The Commander's Office.
Albert stood before a long wooden desk covered in maps. His hands still trembled slightly—residual adrenaline that hadn't fully subsided even two hours after the last ambush. On his back, the green Götthain cloak remained damp with dew and—he didn't want to check—blood.
Gerhard vin Stahlwand, the garrison commander, studied him from across the desk. Beside him sat Lord Harald vin Eisental, arms crossed, his white beard slightly disheveled. Lady Mirelle stood near the window, her fingers tapping softly against the stone sill.
"I've read the reports from my men," Gerhard said, his voice as raspy as ever. "Also from the remnants of Leandria's forces we managed to capture. They claim your people appeared like ghosts. Destroyed their vanguard in ten minutes, then vanished."
Albert remained silent. He simply stood at attention, waiting.
"Casualties on your side?"
"Eight levies killed. Ten wounded, two remain combat-effective. Seventy troops ready for immediate engagement."
Lady Mirelle let out a low whistle. "Over two hundred enemies. Fifty left standing. A ratio like that... are you certain of your numbers, Lord Götthain?"
Albert met her gaze. "I saw the corpses myself, My Lady."
Lord Harald laughed—not a warm laugh, but the laugh of someone who'd lived too long and knew when to be impressed. "Listen to you, Lord Götthain. I've been on battlefields for forty years. I've seen ambushes, I've conducted them myself. But a ratio like that... that's not an ordinary ambush. That's a slaughter."
"They were trapped on a path," Albert said, his voice flat. "Cliffs to the left, a river to the right. They couldn't form ranks and couldn't retreat. We simply... exploited the position."
"Hmm." Gerhard shifted the map before him, pointing to a spot in the northeast. "Do you know what happened here yesterday?"
Albert stepped closer, studying the map. A red mark, indicating a major battle. "The main force?"
"Our main force clashed with their main army. Thirty-seven thousand against forty thousand." The commander exhaled heavily. "We won. But it was a costly victory. They retreated, but we lacked the breath to pursue. Now they're regrouping here." He pointed to a valley in the east. "Grimwald Valley. A strong defensive position."
Albert waited. He could already guess what would come next.
"Your mission here—holding the flank, disrupting supply lines—is complete." The commander fixed his gaze on Albert. "You and your forces are being reassigned to the main front line. Grimwald Valley. You depart tomorrow."
Lord Harald added, "You will serve under my command. We need every reliable fighter we can get."
Albert nodded. There was no choice. There never was.
"We'll be ready."
***
The journey to Grimwald Valley took three days.
Three days during which the remaining Götthain forces marched through villages emptied of inhabitants, burned fields, and destroyed bridges.
Three days during which they passed long columns of refugees with hollow eyes and children who no longer cried. Three days during which they encountered other soldiers walking in the opposite direction—the wounded, the dying, those sent home because they could no longer fight.
Varin still burned with fever on a stretcher, carried by four rotating levies. Gerit insisted he would survive, but it would take weeks for full recovery. Meanwhile, Luise had quietly assumed the role of second-in-command. Silently, without being asked, without announcement. She was simply... there, beside Albert, at every moment.
On the second night, they camped near a small stream. A modest campfire, dry ration packs, no one speaking much. Albert sat at the edge of the encampment, lighting a cigar. Around him, his soldiers slept in small clusters, huddled together for warmth. Or perhaps to avoid feeling alone.
Luise settled beside him. She remained silent, simply keeping him company.
They sat in silence until the cigar burned out.
***
On the third day, Grimwald Valley opened before them.
Vast. That was the first word that entered Albert's mind. Impossibly vast.
The valley stretched as far as the eye could see—expanses of brown grass dotted with meandering streams, gentle hills, and at the eastern edge, the enemy line. Tens of thousands of tiny specks that, upon closer approach, would transform into men in blue uniforms, armed with spears, bows, and the determination to kill.
On the western side, Helvetia's forces had gathered. Banners fluttered above commanders' tents—Eisental, Dornenholz, Valeran, and dozens of others Albert didn't recognize.
The smell of horses, iron, and the sweat of thousands of soldiers saturated the air. A constant, low rumble—the tramp of feet, horses neighing, equipment clashing, and beneath it all, a nearly audible hum of fear.
The Götthain forces were allocated to a peripheral area—not too close to the command center, not too far from the front lines. Tents were erected, guard posts established, and for the first time in weeks, they could simply... stop.
Three days of rest. That's what Lord Harald had promised. Three days to recover, repair equipment, and prepare for the coming battle.
Albert spent those three days the same way: awake before dawn, training with Wurzel, inspecting his soldiers one by one, sitting in his tent at night with a cigar and maps. He spoke with Luise about formations, about signals, about what to do if he died.
"You won't die," Luise insisted every time.
"Anyone can die," Albert would reply.
On the morning of the fourth day, the war horns sounded.
Albert was already awake, already prepared. He wore his brigandine—patched in several places but still sturdy. Wurzel hung at his waist. Alena's gift, the dagger, rested at his lower back.
The Götthain forces assembled behind him. Seventy remaining soldiers—the rest were too wounded and had been left at the treatment tents. Seventy faces staring at him with a mixture of fear, respect, and blind faith that their young lord would bring them home.
Albert said nothing. No speech. Just a brief nod.
They moved.
***
The Grimwald Valley battlefield had transformed into a sea of humanity.
Albert rode his horse at the front of his unit, threading through gaps between other formations. To his left and right, thousands of soldiers marched in various rank. Banners fluttered, war drums pounded, and above it all, the gray sky seemed to press down upon the earth.
In the distance, the Leandria forces began to move.
Fifty thousand? Perhaps more. Albert tried to calculate, but the numbers were too large, too abstract. All he saw were blue lines advancing like waves, slowly, inexorably.
According to reports, Helvetia's forces numbered around fifty-eight thousand. A slight advantage. But war was never just about numbers.
"Form ranks!" a nearby commander shouted. "ARCHERS!"
Behind them, thousands of bowmen began to loose.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Arrows streaked into the sky, forming a black cloud that momentarily obscured the sun, then rained down upon the enemy lines. Screams erupted and bodies crumpled simultaneously, but the blue ranks kept advancing.
Distance shrank. Five hundred meters. Four hundred.
"SPEARS!" another commander bellowed.
Spears rose, forming a forest of iron before the front line.
Three hundred meters. Two hundred.
Albert heard a sound he never wanted to hear again.
BOOM!
Not modern artillery, but something similar—a mangonel, hurling a massive stone that crashed into the forward ranks, hurling bodies through the air.
"CHAAAAARGE!"
War horns blared. From both sides, tens of thousands of soldiers began to run.
Albert pulled his horse's reins. Behind him, the Götthain forces surged forward. Luise at his side, sword drawn. Levies trembling with their spears. Men-at-arms with raised shields.
Albert's horse shot forward. Wind slapped his face, carrying the smell of iron, blood, and damp earth.
He plunged through the forward ranks, past soldiers already engaged in combat. The crash of weapons and screams of the dying filled the air. Blood sprayed in every direction, sparing no one.
A Leandria soldier appeared before him—a common levy, in a threadbare gambeson with a trembling spear. His eyes widened at the sight of the approaching horse. He tried to thrust.
Albert deflected the spear with his shield, and in the same motion, Wurzel slashed precisely between an oversized helmet and the loose collar of a gambeson.
The soldier's head flew.
Albert watched it—watched that head sail through the air, eyes still wide open, mouth agape in a scream that would never finish. Blood sprayed from the severed neck, soaking the grass, soaking Wurzel.
The head fell. Rolled among feet locked in combat. Vanished into the chaos.
Albert pressed forward. His horse neighed beneath him. His sword slashed again, and again, and again. Bodies fell to his left and right.
He moved like a wild beast tearing through everything in its path.
Beside him, Luise fought ferociously. Her blade flashed, cut, killed. Her face showed pure concentration.
Albert kept advancing. Kept slashing. Kept killing. He'd lost count of how many he'd cut down. Something inside him—something he'd carefully built, layer by layer—began to crack.
In the distance, amid the sea of battling humanity, he spotted something. An enemy banner bearing an unfamiliar emblem. Beneath it, a commander atop a white horse, surrounded by guards.
A high-value target!
Albert pulled the reins, steering his horse toward them.
"Luise! Take command!" he ordered.
"My Lord!" Luise shouted from behind. "Too dangerous!"
Albert didn't hear.
His horse shot forward, charging through the ranks, leaving his own forces behind.
Around him, the battle continued to rage. Thousands of men killing each other in Grimwald Valley, beneath the gray sky.