The mist hadn't fully dissipated when Götthain's forces reached their assigned position.
The forest—for this was what "left flank near the forest" actually meant—consisted of ancient pines soaring toward the sky. Their dense canopy held back sunlight, creating a damp, silent environment. Between the trunks, underbrush grew waist-high.
At the forest's eastern edge, open terrain stretched toward a small river—the main defensive line they were meant to guard.
Other troops had already arrived.
Albert made a quick count as they approached. Perhaps a thousand men—several times his force's size. Banners fluttered above them, bearing emblems he recognized from the war council. Eisental, Dornenholz and several smaller standards whose names he hadn't memorized.
Lord Harald vin Eisental stood before his troops, his white beard stirring in the wind. Beside him stood several officers in superior armor—his personal guard, likely.
As Albert approached, Lord Harald raised his hand. "Albert vin Götterbaum. Your forces are punctual."
"Greetings, My Lord." Albert offered a crisp salute. "Where should we position ourselves?"
Harald pointed south, where the forest pressed closer to the riverbank. "There. You'll serve as the left flank's spearhead. If the enemy attempts to cross the river, they'll fan out toward your position. Your task is to halt them before they can form a battle line on our flank."
Albert studied the designated terrain. The ground there opened up—forest giving way to low shrubs and wild meadows. A difficult position... If the enemy came in sufficient numbers, encirclement would be a genuine threat.
"Dornenholz's forces will be positioned behind you," Harald continued, as if reading his thoughts. "Their archers. If you can hold the enemy long enough, they'll rain arrows from the flank. But—" he fixed Albert with a sharp stare, "—if you retreat too quickly, those archers become exposed. They'll die. Do you understand?"
Albert nodded. "I understand."
"Then go. We don't have much time."
***
His forces moved into position.
Albert ordered them to halt at the boundary between forest and meadow, just behind a line of shrubs dense enough to conceal their numbers. Men-at-arms took the front, levies behind with leveled spears.
Sir Varin critically examined the formation, occasionally instructing men-at-arms to adjust their positions. Luise stood beside Albert, hand on her sword hilt, eyes sweeping the terrain ahead.
"We have an hour, perhaps less," Varin reported after returning. "Reconnaissance patrols report enemy movement across the river. They'll cross when the sun stands directly overhead."
Albert nodded. One hour, enough time to do what needed doing.
"Gather the troops," he ordered. "Everyone. Men-at-arms and levies alike. I need to speak with them."
Varin frowned but obeyed.
Five minutes later, one hundred thirteen souls clustered around Albert. Those faces—tense, fearful, wondering what their young lord would say this time.
Albert raised his hand. They fell silent.
"You might be wondering what I'm about to give you," he said, his voice clear in the still air.
He gestured to Luise. With swift movements, she opened two large sacks she'd carried from his horse. Small clay jars—honey and black wine he'd purchased in that small town two weeks ago.
"What is that?" someone whispered from the rear ranks.
Albert took one jar and opened it. A sweet, fermented aroma wafted faintly. "This will keep you moving. Keep you from freezing in fear."
Silence. They exchanged glances, confused.
Sir Varin stepped closer, his voice low. "My Lord, I don't understand."
Albert met his gaze. "You've fought before, Sir Varin. You know what that first battle feels like—hands trembling, knees weak, mind frozen. That's not simply fear. That's your body not yet understanding that it must survive." He pointed at the jar. "This... this is something to help. It won't make you stronger. Won't give you courage. But it will make your body move even when your mind screams run."
"Some kind of potion?"
"Just... assistance." Albert walked through the ranks, distributing the jars. "One swallow each. No more. Enough for the first battle. After that, don't expect more."
The levies received the jars with trembling hands. Some sniffed the contents, their faces mixtures of doubt and curiosity. A young man—Lars, who'd offered him porridge that first night—asked, "My Lord, does this truly work?"
Albert regarded him. "I wouldn't give it to you if it didn't."
He returned to the front, taking the last jar for himself. He opened it, inhaling the blend of honey and wine with that bitter undertone of feltwort—he'd added feltwort extract to this mixture.
The effect wasn't magic, merely a mild stimulant and anxiety suppressant. Enough to keep fresh troops steady when panic began creeping in.
"Raise your jars," he commanded.
One hundred thirteen jars lifted.
"This is the first and last time you'll drink this," Albert announced, his voice hard, commanding. "Because the first battle is the hardest. After this, you'll know. Your bodies will remember and you won't need this again. But today—" he raised his own jar, "—today, we fight! We hold! We return home!"
He downed the contents. Sweetness, bitterness, warmth spread through his throat, settling in his stomach, radiating through his entire body.
Behind him, the soldiers began drinking. One by one, the jars emptied.
Sir Varin and Luise didn't participate. They weren't fresh troops, they didn't need it.
Luise watched Albert, and for a moment, those violet eyes questioned. 'Do you need this?' But Albert offered no answer. He only stared ahead, toward the distant river, where shadows had begun to move.
***
An hour later, the enemy came.
They emerged from the mist like ghosts—shadows slowly solidifying into men, into threats.
First only a few, then dozens, then hundreds. Leandria forces crossed the river at three points simultaneously, forming a human wave advancing with measured rhythm.
On the left flank, at Albert's position, the enemy formation began widening—exactly as Lord Harald had predicted. They were extending their flank to encircle, to cut off, to crush the defense from the side.
Albert calculated rapidly. Two hundred, perhaps two hundred fifty. Against one hundred thirteen. This was somewhat insane.
"Men-at-arms, shield wall!" Sir Varin bellowed. "Levies, spears behind them! No advancing until ordered!"
The soldiers moved with tension so thick it was almost tangible. Round shields rose, forming a wall of wood and iron. Levy spears appeared in the gaps, their points directed at the approaching enemy.
The enemy closed to one hundred meters. Eighty, fifty.
Albert stood behind the line, Wurzel in hand. Around him, Luise with drawn sword. Sir Varin at the front, leading the men-at-arms.
Thirty meters.
Albert heard the sounds he recognized. Quickened breaths, suppressed whimpers of fear—the noises of fresh troops fighting the overwhelming urge to flee. But no one moved. No one retreated, the drink was working.
Twenty meters. The enemy began to run.
"MEN-AT-ARMS, HOLD!" Sir Varin roared.
Impact.
The first collision sounded like waves crashing against stone—a heavy, brutal noise, followed by the splintering of wood and shrieking of metal. Götthain's men-at-arms held, their shields absorbing the initial shock. Behind them, levies stabbed with their spears, creating chaos in the enemy's front ranks.
But the enemy kept coming. Second wave, third wave, pressing, pushing, trying to break through.
"Shift left!" Albert shouted, spotting a gap forming on the flank. "Spears, seal that gap!"
The levies moved—stiffly, but they moved. Spears realigned, closing the breach before the enemy could exploit it.
Sir Varin fought like a war machine. His sword rose and fell, each strike finding its mark—necks, shoulders, unarmored arms. Blood sprayed, soaking armor, earth, grass.
Luise matched him. She moved along the line, filling gaps, protecting the weak. Her sword danced in perfect arcs, each movement lethal.
And Albert... Albert fought with calm precision.
He didn't shout, didn't rage. He moved like water—flowing steadily, evading, thrusting, retreating. Wurzel danced in his hands, each cut drawing blood, each thrust delivering death.
An enemy soldier charged him, axe raised. Albert sidestepped, let the axe whistle past, and Wurzel stabbed upward beneath the armpit, penetrating the armor's gap. The soldier fell without a sound.
Two more came. Albert retreated half a step, let them close too far, then spun—Wurzel swept in a wide arc, opening the first man's throat, the second man's belly.
Blood splattered against his helm.
The world around him began to blur. Battle sounds faded, replaced by a low hum in his ears. At the edge of his vision, shadows moved—not enemies here, but other shadows. Shadows from a previous life.
The man he'd stabbed during that building clearance.
The allied mercenary whose face had vanished beneath mud and blood.
The drone approaching at terrifying speed and—BOOM.
The explosion existed only in his head. Albert jerked, nearly losing his balance. An enemy soldier spotted the opportunity and lunged with a spear.
But before that spear could reach Albert, a sword flashed from the side, severing the soldier's arm at the elbow. Luise.
"MY LORD!" she screamed, her voice shattering the fog in Albert's skull.
Albert shook his head, driving the shadows back. "I'm fine!" he shouted in return.
But he wasn't fine. And Luise seemed to know it.
The battle continued.
One hour. Two hours.
They held. Men-at-arms began falling—three gravely wounded. Levies fell faster—twelve dead, twenty wounded. But the line didn't collapse. Shields remained raised. Spears kept thrusting. The honey's energy kept them standing.
Sir Varin was wounded in his left arm—a deep gash, yet he still fought, ignoring the flowing blood. Luise exhausted her arrows, now relying solely on her sword.
Albert kept moving. Kept killing. Kept pushing those shadows to the corners of his mind, refusing to let them take control. But the shadows were strong.
Every time he thrust, he saw an enemy soldier's face. Every time he cut, he heard a comrade's scream. Every time blood splattered, he felt the explosion that had ended his life in another world.
The drink in his blood held him back, gave him distance—but not enough. Never enough.
At some point, Albert stopped moving again. He stood amid the chaos, sword in hand, eyes staring vacantly ahead. An enemy soldier saw his chance and charged.
Luise saw. She screamed, but was too far.
But before that soldier could reach Albert, someone intercepted. Sir Varin. The old knight lunged with all his remaining strength, his sword slashing through the enemy's neck, but in the process, he took a blow to his back—deep enough to dent his armor.
He fell.
"SIR VARIN!" Luise's cry tore through the air.
Albert snapped back. The world refocused. He saw Sir Varin sprawled on the ground. He saw Luise rushing toward him, face pale. He saw the enemy pressing forward, exploiting the gap in the line.
"FALL BACK!" Albert's voice shattered the fog. "FALL BACK TO THE TREE LINE! NOW!"
Men-at-arms and levies began moving, retreating in formation, carrying the wounded. Luise dragged Sir Varin with the help of two levies.
Albert stayed behind, holding the enemy's advance alone.
Wurzel cut down every soldier who approached. Three enemies fell. Five. Eight. But they kept coming.
"FALL BACK, MY LORD!" Luise's distant shout reached him.
Albert retreated. One step. Two steps. Parrying, thrusting, killing, retreating.
Behind him, the tree line drew nearer. And from beyond the trees, arrows rained down.
Dornenholz's forces.
Lady Mirelle's archers loosed volley after volley, showering the pursuing enemy. Arrows pierced armor, flesh, bone. The enemy's front rank collapsed in seconds.
Albert kept retreating, entering the forest, rejoining his troops who sheltered behind massive trunks.
The enemy halted at the forest's edge. They weren't foolish—pursuing into unknown woods without reconnaissance would be suicide.
For a moment, silence descended. Then, from beyond the enemy lines, a horn sounded. A retreat call.
They withdrew, carrying their wounded, leaving their dead scattered across the meadow.
The first battle... was over.
Albert knelt beside Sir Varin.
The knight lay on the ground, his face pale as chalk. The wound on his back was horrific—impossible to tell if internal organs had been damaged.
"Gerit!" Albert shouted. "GERIT!"
The medic emerged from the crowd, carrying his equipment. He knelt beside Sir Varin, examining the wound with trembling hands.
"Deep wound," he muttered. "But possibly survivable if we act quickly. I need—"
"Whatever it takes," Albert interrupted. "Take whatever you need."
Gerit nodded and began working. Albert stood, stepping back, giving them space.
He gazed at the distant battlefield. Corpses littered the meadow—Leandria blue uniforms, and among them, some wearing Götterbaum green.
Quick mental tally. Men-at-arms: three critically wounded, the rest lightly wounded. Levies: twelve dead, twenty wounded. Total casualties: twelve dead out of one hundred thirteen.
In a single battle.
Albert closed his eyes.
Behind his eyelids, the shadows danced. The faces of levies who died today mingled with the faces of Dmytro, Ghost, and Marko.
"I'm not an executioner," he whispered.
But in his hand, Wurzel remained wet with blood. Enemy blood. His own men's blood, splattered across him as he'd fought beside them.
"I'm not..."
"My Lord." Luise's voice at his side. "You need rest. Sir Varin will recover—Gerit says the wound is serious but treatable."
Albert opened his eyes. Looked at her.
"Luise," he said quietly. "Count the dead."
"I already—"
"Count them again. Their names. Their faces. Memorize them." Albert stared at her with hollow eyes. "Because I must be able to tell their families when we return. That's my duty. But tonight, I cannot."
Luise regarded him. She didn't question, didn't argue. Simply nodded.
"I'll count them, my Lord."
Albert sat on the ground, leaning against a tree. His trembling hand reached for the leather pouch at his belt—cigars. He took one, lit it.
The first draw filled his lungs. Light, warm and calming.
Around him, the troops began making camp, erecting makeshift tents, tending the wounded. Small campfires flickered here and there. Whispers, groans of pain, soft sobs.
In the distance, across the meadow, the dead were being collected—by both sides, under banners of temporary truce. War's ancient ritual: bury the fallen before they rot and bring plague.
Albert drew on his cigar, watching the darkening sky. Stars began appearing, one by one, cold and distant.
The first battle was over. But this war had only just begun.
Tomorrow, they would fight again...