At some point—you became used to being a soldier.

  The dreams. The fatigue. The constant need to remain vigilant.

  It wove into your being, as much a part of you as blood and bone.

  That night, I dreamed of Alaric. The old village. My father—the old barony.

  Dreams swirled in the murky depths of sleep, blurring the lines between past and present, reality and remnants of memory. Old Strossberg, with its cobblestone lanes drenched in the golden hues of sunset, came alive behind my closed eyelids.

  My father’s gaze—staring at me.

  Stern. Proud—but worried.

  That was the last thing I remembered on his face when I went to war.

  Would it stay with me?

  “Kael, my boy,” he whispered in those ethereal, dreamlike tones. “Don’t repeat an old man’s mistakes.”

  That whispered warning resonated through the layers of my slumber. Regret surged through me.

  “I won’t. I’ll be back—sooner than you think,” I said.

  The look on my father’s face softened slightly, a ghostly smile flickering at the edges of his lips as if he understood the heavy burden on my shoulders. His voice faded like mist as dawn approached in the dream world—

  And I jolted awake to the sound of a slam on the wooden barracks door.

  “Wake up, you louts!”

  The voice barked through the still air, relentless and sharp. It was Sergeant Ullman, his face as stern as a judge’s gavel in session. We knew better than to linger beneath the covers; those who did received a harsher awakening—boots, or the icy splash of water.

  The sole exemptions were those of nobility.

  Yet Ullman wasn’t what I feared.

  I jolted upright, strapping on my boots and rushing—because I had to make it to the new Lord-Commander’s office before the sun breached the horizon.

  The early morning air was crisp, filled with the scent of dew and the distant clatter of the morning guard’s preparations. My footsteps echoed on cobblestone as I hurried toward the towering structure that housed the Lord Commander’s chambers, exhausted and out of breath as I finally entered the keep.

  The stronghold was beginning to stir, the clatter of armor and murmur of voices slowly growing as dawn spread its pale light across the stone walls. I had skipped breakfast, so I hurried to the heavy oak door marked by the Lord-Commander’s crest—that of a lion’s maw grasping a broken sword—and knocked.

  “Enter,” came the resounding, authoritative reply from within.

  Pushing open the door, I stepped into a room that felt more like a war council chamber than a personal office. Maps littered the large central table, pinned down at corners with daggers and weighed with stones.

  Von L?we stood at the balcony, his back to me, hands clasped behind him as he gazed out over the training fields of Rega.

  Beside him—sitting in a chair with a cane—was the old commander, Duclaire, looking at me warmly.

  “The young Kaelitz,” von L?we said. “Just on time, as I expected.”

  His voice was calm, yet carried an undercurrent of something that could only be described as expectation mixed with a trace of urgency.

  I approached the table, my boots sounding against the stone floor, each step echoing in the high-vaulted room as I saluted.

  “Sir,” I began, nodding first to von L?we. “You summoned me?”

  “Yes.”

  Von L?we turned from the balcony, his gaze piercing as it landed on me. His stern face softened slightly as we stared at each other. He stepped forward, heavy boots thudding against the stone floor, until he stood directly before me.

  “Kaelitz,” he began. “I am aware of the history between our families. It is a small world—an even smaller Empire.”

  A ghost of a smile touched the Duke’s lips, and was gone the next moment.

  “Now, have you been briefed?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  Von L?we nodded, understanding flickering across his features.

  “Very well. Arch-Duke, if you could?”

  He signaled to Duclaire, who rose from his seat with a slight effort, leaning heavily on his cane as he smiled.

  “Nobody has called me that in a long time, von L?we. You must have been sticking around the little Wolf too long.”

  Duclaire grinned as von L?we growled.

  “Your nephew spends more time in your old tales than studying in his tutorship,” von L?we shot back, the corner of his mouth grimacing.

  I stood there—perhaps a bit shocked at the fact I had impressed the uncle of the Emperor at all—and Duclaire looked at me with a grin.

  “Somebody never paid much attention to their tutorship either,” he said. “I think this young man turned out rather fine himself without all that nonsense.”

  Duclaire’s words hung in the air, mingling with a warmth that momentarily lifted the steady weight of duty from my shoulders. His gaze shifted to the documents spread across the table, his expression turning severe once again as he beckoned me closer.

  “Come here, Captain Kaelitz. Look at this.”

  I approached, boots clicking on cold stone, and leaned over the map that dominated the table. It depicted our borders and beyond, marked with symbols denoting troop movements, strategic locations, and conflict areas.

  Duclaire’s finger tapped a particularly dense cluster of marks near a narrow pass through the mountains—Feynrich’s Pass, a critical point on the map, and now, it seemed, in our upcoming strategy.

  “The old Order of the Black Griffon once had a castle here,” Duclaire began, voice a mix of nostalgia and gravity. “Back when these lands were even more teeming with savages and pagans than they are today. It’s now a derelict fortress, but its strategic position remains unmatched. Especially…”

  He pointed eastward.

  The vast, gigantic Tzardom of Kholodia stretched across the map—perhaps even past it.

  “Especially should the worst happen with the Kholodian Tzardom,” Duclaire said. “They are volatile, dangerous neighbors.”

  Von L?we took a step closer, eyes narrowing as he followed Duclaire’s gesture.

  “Indeed,” he murmured. “If Kholodia decides to push westward, Feynrich’s Pass will be the first line of defense. It could determine the fate of the entire eastern front in an invasion…”

  He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in.

  “Though frankly, with the great revolution in Eclaire, I feel we’re better prepared than most think.”

  “Captain Kaelitz,” he continued, “the council has decided you will lead the expedition to re-establish the garrison at Feynrich’s Pass. Your mission is twofold: fortify the pass, and scout for any Kholodian movements toward our borders.”

  “…Excuse me—revolution?” I blurted. I was unaware of any such developments in the East.

  Von L?we’s eyes flickered with a hint of surprise, then frustration that I had not been informed earlier.

  “Yes. A revolution,” he confirmed with a heavy sigh. “Eclaire has finally reached its boiling point. Details are a bit…” He grimaced. “Thin. But—from my understanding, it’s quite serious. Especially with the radicals from the Low Church…”

  Duclaire coughed pointedly, drawing our attention back to him. His eyes shone defiantly as he spoke, voice ringing with conviction.

  “The Low Church may be seen as radical by some such as you, Heinrich. But I must remind you: the last thing we must do is split our forces in terms of denomination.”

  Von L?we’s jaw tightened, irritation flashing across his features.

  “Careful, Arch-Duke,” he warned, tone low and measured.

  Duclaire’s warning hung in the air, tension diffusing between us. Von L?we held Duclaire’s gaze a moment longer than comfortable before turning back to the map, finger tracing lines and symbols as though pondering his next words.

  “Very well,” he said, redirecting the meeting. “Back to Feynrich’s Pass. We must secure it quickly. Not just due to its strategic importance—it may also serve as a valuable rallying point for those still loyal to our cause in the east.”

  He paused, gaze drifting toward a small insignia hidden among the troop placements—one I recognized as that of the Order of the Black Griffon.

  I followed his gaze, remembering the tales my father told of the ancient Order—shrouded in mystery, bound by complex oaths and allegiances. Traditionally, they were warrior monks defending against ancient threats beyond our borders.

  Still, their presence had waned after many strongholds were lost or abandoned during the last Crusade—the last Crusade my grandfather fought in.

  “The Order has a new Grandmaster,” von L?we continued, as if reading my mind. “A young and ambitious knight named Siegfried. A bit hot-headed—proclaiming he’ll spear a new crusade to the heart of Moscova, but that’s exactly what we need.”

  He grinned.

  Duclaire glared.

  “It’s the last thing we need,” Duclaire snapped. “The people of Baltiva are already largely good, God-fearing folk who listen to the Church. The last thing we need is those fanatics—especially if they rile fears about another Goetic incursion…”

  I stared at the map, mind churning with this influx of revelations: an uprising in Eclaire, a new Grandmaster eager for crusade, the simmering tension between von L?we and Duclaire.

  Overwhelming.

  But I had to maintain focus. My duty was clear: secure Feynrich’s Pass against any incursion from the east.

  Then I snapped back to the conversation.

  “…Filthy Goetic heathens,” von L?we muttered, tone darkening with each word, hands tightening into fists. “Downright blasphemers, like the Arlenians and their radicals.”

  “That is, perhaps, the sole good thing the Order has done here—and the Baltzers, for that matter,” Duclaire replied. “The old order of Goetics are long gone, for at least two generations. And as for the Arlenians and their particular… blasphemous ways…”

  “Von L?we,” Duclaire interjected sharply, voice firm, “focus. We’re soldiers, far away from such things. The affairs of Arlenia are the affairs of Arlenia.”

  “Of course, Arch-Duke,” von L?we said, returning to me. “Captain Kaelitz… I would strongly recommend against sharing any news about the revolution. Especially to the…”

  He glanced back to Duclaire, displeased.

  “Especially to the more free-minded sergeants.”

  “Understood, sir,” I replied, nodding solemnly.

  Von L?we’s demeanor shifted as his gaze lingered on mine, probing.

  “Captain Kaelitz,” he began again, voice dropping, “before I dispatch you to Feynrich’s Pass, there are matters that require deeper discussion—matters that cannot be fully explored in this crowded room.”

  He turned his steely gaze to Duclaire, now absorbed in annotating another map segment with careful strokes.

  “Arch-Duke, might I request a moment alone with Captain Kaelitz? There are specific instructions from High Command I need to convey privately.”

  Duclaire looked up, eyes flicking from von L?we to me and back. He sighed, gripping his cane tighter as he pushed himself up.

  “Of course,” he said, tone carrying resignation mixed with curiosity.

  He moved away slowly, each step deliberate, leaving behind the faint echo of his cane tapping stone.

  Von L?we waited until Duclaire had left the room before he spoke. He sat at a desk near the corner of the large, dimly lit chamber and motioned for me to sit across from him.

  As I obliged, the air seemed to thicken with unspoken urgency.

  “Captain,” von L?we began, voice low and steady, “what I am about to discuss must not leave this room.”

  He held my gaze.

  “But you are to stop associating with the Arch-Duke immediately.”

  The statement sent a chill down my spine, contrasting sharply with the musty warmth of the chamber.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” I asked, voice barely a whisper, laden with disbelief.

  Von L?we leaned forward, eyes boring into mine with an intensity that charged the air between us.

  “The Arch-Duke has been under surveillance for some time now,” he revealed, each word measured and heavy. “There are suspicions regarding his ideals—not just to the Crown, but to the principles that hold our society together.”

  I sat frozen, trying to reconcile this proclamation with the man I had known and served with for half a year.

  The Arch-Duke—a traitor?

  It was inconceivable.

  Yet here was von L?we, a man of impeccable reputation and loyalty to the Crown, laying bare such damning suspicions.

  “The evidence is not yet concrete,” von L?we continued, voice almost a whisper now. “But we must act cautiously. Your assignment at Feynrich’s Pass is critical—but your role in observing the Arch-Duke is more critical.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “We need to ascertain his true intentions. As you see, he has a layer of sympathy for the Eclaireans… the Low Church, in particular.”

  “I-I see,” I managed, breath quiet. “Isn’t this an affair for the… Inquisition?”

  Von L?we’s lips curled slightly with a smirk.

  “Indeed. You are quite right.”

  He leaned back, folding his hands in front of him on the desk.

  “Captain—Father Johann, whom I know you worked with briefly in Northolt, is not merely a simple town priest as most presume. He works closely with the Inquisition.”

  A knot tightened in my stomach. Father Johann—quiet and unassuming, cloaked in dark robes—had seemed to me nothing more than a man of faith.

  Von L?we’s words painted something far more intricate.

  Far more shadowed.

  “As a man of noble blood,” von L?we continued, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the dark wood, “I’m sure you know what happens when the Inquisition starts prying into our affairs.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Things get messy. Very messy. Especially if you’ve been working with the wrong people.”

  He leaned forward.

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  “There is no room for error here, Captain. No room for divided loyalties. You will serve me. You will serve the Iron Church and our Lord, God.”

  The weight of his gaze pressed down upon me.

  “Yes, sir,” I managed, my voice steadying despite the turmoil inside.

  “You are to report directly to me,” von L?we said, tone brooking no argument. “Any communications with the Arch-Duke must cease immediately unless explicitly through channels I approve.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stared at me for a beat—silence sharp as a blade.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “That I’m harsh. That my words would be better suited for the gutter than a gentleman’s conversation.”

  He held my gaze.

  “But let me be clear, Captain. I would not appoint you to a position this important if I did not have a clue of respect.”

  “…Then why the threats?” I challenged. “Were it not for Rottmann, you would have beat me bloody. I know it.”

  Von L?we’s face hardened; the lines around his eyes deepened as he growled.

  “You forget history, Captain.” His voice was low—a controlled growl that seemed to vibrate the very air of the cramped chamber. “It is not love that governs men, but consequences. You speak of brutality as if it were my pleasure.”

  He stood and walked toward a large wall-map, its edges worn and colored by age.

  “No. It is merely a tool.”

  He turned back.

  “Kaelitz. Someday you’ll understand. Surrounding us is a wall. Monsters. Heathens. Devil-worshippers.” His eyes narrowed. “We are blessed—truly—to live in God’s chosen Empire.”

  He glanced at me.

  “Anywhere else… what would your life be?”

  His voice turned sharper, listing it like a sentence.

  “A life in Arlenia, ruled by atheistic despots—denied salvation at gunpoint? To live in the old, decayed Arkenthian Empire as a slave? Or to be ruled over by savage wolfmen as a serf?”

  His words were harsh—but carried the weight of undeniable truths.

  I remained silent, digesting the gravity of his arguments and the implications of my mission.

  “Yes, sir,” I said at last, finding my footing. “I understand the stakes.”

  “Good.” He nodded. “Now—get to it. I’ve wasted enough time on lecturing. You have your orders.”

  He slid a letter toward me—a requisition order for men and supplies.

  “Take this to Major Brenner at the eastern garrison. He will provide you with what you need.”

  I took the letter, examined it, and felt the heavy seal. I couldn’t help but notice the symbol of the Iron Church embossed upon it.

  What had I gotten into?

  Assembling the First Arkehovst Battalion was much easier said than done.

  I found Major Brenner—a stout man with a bushy mustache—who greeted me briskly as I approached.

  “Here to get started?” he asked, examining the letter. “Three hundred men, six horses, and two six-pound cannons… to be formed as a line infantry company, blah blah blah…”

  Then his eyes went wide.

  “…And three hundred muskets. Muskets? The bloody hell are we going to get a hundred muskets on such short notice?”

  “Muskets?” I repeated, looking down at the parchment again, brow furrowing. “Is there an error, Major?”

  Brenner shook his head, mustache bobbing slightly.

  “No error on the paper, Captain. It’s just… ambitious.” He sighed heavily, running a hand through thinning hair. “The only muskets I know of come from Vien and perhaps a few of the Free Cities—and they’re far from here, Captain.”

  He exhaled.

  “I’ll see what I can do. But I can hardly make promises. Perhaps a month or two, and we might get forty or so in.”

  I stared at him.

  “Surely, at the very least, you can give us some arquebuses?”

  Major Brenner nodded slowly, expression turning contemplative.

  “Arquebuses, yes.” He scribbled briefly in his ledger, then looked up with a slight frown. “It won’t be the firepower you expect with muskets, but it’ll give your men something to hold.”

  He paused.

  “I’m surprised—frankly.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Well—who the bloody hell ordered muskets?” he grumbled, before looking back to the parchment. His eyes widened as he noticed the seal, and he opened it more carefully.

  “Oh, Savior…”

  He stared at the seal with a new level of reverence, his gruff demeanor replaced by cautious respect. He set the paper down carefully on his cluttered desk, then rubbed his eyes tiredly.

  “Captain, I’ll do what I can. But tell the Church after this—I’m done.” He lifted the letter and waved it slightly. “This will stretch us thin. Very thin.”

  I nodded, understanding his position though bound by my duties.

  “I appreciate your efforts, Major. I know it’s not easy.”

  Brenner looked me straight in the eye, gaze sharp yet not unkind.

  “No, it’s not easy, Captain. But we do what we must, don’t we?” He paused, as if weighing his next words. “You’re caught in a tough spot, young sir. I can’t say I envy you—taking orders from the Inquisition.”

  I could only nod, the truth sitting on my shoulders like lead.

  “Very well,” he said briskly, breaking the solemn spell. “I’ll send word to my contacts in Vien and the Free Cities immediately. We might not secure three hundred muskets, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get close.”

  I nodded gratefully—but as I stood there in his office, a question gnawed at me.

  “Major,” I began carefully, “forgive me if this seems impertinent, but I must ask—why are we not producing more muskets internally? Surely we could outfit our troops more efficiently with our resources and craftsmen at our disposal?”

  Brenner leaned back, a wry smile playing across his weathered features.

  “Ah, Captain Kaelitz. You’ve stumbled upon a contentious issue.” He steepled his fingers, eyes looking distant. “You see—the Handwerkskammer. The craftsman guilds.”

  He sighed.

  “For generations, they’ve prided themselves on creating the finest goods in Aurisca. So what do you think happens when they get a bulk order for muskets—something new, something exciting?”

  I pondered, then ventured, “I imagine the guilds would be resistant. New methods, new designs… it would disrupt their traditional way of doing things.”

  Brenner nodded, smile turning rueful.

  “Precisely. The guilds fear mass production undermines their livelihood and way of life. They argue it floods the market with inferior goods—and that somehow the Imperial Army in all its brilliance will turn to Arlenia or Kholodia, or even Arkenthia, for their muskets.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

  “And so they lobby against it. Petition nobles, merchants—anyone who will listen. So no—we don’t get rows upon rows of line infantry like a real country, because as things are now they can sell an arquebus for a fortune.”

  His voice sharpened.

  “Because who the bloody hell still makes them?”

  I absorbed his words, a deep frown etching my face. Entrenched interests resisting progress—it all felt shortsighted, maddening.

  “So we are held hostage by the very craftsmen who should be supporting our cause,” I said, bitterness creeping in. “While our enemies march ever closer, armed with the latest weapons, we are left to scrounge for outdated relics.”

  “Young Kaelitz,” Brenner grinned, “you haven’t even seen the sheer price the Free Confederation charges for shipping goods and supplies here.”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  “So we’re caught between the guilds’ self-interest and the exorbitant prices of foreign trade.”

  Major Brenner leaned back, expression a mix of resignation and grim determination.

  “Welcome to the realities of war, Captain Kaelitz. It’s not all glory and heroism—sometimes it’s politics and economics. A bloody mess.”

  He stood, chair creaking under the sudden motion.

  “But we’ll make do, as we always have. I’ll pull every string I can, call in every favor owed to me. We’ll get you those muskets—or at least as close as we can manage.”

  I rose as well, respect for the grizzled Major growing.

  “Thank you, sir. I know you’re doing everything in your power to support us.”

  Brenner waved it off, gruff but not unkind.

  “Just doing my job, Captain. Now you’d best be on your way. I’m sure you have plenty of other matters to attend to.”

  I nodded, saluted crisply, and turned to leave.

  “And Captain?” Brenner called after me.

  “Watch your back out there.”

  Two weeks later, we had assembled an actual—somewhat functional—battalion, armed with nearly as many muskets as we had hoped for.

  A few cannons to boot.

  Plenty of ammo.

  It seemed Brenner had pulled a miracle.

  No pikemen. No halberdiers—only bayonets and muskets. We were progressing away from the old system of the Terijco.

  Modernization.

  Our first drills could have been more cohesive, more practiced—but besides the firing mechanisms themselves, the socket bayonets were the most impressive to witness. Not as cumbersome as one would think at first, and soon our reloading drills began to pick up pace.

  After a few days, the men fumbled less with their cartridges, reaching the average expected of an arquebusier.

  And eventually—even the Lord-Commander came to inspect.

  “Not bad,” he grunted. “Though it pales to the Arlenians, or the Streltsy in Kholodia.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, saber at the ready, as he looked at me and grunted.

  “It’s a start,” he said. “But in their first real battle, they’ll all die.”

  He spoke calmly, as though discussing the weather.

  “The Kholodians fire three rounds a minute. I doubt you have to be educated to put the math together.”

  I stood straight, absorbing his harsh analysis.

  “We are training them harder, sir. We’ll improve,” I replied firmly—though inside, doubt yawned open like a chasm.

  The Lord-Commander paced slowly in front of the ranks, eyes narrowing as he watched each soldier loading and firing.

  “You’d better,” he muttered. “Because your whole command is riding on this.”

  He stopped.

  “Get them up to… four rounds a minute.”

  I blinked.

  “Four…?”

  “Four.”

  He turned sharply on his heel and marched off, leaving heavy silence in his wake.

  The men’s faces—previously lit by strain and concentration—now mirrored my apprehension. We had only a week to refine our skills to meet an almost unattainable standard.

  As the Lord-Commander’s figure disappeared into the distance, Sergeant Rottmann approached our drilling grounds.

  “Captain Kaelitz, sir.” He saluted. “The old Lord-Commander requested me to serve with you.”

  He handed me a sealed envelope.

  “And he wished you to have this.”

  I took the envelope and turned it over. The seal of the Lord-Commander.

  Cracking it open, I found it written in High Valtorean—the court dialect.

  Captain Kaelitz von Ardent,

  In light of von L?we’s appointment to the First Battalion, you are granted all the privileges befitting a Feldhauptmann: immunity to prosecution; the right to requisition goods and services necessary for the war effort; and the right to conscript—alongside twelve acres of estate in Ostland, upon completing the campaign—bestowed to you from Archduke Frederich Duclaire.

  With all due reverence,

  Archduke Frederich Duclaire.

  I read the letter twice, then blinked—glancing over at Rottmann.

  “…Is Duclaire sticking around? I would have thought he would have headed back.”

  Sergeant Rottmann shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting to the letter and back to me.

  “He’s staying, sir. Even after being stripped of command, he serves as an advisor to von L?we. In terms of… regional matters.”

  He hesitated.

  “Not to mention—evidently he’s disliked at court.”

  “I see.” I exhaled. “Well—at least I’ll have a familiar face here.”

  I glanced toward the drilling line again.

  “I’ve been running this battalion without a single sergeant.”

  Rottmann nodded, his face settling into a grim line.

  “I’ll do my best to serve you well, Captain. Just say the word, and I’ll set to work.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” I replied, feeling a slight ease at having an experienced non-commissioned officer by my side. There was much to do—and Rottmann’s arrival could not have been more timely.

  With only a week to increase our firing rate, and a long campaign ahead, his experience would be invaluable.

  “Fire!”

  The command echoed across the drill field, sharp and imperative. Soldiers in rigid formation executed the order with a swiftness that surprised even me. Muskets roared in unison, sending a cloud of smoke drifting across the cool morning air.

  The acrid smell of powder stung my nostrils as I walked the line, inspecting each man’s handling and readiness.

  Sergeant Rottmann paced beside me, gaze equally critical.

  “Improving,” he muttered, reluctant approval threading his tone. “But not yet four rounds.”

  I nodded, mind racing.

  “We’ll extend training hours,” I decided aloud. “And break them into smaller squads for more focused drills.”

  Rottmann responded with a grunt.

  “We’re already up to nearly sixteen hours. Any more and you’ll grind them into dust, si—”

  “Make way!”

  The shout cut through our discussion. A courier mounted on a lathered chestnut mare galloped into the grounds, uniform caked with dust from hurried travel. The horse’s sides heaved, nostrils flaring red as it skidded to a halt before us.

  The young, breathless courier hopped down and extended a sealed envelope.

  “Captain Kaelitz Ardent?” he panted.

  I nodded.

  “Orders from the Lord Commander,” he added with rigid formality.

  I accepted the message, noting the seal—the Lord-Commander’s symbol pressed deeply into dark wax. Breaking it open, I scanned the contents as Rottmann and a few nearby officers gathered closer.

  “Sir?” Rottmann asked, low.

  I swallowed.

  You are to head out to Feyrnich’s Pass immediately, at a double pace, alongside the 20th Saxonian Regiment led by Colonel Galland and the forces of the Black Band.

  —Von L?we

  The handwriting was rushed. Whatever awaited us there was escalating rapidly.

  “Assemble the men,” I commanded without hesitation, glancing back at Rottmann.

  “Understood, Captain.” Rottmann saluted sharply and turned to relay the orders.

  The drill field—once filled with repetitive training—transformed into a hive of urgent activity. Men scrambled to gather gear, faces set in determined, anxious lines.

  Most of them were green—conscripts.

  It was hardly like the force that had set out here eight months ago.

  And it was shocking, in its way, to remember that I was now among the more senior officers.

  As urgency settled around me like morning mist, a weight pressed uncomfortably against my chest. Walking beside Rottmann—ever stoic, unfazed—I couldn’t help but let my thoughts drift toward doubts and uncertainties about my own capability.

  “Rottmann,” I began, voice barely above a whisper as we moved toward the assembling troops, “I must confess something to you.”

  He glanced at me, brows arching in that characteristic way that always prefaced his patience with my self-doubt.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “…Is it always like this?”

  My words trembled slightly, betraying the calm demeanor I strained to maintain.

  “Ah.” He chuckled softly, somehow reassuring amid the clamor. “Feeling a bit inexperienced, eh? It’s always a whirlwind, sir. War waits for no man—and neither do the orders that drive it. But you’ll find your footing soon enough.”

  I nodded somberly, appreciating his confidence even as my stomach churned.

  “And if I stumble?”

  The question slipped out before I could hold it back.

  Rottmann squared his shoulders and looked me directly in the eyes.

  “Then you get up and keep marching, sir. We all stumble. It’s getting back up that counts. That’s what makes a leader worthy of his title.”

  I exhaled, the breath tasting like smoke and cold air.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  He nodded, and we both looked out across the field—a blur of motion as the men made ready to march.

  We set out on the eastern roads—little more than dirt tracks worn down by countless military boots. The rhythm of marching feet merged with the clinking of gear and the occasional cough or murmur from the ranks.

  The sky, a brooding canvas of gray, seemed to press down on us as if warning of the march ahead.

  Ahead of us was the 20th Saxonian Regiment—recruited by von L?we himself. Quickly, it had grown a thousand men strong.

  And then there was us in the middle:

  A battalion of musketeers assembled as the First Arkehovst Battalion—though none of us came from such a place. None of us could name it on a map. We were makeshift: men from different regions of the Empire, dialects and customs clashing—yet thrust together.

  It was uneasy.

  The brotherly bonds of a regiment like the Saxonians—brothers in blood—surpassed our own.

  Behind us was the Black Band: five hundred local mercenaries. Their presence was a stark reminder of desperation—hiring mercenaries was always a last resort. And they hardly looked like the storied bands made famous in Casteloria and Valtorea.

  They looked like armed brigands.

  Locals—evidently “sympathetic” to us.

  Gradually, the landscape changed as we approached Feyrnich’s Pass. Flat plains gave way to rolling hills, then steep inclines that tested every man’s stamina. The once-distant mountains loomed large, peaks shrouded in mist, casting long shadows over our path.

  Then I saw a rider bearing down on us—a courier from ahead.

  “Sir—Colonel Galland of the 20th Saxonian Regiment,” the courier panted as he reined in a horse lathered with sweat. “He sends urgent word.”

  I rode forward, feeling every eye upon me.

  “Report,” I commanded, voice steady despite the flutter of nerves.

  “The enemy has been sighted, Captain,” the courier said, face grave. “Three miles north of Feyrnich’s Pass. Kholodians, sir. He wants your men in the front—to screen.”

  “Very well,” I replied, clipped and decisive, masking the apprehension tightening around my ribs. “Tell Colonel Galland we will move into position immediately.”

  The courier wheeled his horse and galloped off toward Saxonian lines.

  I turned to my battalion.

  The men looked back with anticipation and fear, faces stark against the grim landscape. The first battle was always shaky—when theory and drill hardened into harsh reality.

  I caught snippets of muttered prayers and last-minute affirmations.

  To say morale was low was an understatement.

  Fear coursed through me as I looked at them—my own confidence unsteady.

  “Listen up!” I called, voice cutting through the murmured unease.

  The men straightened. Gear clinked, then stilled as silence took hold.

  “We have been called to stand at the front,” I said. “The holy flag of the Empire stands behind us—and we will not dishonor it.”

  I drew breath.

  “Now—onward!”

  With a shout, the battalion rallied. We shook off the stagnation of the march with renewed vigor, pace quickening as we approached the mouth of Feyrnich’s Pass.

  We took the lead ahead of the Saxonians.

  They watched us pass with indifference.

  Colonel Galland was a tall man, medals pinned to his greatcoat—some of Arlenian origin—as I rode up beside him. His eyes, sharp and calculating, surveyed the terrain with a practiced gaze that spoke of many battles waged and won.

  He nodded curtly, expression betraying no emotion.

  “Captain,” he greeted, voice carrying the weight of authority and experience—touched with a posh Arlenian twang.

  “Colonel,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting an Arlenian to lead us.”

  It was curiosity more than chauvinism.

  Galland grinned—a sharp grin that lasted only a second.

  “It’s an interesting, worldly thing—politics,” he replied, ruefulness edging his tone. “Half a decade ago, I wouldn’t have expected to be in Valtorea. But things change, do they not?”

  We fell into silence, the only sound the rhythmic thud of our horses’ hooves against hard-packed earth.

  Galland seemed lost in thought. After a moment, he spoke again—urgency pulling my attention back.

  “The Kholodians are ahead—up there,” he said, pointing toward rocky outcrops that jutted like the jagged teeth of some great beast. “They have cannons, and their musketeers are well positioned. It will not be an easy assault, though we do outnumber them.”

  “…I see,” I said. “So—they’re interdicting us from reaching the fortress?”

  “Yes, precisely,” Galland confirmed, eyes narrowing. “They aim to hold us here, bleed us before we make it there—at which point we’ll be low on manpower, and a quick assault becomes impossible.”

  We looked ahead.

  Two figures approached, walking forward beneath a flag of parley.

  Tall Vuks.

  Standing proud.

  “At least they seem gentleman enough,” Galland growled.

  I nodded, adjusting the hilt of my sword, which hung uncomfortably at my side.

  The Vuks approached with measured strides. A brief silence fell, tension palpable even in the still mountain air.

  These wolfmen wore courtly robes—posh enough to rival nobles at our own court. They bowed, courtly, though they were nearly as tall as our horses.

  The lead Vuk spoke, voice growly for his imposing size.

  “Valtoreans,” he began, common tongue laced with an accent of deep forests and ancient traditions. “I am Boyar Kievelov. You have heard of me, yes?”

  I glanced at Galland.

  His face seemed paler than before.

  “Yes,” Galland mumbled. “I believe I have.”

  “Good,” the boyar continued, broad shoulders shifting as if settling into the weight of the moment. “Then you will know it is in your better interests to head back.”

  His voice carried finality. His gaze scanned our assembled faces, lingering on the Imperial flag fluttering behind us as he smirked—a fanged smile that unsettled me.

  “We cannot,” I pressed. “Our orders are clear, sir.”

  Kievelov’s smile faded into a stern line. He shifted his weight, somehow towering more ominously.

  “Orders,” he echoed with disdain. “Orders that send young men to their deaths for a patch of dirt. Our empires have no reason to fight—and yet we do. For what?”

  Perhaps sensing he had struck a cord, he looked at me.

  “We believe in the same Savior, yes? Then what reason do we have to fight each other?” His gaze lingered. “Has war not taken enough from you, young man?”

  He nodded toward my face.

  “Your eye. Those claw marks. You understand the cost of war.”

  Then he glanced at Galland, unimpressed.

  “And I am sure he does not.”

  Galland’s jaw clenched, eyes hardening as he faced the boyar.

  “Boyar,” he said, tone cold and measured, “it is not for you to judge what I have or haven’t endured. We stand here by order of our Emperor to secure this pass and push forward. Higher powers dictate the politics of our nations than any of us on this field.”

  Boyar Kievelov gave a low chuckle.

  “True enough. Such is the fate of men like us. Bound by the whims of those above.”

  His gaze slid to the horizon for a heartbeat—

  And then—

  A gunshot rang out.

  The boyar collapsed onto the snowy ground, his large frame striking with a soft thud. Blood began to pool around him, a stark contrast to the pristine whiteness.

  The other Vuk—shocked—bared his fangs and rushed to the fallen wolfman, exchanging words with him as I stared.

  Galland’s pistol was out.

  Smoking.

  “Such is the fate of monsters,” he growled, glaring—then glancing at the surviving Vuk, who returned a look of pure, intense hatred.

  The air, already heavy with tension, now shimmered with the undeniable threat of violence.

  “You have sealed the fate of many today,” the wolfman said, hatred fixed on Galland.

  Galland seemed indifferent.

  “So I have. So I have.”

  The Vuk moved to grab the body—

  Galland cut him off.

  “If you touch his body, I will not hesitate to have you killed.”

  The wolfman’s eyes blazed with fury. Yet a pause followed—calculation in the silence.

  “And what then of your honor, Valtorean?” he spat bitterly. “You dishonor the dead with such threats. Is this the righteousness your Empire preaches?”

  Galland’s expression did not change. His grip on the pistol remained steady.

  “Say whatever you’d please, monster. But do so in the company of your troops, far from here. We claim this ground now—by blood and decree.”

  The Vuk held Galland’s gaze another moment, then turned away—leaving the body where it lay.

  I looked at Galland.

  I couldn’t help but feel like an accomplice to a murder.

  Foul.

  Cruel.

  “You may think me harsh,” Galland said, “but these wolfmen are savages. You’ve seen them. You lost your eye to them, after all.”

  I nodded slowly, stomach churning. My eye—a wound that never fully healed, a constant reminder of brutal clashes between our species.

  It was true.

  I had lost it to the Vuk in an earlier skirmish.

  Yet staring down at Boyar Kievelov’s lifeless form, I couldn’t suppress the surge of empathy.

  “Perhaps,” I began, voice barely above a whisper, “but he spoke of peace. Something we might someday strive for.”

  Galland’s sharp gaze cut to me, eyes narrowing into calculating slits.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, “let not your heart be softened by the pleas of a monster.”

  His voice turned quieter—harder.

  “Once this is over, and we make it out alive, I will tell you full well what that monster Kievelov is. A bullet between his eyes was a mercy.”

  “If you say so, sir.”