**Metro: Ashes of the Steppe**
People used to say the world ended in flames. My father thought otherwise—that it didn’t end at all, that it had simply changed.
I was born under an open sky in the settlement of Sparta, on the shores of Lake Baikal. It was founded by my father, Artyom Chyornij, and the others of the Spartan Order who ventured with him across the scorched land once called Russia, leaving behind the tunnels of the metro beneath the old city of Moscow.
Sparta stands where nothing should grow. Yet we built something here—something better. We’ve come a long way in this journey, from a handful of survivors searching for a better home, fuelled by nothing but hope, to a thriving community of hundreds.
But in recent days, things haven’t been so promising. A couple of our outposts, along with some of the farmland, have been reduced to nothing but ash. We still haven’t discovered the source of these attacks.
The first outpost burned in silence.
No alarms. No—
“Hey! Quit scribbling in that journal of yours. Patrol’s back, and there’s a problem!”
His mother, Anna, exclaimed, interrupting Svyatoslav as he wrote in his ledger. His heart dropped—he already knew what was coming.
“Another outpost has been hit. Four dead. Four good soldiers dead, boy—do you hear me? So get off your damn ass and get out here!” Anna cried before storming out of the room in a hurry.
Without hesitation, he jumped up from his chair, grabbing his battle-worn revolver—passed down to him by his father—and his trusty brown leather trench coat, which had seen better days.
The door slammed as Svyatoslav stepped out into the cold. The wind was harsh, carrying with it the faint smell of smoke. Not from Sparta itself—but close enough that it mattered.
His boots sank into the mud beneath him as he looked up to see Anna and a broad-shouldered figure slightly taller than him. Beside them was a young boy, around his age, perhaps a little younger.
Before Svyatoslav could ask anything, the boy—sitting on an old, tattered supply crate, arms folded as he rocked back and forth trying to keep warm—spoke up.
“They came from nowhere… there were so many… we didn’t even—” he blurted, his words stumbling over each other, before Svyatoslav cut him off.
“Hey, hey, calm down. You’re safe now. Just take your time and start from the beginning, friend,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Safe? Supreme Regent, with all due respect, sir, you don’t understand—you weren’t—” He stopped, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts. “It was quiet. Almost too quiet.”
Anna crossed her arms. “Outposts are always quiet.”
He shook his head quickly. “No… not like that. No wind. No animals. Even the dogs…” His voice caught. “They wouldn’t move. Just… staring out into the dark.”
Svyatoslav leaned in slightly, the boy’s words catching his interest. “When did it happen?”
“Just before dawn. We were getting ready to head home—only fifteen, maybe twenty minutes left in our shift. And that’s when we heard it… tens of hooves, galloping against the ground, almost shaking it.”
“They were on horseback?”
The stranger’s jaw hung slightly open. Svyatoslav noticed, studying the man’s expression. He knew something about these attackers.
“Yes… or, well, I think so. It was so dark, I couldn’t see clearly. It all happened so fast—it’s as if it never happened. By the time we realised what was going on, they had already begun to rain bullets upon us. Not just any bullets… incendiary rounds. They set the whole perimeter ablaze.”
The boy broke down in tears before he could finish.
“Please… excuse me, Supreme Regent,” he muttered, before leaving them.
Just as Svyatoslav was about to follow, desperate to uncover every detail he could, his mother grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him in place.
“Let the boy rest. He’s had enough for one night, don’t you think?”
He nodded, then turned his attention to the stranger—the one who had been listening all along, who clearly knew more than he let on.
“And you are?”
A pause.
“Speak clearly.”