Ozerov slowed down. He could have fought, but it was better for his men to bloody themselves. To see that monsters could be beaten by them.
He heard the sound of gunfire, bullets bouncing off scales. Some caused wounds—but the snakes healed quickly.
Men passed by Ozerov, rushing into battle.
The first to reach the line of snakes died, gored by a staff used as a spear. But for each that fell, ten more took his place.
They used their fallen as shields, their rifles as clubs. Dying and striking. The ice ran red with the mixed blood of man and snake.
It was a bloody, but quick, battle. Barely enough to whet Ozerov's appetite.
But more was to come.
"Commissioners, inspect the men for Vril. Gather all of it and burn it," Ozerov ordered. Vril might have miraculous healing properties, but Ozerov would not allow his men to take snake venom for medicine. Better wounded, crippled, or dead than corrupted. "Also make a list of those whose guns failed to fire."
Ozerov marched forward. Only his personal guard followed. There were no more enemies he could smell, but the stench—that place the stench came from—still lay ahead.
When he reached the ridge, he saw a building. It looked human. A scientific outpost, maybe. But there should be no such structure here.
He could almost taste the rot. Following the taste, they went inside.
It looked human: bunk beds, metal lockers, fluorescent lights, a heater humming in the corner. Everything clean. Intact. Unlived-in.
But there was no writing. No signs. No notes. No numbers on the doors.
Nothing in here had ever belonged to anyone.
It had never been real.
The rot led Ozerov to the basement, where he found the first unquestionable sign of the alien. Hidden beneath empty wooden crates was a half-sphere of black metal, smooth and cold. Set into its surface was an imprint—not for a human hand, but a taloned one, lizard-like. The shape was unmistakable: the hand of a Vril-ya in its true form.
"There could be snake hands left on the battlefield," one of his men muttered—quiet enough that Ozerov couldn't tell who.
It was usual: if Ozerov agreed, the man would step forward. If he scoffed, the man would stay anonymous.
It was cowardice. But one Ozerov tolerated.
Fearing him was better than fearing the enemy.
"No need, comrades. I will deal with this," Ozerov said.
When he had first taken the Crown, Ozerov had felt suggestions—whispers brushing the edge of thought. Not anymore.
After a decade of wearing it, they were one.
Now, it was like remembering things—things he had never lived.
Like knowing a language he was never taught. Like speaking words he had never heard.
Harsh words. Some would say unnatural. Words that should not come from a human throat in a sane universe.
But Ozerov had long accepted the universe was anything but sane.
These were words with the same root as the music from his dreams—but more concrete. More focused. More potent.
The word emerged from his throat like the shards of poisoned ice. It echoed in the small concrete basement.
Even his guards—men hardened by years in Ozerov's presence, and thus the Crown's—flinched.
Ozerov could taste blood in his mouth as he continued to speak, in a language he did not know.
And the stone broke.
The crack spread from the metal half-sphere. Hot, wet air steamed from it, filling the basement with mist.
And then, finally, the metal crumbled—leaving an open hole.
A path further in.
Ozerov gazed down, noting the metal ladder. That would make it easier.
He shrugged off his coat and said, "Leave coats here, comrades. It's warm down there. We won't need them anymore."
He tested the ladder with his boot. It held—solid, untouched, waiting.
"One of you—go back up. Wait for the others and lead them here. The rest—come with me."
Then he descended, step by step, into the dark.
Not full darkness. The walls were slick with lichen—glowing faintly, like copper turned green with age. Light clung to the stone like sweat. And the heat came with it, thick and wet.
His shirt clung to his ribs. He no longer sweated like a man, but still, he felt it. The weight of air. The slow, humid breath of a world beneath the world.
It was a long descent. The ladder went on. Step after step. Metal to boot, boot to metal.
His men groaned behind him. He ignored it.
He would not stop. Not now.
And then, finally—he emerged into the light.
It felt like sunlight. Not Russian sunlight. Something more tropical. Warmer. And yet… wrong.
Ozerov looked up and squinted at the source. It looked like a sun—but it wasn't. He could see stone behind it. This wasn't the open sky. The cavern went on above it. And the light wasn't right. Smaller. Dimmer. But still bright enough to blind. Not a sun. A ball of fire.
Held in place by a column of light beneath it. A pillar of fire. Feeding it. Holding it up.
He followed the beam down with his eyes, but jungle covered its base. Dense jungle. He could smell it—days of heat, rot, sweetness, musk. Predators.
But the animals were a lesser concern.
This was Vril-ya territory. And it was much bigger than he'd imagined.
Good thing he brought nearly every able-bodied man in the USSR.
Not all of them made it here. Not even a tenth of a tenth. But enough did.
Not many women.
Not because Ozerov thought females were less competent. But they had a different role to play.
This war would require sacrifices. He had known that from the beginning. The population of the Motherland would need to recover afterward.
So for all unmarried men—especially the younger ones—quick marriages had been arranged before the march.
And for the older ones, more children were… strongly suggested.
Already the men were descending, like a line of ants, gathering one by one. His guard was marking the perimeter, readying for ambush.
Ozerov could have told them there was no need. He sensed no Vril-ya.
But it was good to stay sharp.