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"Soldiers. Why are they here so early?" Dragan Petrovic’s eyes snapped open the moment he heard the rumble of heavy trucks grinding into the village square. Diesel engines, gears clanking, boots hitting the ground. Not supply trucks—military. He knew the sound by now. He was awake fast, like a rabbit sensing a hawk overhead. No time to think. He rolled off his cot, let the threadbare blanket slip to the packed-earth floor, and crouched low by the wall. The others were still asleep—his mother, curled up with the two babies under the patched quilt; his fourteen-year-old sister, Mila, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. They were just shadows in the cold gray light of Balkan dawn, their breaths faint clouds in the unheated room. Good. Let them sleep a little longer. The quiet wouldn’t last. Once the trucks stopped, once the shouting started, everything would change. Again. Dragan stayed low, listening, trying to count how many soldiers there were. He liked to know what was coming before the chaos reached inside.
Now he heard it again—the ragged drone of engines grinding up the slope from the river, echoing off the stone walls and clay-tiled roofs of the village. Old Soviet-era trucks, coughing smoke and struggling in low gear. Dragan knew that sound well by now. They must’ve turned off the main road—the one that wound down past the Orthodox cemetery and the burnt-out textile mill, all the way to the port, where barges still hauled out crates of dried plums, barrels of sunflower oil, and bundles of mountain herbs packed in burlap. But they hadn’t stayed on the asphalt. They’d taken the gravel road, the one with potholes deep enough to swallow a wheel, the one no one used unless they had to. That meant something. Soldiers didn’t make detours for no reason. Not now. Not with fuel running short and orders coming from men who rarely showed their faces. Dragan’s stomach tightened. The village had nothing left to give—no men of fighting age, no livestock, barely enough bread for the day. But the trucks kept coming. Past the bullet-scarred gateposts. Past the chapel with its half-collapsed bell tower. Up toward the square, where the soldiers always stopped first.
It wasn’t unusual for soldiers to come—Gornje Selo expected them the way you expect the first frost or a stomach virus in winter. They never announced themselves, never asked permission. Just showed up, took what they wanted, and left behind tire tracks, cigarette butts, and a nervous silence. This year, they'd been coming more and more. Since Easter, Dragan had already seen two separate groups pass through—once during the spring planting, once just after the cherry trees blossomed. He’d watched both times from the roof of the smokehouse, hidden behind the stacked firewood, as the men barked orders and helped themselves. They loaded trucks with burlap sacks of potatoes, barrels of pickled cabbage, onions, smoked lamb legs strung on hooks, and baskets of eggs still warm from the coop. Once, they even took his uncle’s last two sheep—animals the family had been saving for trade in the fall. No money. No names. Just boots, guns, and the sound of engines disappearing into the hills. But this was different. Usually, they came at midday, when the sun was up and the village was too tired or too scared to resist. Not now. Not this early. The trucks must’ve driven all night—through mountain passes, past washed-out bridges and cratered roads—to arrive at dawn. The kind of drive you only made with urgency. Or orders. Dragan pressed his ear to the wall, listening. He could already hear the voices now—hoarse and clipped, not shouting yet, but close. The way the old women whispered about fevers and bad omens. Something about this felt worse than usual. Not just a raid. Not just hungry men looking for meat. This felt organized. Deliberate. And in Gornje Selo, deliberate was never good.
He glanced over his shoulder again, careful not to make a sound. His mother was still asleep on the woven mat near the wood stove, curled tightly around the twins like she was trying to shield them even in her dreams. They all slept there now, in the corner closest to the warmth, since his father was killed in the shelling that winter. The back room where his parents once slept had no roof anymore—just open air and broken tiles. Mila was beginning to stir, her eyes blinking open in the half-light, confused for a second, then afraid, as always. Her face looked so much like their mother’s, especially when she was scared. She pulled the thin blanket closer to her chin and stared at him, silent but already on the edge of tears. He moved quickly. He had gone to bed in his pants, like he did every night now—ready to run or hide or carry someone if he had to. He grabbed his shirt from the rusted hook by the door and pulled it over his head in one practiced motion. It still smelled faintly of smoke and earth. The wooden floor creaked as he stepped, loud to his ears in the early silence. He froze for a second, holding his breath, but no one else stirred. Mila was watching him now, eyes wide. If he didn’t move fast, she’d sit up, come to him, clutch his arm, whisper his name over and over in that pleading voice that made it impossible to think. She was terrified of everything lately—strangers, loud noises, planes overhead. But soldiers? Soldiers turned her to stone. He felt a stab of guilt. He hated leaving her like this. But he couldn’t let her slow him down. Someone had to see what was happening. Someone had to be ready. He slipped toward the door, past the narrow table where the bread used to sit in better years, past the family icons blackened with soot, past the empty cradle his mother couldn’t bring herself to move. He paused just long enough to glance at Mila again. Her lips were trembling, her small hands gripping the edge of the blanket, but she didn’t call out. Not yet. Outside, the village would already be changing—dogs barking, men waking, shutters creaking open just a crack. The trucks were here. And wherever soldiers showed up at dawn, trouble followed close behind.
As if anyone could protect anyone, Dragan told himself as he slipped out the door, easing it shut with a slow, practiced hand. The iron latch didn’t catch—he’d oiled it with cooking grease weeks ago to keep it silent. Outside, the cold air wrapped around him like a wet blanket, sharp with the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the faint metallic sting of fuel. He moved quickly, turning right and ducking low into the overgrowth beside the house—wild peonies, thick with wide, dark leaves, and an old tangle of elder shrubs, their berries long gone but their woody branches still dense and sharp. His grandmother had planted them years ago, back when the village still had weddings in spring and flower crowns were woven for saints’ days. Now they were overgrown, half-choking the foundation stones, but they made good cover. He crouched low in the damp, his back against the rough plaster wall, and held still. From here—just beyond the corner of the house, past the rusted gutter and a loose shutter—he had a clear view of the village square. It looked smaller than usual in the early light. The old stone fountain in the center, long dry, was cracked down one side from a mortar blast the year before. The statue of the partisan commander still stood, one arm raised, but the rifle it once held had broken off and disappeared. The trucks were there—three of them, big, olive-drab beasts with canvas covers and metal sides streaked with mud and old bullet scars. They idled like animals, coughing smoke into the air, engines rattling low and steady. Soldiers were already climbing down from the backs, their boots thudding against the cobblestones. Dragan counted at least twelve. Some carried rifles slung lazily over their shoulders; others already had them in hand. One of them wore a black beret—an officer maybe. They didn’t look in a hurry, but they didn’t look relaxed either. He stayed still, barely breathing. From this spot, he could see everything. And more importantly, no one could see him.
Two weathered, olive-drab military trucks rumbled to a stop just inside the cracked cobblestone square, their engines sighing into silence beneath the overcast sky. The square itself was framed by aged stone buildings, their red-tiled roofs and ornate wooden balconies—intricately carved in the traditional Balkan style—bearing the scars of time and conflict. A faint smell of roasted chestnuts mingled with the dust rising from the uneven pavement. Several men in faded, patchwork uniforms clambered down from the trucks, their faces hardened and marked by weeks of strife. Among them were figures recognizable by their worn caps embroidered with the insignia of the N.O.P. The soldiers gathered quickly, forming a tight cluster near the trucks, their voices low but urgent as they exchanged clipped words in the guttural, rhythmic tongue of Dravinskia. Nearby, a stray dog slinked through the shadows cast by the twisted wrought-iron street lamps, while a weathered fresco of a saint looked down from the crumbling wall of the old Orthodox church, watching silently as the quiet tension in the square thickened like the humid summer air.
Not many villagers were out yet. Dragan thought the few who were looked as if they had woken suddenly—just like him—and hurried outside to see what was happening. From his hidden spot behind a cracked stone wall, he could make out the mayor, old Mr. Stanoj Petrović, who shuffled forward with a pronounced stoop, his crooked frame the result of a fall years ago that left him nearly bent double. Beside him stood two other elderly men, both known for their work at the local tobacco-drying shed—an important hub of the village’s economy, where the heavy scent of curing leaves always lingered in the air. And there—right at the mayor’s elbow—was Dragan’s best friend, Luka Marković, bobbing eagerly in the crowd. Trust Luka to stick his nose into whatever was going on, whether it was any of his business or not, instead of staying hidden in the shadows like Dragan preferred, waiting until he could tell if it was safe. Dragan had learned—often the hard way—to be cautious in times like these. Luka, however, was different. He was the village’s unofficial information broker, the one who knew who was sick or in trouble, who had ears in the confessional when the priest came around, and who, long ago, had figured out how to signal the paramilitary soldiers of the N.O.P.—an armed group fighting against the oppressive regime—when trouble brewed in the village.
Both kinds of soldiers passed through the village frequently, their presence a grim reminder of the fractured country. But it was Luka who had figured out the subtle differences between them. The forces of the Narodni Oslobodilački Pokret—the People's Liberation Movement—carried better rifles, mostly supplied by leftover caches from Eastern European arms dealers and shadowy post-Soviet black markets. Since the collapse of the USSR, these weapons had trickled into the hands of various militias, often smuggled through the Balkans by mercenaries and corrupt officials. Their uniforms, however, were a patchwork of worn green fatigues, faded from years of use and mismatched pieces scavenged from battlefields. The loyalist troops, loyal to the central government and the old communist order, wore more standardized gray uniforms, pressed and clean despite the war’s hardships. The differences extended to their caps and insignias: the Narodni Oslobodilački Pokret soldiers bore on their caps the ancient symbol of the double-headed eagle clutching a lion’s paw—a heraldic emblem dating back to medieval Dravinian kingdoms, symbolizing fierce independence and defiance. The loyalists, on the other hand, displayed a stylized bear claw enclosed in a ring—an ancient symbol of endurance and loyalty, rooted in local legend. Dragan had learned to identify these signs himself after Luka pointed them out. Now, squinting carefully through the vibrant clusters of peonies that lined the cracked stone wall, Dragan could tell that the men clustered near the trucks were soldiers of the Narodni Oslobodilački Pokret—the revolutionaries. Their faces were tense, their eyes wary beneath their battered caps, carrying the weight of a war that had swallowed their homeland whole.
The two battered trucks came to a halt in front of the mayor's modest stone house, its faded plaster walls and intricately carved wooden eaves—typical of the Dravinian countryside—showing years of weather and wear. The trucks partly blocked Dragan’s view of the mayor and Luka, but he knew Luka would see and hear everything and report back later, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Though there wouldn’t be much time for that. As soon as the shrill whistle blew down at the river’s loading dock, Luka and all the other boys would have to head to work. Dragan could already imagine the long, sweltering day ahead, spent loading heavy sacks of potatoes onto the aging cargo ship anchored in the muddy river. The vessel, a worn but sturdy freighter from the distant port city of Varosgrad, bore the marks of countless trips through the Adriatic, its hull chipped and rust-streaked, the name Mornar barely visible on its bow. Dragan almost felt sorry for being only twelve years old. He was already marked by the post-communist malaise that hung over the village like a gray cloud—malnutrition and chronic fatigue were common among children his age, the lingering scars of economic collapse and scarce food supplies. Anything, he thought bitterly—reading, arithmetic, even the tedious school lessons—was better than dragging heavy sacks onto his shoulder under the harsh summer sun, day after day, while the world he once dreamed of seemed to slip farther away.
As the minutes dragged on, Dragan stayed crouched in the shadows, eyes fixed on the square, waiting for Luka to appear. He was supposed to circle around the backside of the square—through the alley behind the butcher’s shop and past the half-collapsed bakery—then meet Dragan near the elder bushes so they could head down to the docks together. That had been the plan. And in war, sticking to a plan—even a small one—was something you held onto like a lifeline. Whatever the soldiers were doing, it didn’t matter. Not really. They still had to go to work. Orders still came down to the warehouses. Trucks still needed to be loaded. Most mornings, Dragan and Luka walked together with Ksar, Dragan’s cousin, who was fifteen but looked older with his hunched back and calloused hands. A few other boys would join—kids from neighboring streets, wearing patched coats and hand-me-down boots, talking in quiet voices or not at all. They'd pass the bullet-pocked minaret, the burned-out pharmacy, and the old vineyard walls choked in weeds. Then it was down the hill, past the checkpoint that was rarely manned anymore, to the docks by the river. Since the draft had swallowed up nearly every man between sixteen and sixty—into one army or the other, no one knew for sure—the village had emptied. The fields were tilled by boys who still had homework, and the packing sheds filled with grandfathers who limped more than they lifted. Women worked too, when they could, but many were caring for babies, or old ones, or just too afraid to leave their homes. It was the boys who got sent to work—early, quietly, every day, like nothing was wrong. And the foreman at the docks? He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t want excuses. If you weren’t there by first bell, you got your pay docked. If you missed a day, someone else—a cousin, a stranger, some kid from another village—took your place. Dragan had already lost one day this month when a road was closed after shelling. He couldn’t afford to lose another. He shifted his weight slightly, adjusting his crouch, his thighs burning from holding the position so long. Still no sign of Luka. The soldiers milled about the square—smoking, kicking stones, swearing. One sat lazily on the steps of the old municipal building, gun across his lap, while another leaned on the broken fountain and stared at the sky like he had nowhere better to be. Dragan’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since the night before. Cold bread and pickled turnip. He rubbed his hands together for warmth and kept scanning the alley. Luka was late. And being late, in this village, in this war, could mean too many things.
Dragan squinted against the sharp light as the first rays of sun filtered through the chestnut trees that lined the edge of the square. Their leaves fluttered gold and brown in the morning breeze, the last color left in a village drained of it. A few more villagers had trickled out—mostly old men in worn jackets and wool caps, standing at a distance, silent, their arms folded tightly across their chests.
But only the soldiers were moving with purpose. They were unloading the trucks now, dragging out strange cargo. A dented metal desk. Two mismatched chairs. A crate of clipboards. Folders stuffed with papers, rubber bands wrapped thick around them. One of the men unrolled a heavy canvas map and pinned it to the cracked wall of the municipal building—its faded coat of arms still visible beneath the bullet holes. Another soldier banged a rusted typewriter onto the desk and began loading paper.
Dragan’s mouth went dry. He had seen this setup once before. Last year, in a neighboring village. The same strange calm, the same furniture. Not a raid. Not a looting.
A conscription station!
His stomach turned cold. His legs moved before his brain caught up. He turned and ran. He got five steps, maybe six—barely past the tangled elder shrubs and into the side path behind the baker’s ruined house—before slamming full-force into a figure that seemed to rise from the ground. A soldier. One who had already circled the houses and come up behind him. They collided hard, the breath knocked out of Dragan’s chest. Before he could recover, rough hands were grabbing at his arms, twisting fabric, dragging him down.
Dragan lunged backward, kicked wildly, tore at the man’s sleeves. His fingernails raked across a patch of cloth—caught something, ripped it. The soldier cursed in a low voice and tightened his grip. Dragan thrashed harder, driven by instinct more than hope. But even as he fought, even as panic surged in his chest, he knew the truth.
It was useless.
No one ever escaped.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHIr4NfBJIC
980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDpGfkQWYeO
Half an hour passed.
The sun had fully cleared the hills by then, casting sharp lines across the village square. A few more desks had appeared. The soldiers stood in a line now, one of them calling names from a list while another took down information. Boys were being sorted—some taken aside, others handed slips of paper. The villagers watched from the edges, stiff and silent, as if afraid to breathe too loudly. There was no shouting. No screaming. Just the clatter of typewriter keys and the hum of engines still running, like they already knew this would go quickly.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRyTPWVN5xZ
The square was crowded now. Nearly the whole village had gathered—some drawn by fear, others by the habit of showing up when something might happen to someone else. The air was still cold, and the stone beneath their feet still held the night’s chill. Old Mr. Petrović stood near the center, just behind the officer’s desk. He hadn’t moved in what felt like minutes, his cane rooted like part of the ground, his coat too thin for the morning wind. He stared ahead with that blank, tired expression people wore when they’d lived long enough to see too much.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1mta9H3vmm
Two other old men stood beside him, wrapped in heavy wool coats, hats pulled low. One of them was Stojan Vučković, Ksar’s grandfather, a man whose left leg dragged slightly when he walked from a mine injury decades ago. Dragan had never seen him speak above a whisper. He looked smaller now, hunched, as if even his bones were trying not to draw attention.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnrYIOVsOAM
Dragan stood between Luka and Ksar, his right arm caught in the grip of the soldier who had tackled him. The man still held him like a vice, but not violently—just firmly, like holding a piece of luggage you might need to move again. Dragan’s shoulder throbbed from the earlier struggle, but he kept still. He could shift his feet, glance sideways, but anything more would bring the soldier’s hand up to his collarbone or throat.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq5Om6Crm1j
Luka’s face was blank, his eyes fixed on the ground, while Ksar kept glancing sideways, his lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Each of them had a soldier gripping their arms the same way. They weren’t cuffed, just held—contained.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDh6aiIIkgD
Across the square, the women had come out of their homes. Most didn’t say anything. They stood in tense, silent clusters near doorways and alley mouths, hands clutching shawls, sleeves, each other. Some had wrapped scarves tight around their heads; others had their hair pulled back with crooked pins, like they hadn’t expected to leave the house that morning. Ksar’s mother was among them, standing near the edge of the old butcher’s stall, her hands twisted together, face pale as flour.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvuV7kbnTdx
Ksar’s sister was not with her. Of course not. Girls didn’t come out for this. Either they were kept hidden or had the sense to stay behind the curtains. The square belonged, for now, to men, boys, and the people with guns.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYLxQjwk1Ur
From time to time, one of the women would step forward and speak quietly to a soldier—questions, requests, maybe even pleading—but none of the soldiers reacted. They didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Most didn’t even glance back. Their eyes were turned inward, toward the officer’s desk, toward the paper shuffle, the official business now unfolding at the heart of the village.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJtVQ1gx6d1
The officer—broad-shouldered, thick-jawed, with a uniform that looked borrowed from a cleaner war—sat at a dented metal desk dragged from the back of one of the trucks. A stack of yellowing papers sat before him. His cigarette, balanced on the edge of a chipped ashtray, sent a thread of smoke twisting upward into the blue morning sky. Occasionally he would take a file, scribble a note, stamp it with a heavy thud, then move on.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgkDFR6JBVX
Around him, the soldiers had formed a loose but unmistakable ring. Not a formal perimeter, not precise—just enough to pen everyone in. They stood beside lampposts, between the fountain and the statue, leaned against walls and doorframes. Rifles hung from their shoulders. Fingers rested near triggers, but nothing was raised. Not yet.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVzgBD9NKpp
Everyone—soldiers, villagers, the held boys—faced the desk like it was a courtroom. Or a gate.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY2UaHRgZwB
Dragan clenched his jaw. He knew this wasn’t the start of something. This was the something. The names would be called. The boys would be taken. And the square would return to silence, only a little hollower than before.
Dragan stared around him, chest rising and falling in short, shallow gasps. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might give him away, like a hunted animal with nowhere left to bolt. Though he stood completely still—his arms clenched at his sides, the soldier’s grip tight around his bicep—he could feel it: waves of fear pulsing through him, cold and raw. But stronger than the fear was something hotter, sharper. Rage.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUJvBJrWFCB
It burned in his stomach, in his jaw, in his fists. Rage at the soldiers. Rage at the war. Rage at the way everything kept being taken—from the land, from their homes, from the boys like him who hadn’t even finished school. It was the kind of feeling that left your knees weak, like during an earthquake when the world tilts and nothing is solid. He wasn’t sure he could have run even if the soldier had let go of him.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6zI4j95DPE
But it didn’t matter. Running was the worst thing you could do.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnviGBMw7nP
Everyone knew that. You ran, they shot you. That was the rule now. No warnings. No mercy. Just a burst from a rifle and your name added to the whispered list that passed through the village every few days. If you didn’t run, if you stood still, there was a chance—just a small, glimmering chance—that you might live.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa9pIBXBoQK
Dragan turned his head slowly to the left. Luka stood beside him, only a meter away, but it felt like a gulf. Luka was trembling, just barely, his face slick with sweat despite the morning chill. A single bead trickled down the bridge of his nose, past the point where his eyebrows met in a tight crease. His mouth was slightly open, breathing through clenched teeth.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6YuejH8XgA
Luka didn’t turn, didn’t move, but Dragan knew he had felt the glance. They had been friends since they were toddlers, crawling through the dusty alleys between the stone houses, kicking old tin cans through the fields. They didn’t need to speak. They never did, not when it mattered.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPiW6UBDrcM
Dragan could feel it in the air between them, like an invisible string pulled tight: Don’t run—980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpmh51nkVkc
Both of them were thinking it. Not like advice. Like a survival instinct. Like a spell.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡELJtrA9YjC
The soldier gripping Luka’s arm shifted his weight slightly, bored, maybe, or impatient. Dragan could hear another soldier nearby cough, then spit. Behind them, the typewriter at the desk clacked steadily, punctuation in a rhythm of dread. Pigeons fluttered on the roof of the old church, their wings beating fast and nervous like hearts.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDrMj9vPnqQ
Everything in Dragan wanted to move—run, punch, scream—but his body stayed frozen. His legs, like tree roots sunk into the ancient stones of the square, wouldn’t budge. He forced himself to breathe slower, quieter, to not let the soldier feel the panic through his shirt sleeve.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTlZT55z8eH
Don’t run. Don’t run.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡM52KxZ2UDE
Not now. Not unless you wanted your name scratched into the wall of the chapel next to all the others who thought they could outrun a bullet.980Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKQNJEock7t
