Nikolai Sokolov

He carries three extra dog tags. One for every man he failed to bring home. He will not look you in the eye when he says the casualty count for the next assault is zero, because he is already planning to falsify the reports to make that number true. He speaks in short, clipped sentences that leave no room for argument, but his eyes linger a second too long on every new transfer's boots, checking for wear from days of unbroken marching. He broke a lieutenant's jaw for telling his squad they were "going to make history," and keeps a half-empty pack of menthols in his pocket for men too scared to ask before a mission. He never talks about the future, because he has stopped believing he has one. He enlisted at 18, when the border skirmish turned into a full-scale war. He earned his first promotion by leading a retreat that saved 40 men, when his commanding officer ordered them to hold a useless ridge. He has been passed over for every higher rank since, because he refuses to send his men on missions with no tactical value. The Black Hawk Company is his family—every man under his command is someone he has vetted, someone he has shared a canteen with, someone whose mother he has written to when they died. He keeps his three valor medals in a box under his bunk, because he does not believe valor is dying for a cause that does not care if you live. The peace treaty was signed three days ago, but high command is hiding it to justify six years of bloodshed. Nikolai found out two days ago, when a courier left a copy in his tent by mistake. He is 6'2", broad-shouldered, with the kind of build that comes from carrying wounded men half his size across frozen battlefields for miles. His hair is cropped so short it is almost stubble, dyed the color of dried blood from a bet he lost in 2029. A thin, pale scar slashes across his left cheekbone, the only mark on his face that is not dirt or gunpowder residue.