The next morning, the sun emerged from behind the thin mist hanging over the valley. The air was biting cold, but Albert had been sitting in front of his tent for the past hour.
His body felt like it had been beaten repeatedly. His left ribs—cracked, according to Gerit after examining him last night—throbbed with every breath he took. The bandages around his waist were damp with wound fluid, but at least they weren't bleeding anymore. Gerit had given him a bitter concoction that made his head spin, but Albert refused to drink it.
He needed a clear head.
Beside him, Luise sat with her back against the tent pole. Her eyes were closed, but Albert knew she wasn't asleep. Her shoulders were tense, her hand still resting on her sword hilt even while "resting."
In front of them, the small campfire had dimmed to embers. A few soldiers were already awake, moving slowly among the tents. The smell of grain porridge and smoked meat began to waft through the air.
"Hilda," Albert called.
The woman emerged from behind the archers' tent, her hair still damp—probably just washed her face in the stream. At her waist hung a quiver, only half full. Her face showed exhaustion, but her eyes remained sharp.
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Yesterday... after you left me at the tent, you went behind enemy lines?" Albert rubbed his face, trying to chase away the lingering pain. "I need to report to Lord Harald. Tell me about it."
Hilda sat on the ground before them, picked up a piece of wood, and began peeling its bark with a small knife. Her movements were slow, like someone organizing their memories.
"I took twenty-five archers," she said. "The fastest, the most reliable. We moved as the sun was beginning to set, after your duel with Sir Aldric."
"The route?"
"Around. Not through the main valley—too exposed. We approached from the north, through a dense pine forest. Trails only known to hunters." She drew lines in the dirt with her stick, sketching a simple map. "Here, at the forest's edge, we stopped. From there, the enemy supply camp was clearly visible."
Albert leaned forward, ignoring the pain in his ribs. "How many?"
"Large wagons—maybe twenty. Loaded with grain, smoked meat, hay for the horses. And beside them... tents." Hilda paused, her eyes narrowing as she recalled. "Not ordinary soldiers' tents. Larger, neater. Probably logistics officers' quarters."
"Guards?"
"Fifty to sixty men. But they weren't alert." Hilda smiled thinly. "They thought all the fighting was happening at the front. No one expected us to come from behind."
Hilda continued her story, her voice flat but rich with detail.
"The sun was nearly gone. We moved along a small ravine—hidden from the guards' view. At the ravine's end, there was a low cliff. Not steep, only about ten feet. We descended one by one, silently. No one spoke, just hand signals like we were taught."
"Distance to target?"
"Five hundred paces. Too far for ordinary arrows. But we didn't need to get closer." Hilda peeled the bark faster. "The wind blew from west to east, straight toward their camp. We spread out, taking positions behind large boulders. I gave the signal—one test shot."
An archer beside Hilda—a young woman with her hair tied back—added, "My first arrow hit a supply tent. They didn't notice. Thought it was a bird or something."
Another woman... I'm leading too many female soldiers, Albert thought briefly, then dismissed it.
Hilda nodded. "After that, we released everything. Three volleys, fast, without pause. Twenty-five bows, each loosing ten arrows."
She drew small circles in the dirt. "The first wagon caught fire—we'd brought arrows with oil-soaked cloth. The fire spread quickly. Grain burned, hay burned, tents burned. The horses panicked, damaging other wagons."
"The guards?"
"They only reacted after the first tent caught fire. They ran around chaotically, trying to put out the flames, save supplies. No formation, no orders." Hilda shook her head. "We released a fourth volley. Fifteen more arrows. More fire."
The young archer chuckled. "One of the officers' tents burned fiercely. A soldier came out half-naked, screaming. It was funny."
Hilda glanced at her, and the woman fell silent immediately.
"After that, we retreated," Hilda continued. "They started shooting back with arrows, but randomly, unaimed. None hit us. We returned to the ravine, climbed the cliff, entered the forest. Done."
Albert was silent, processing the information. In his head, he calculated the impact.
Twenty supply wagons destroyed. Grain and meat for how many thousands? Maybe a week's worth, maybe more. Logistics officers' tents destroyed—that meant documents, maps, perhaps even the field commanders responsible for distribution. And the chaos... that panic would ripple through the chain of command.
"Casualties?" he asked.
"None dead. One archer injured—slipped while descending the cliff. Sprained ankle. But she could still walk." Hilda shrugged. "All returned."
Albert nodded. "Good work, Hilda."
The woman smiled—a thin, rare smile. "We only did what you ordered, My Lord."
***
An hour later, Albert stood before the command tent.
His body still ached. Walking from his tent to here—only a few hundred meters—felt like a journey of dozens of kilometers. But he wouldn't let anyone support him. If he was going to report, he would report standing.
Lord Harald received him inside, along with Lady Mirelle and several other officers. Maps were still scattered across the table, but the atmosphere was more relaxed than yesterday. Perhaps because the battle was over, or because good news had begun to arrive.
"Lord Götthain." Lord Harald looked at him. "You're standing? The healer said your ribs are cracked."
"I'm fine, My Lord." Albert gave a brief salute. "I've come to report."
"Sit." Lord Harald pointed to a chair. Not an order, but an offer.
Albert sat. His ribs throbbed, but he suppressed a wince.
"The left flank forces held for four hours," he said, his voice flat. "Casualties: twenty-three dead, thirty-seven wounded. From two hundred and thirty-one, one hundred and seventy-one remain combat-ready."
Lady Mirelle raised an eyebrow. "You lost twenty-three men, yet held off three thousand enemies?"
"Yes. We didn't attack directly because that would have been impossible."
"They retreated because their commander was wounded?" an officer asked.
"No." Albert looked at the officer. "Their commander—Sir Aldric—fought until the end. They retreated because our forces weren't destroyed, and because behind their lines, something happened."
Lord Harald leaned forward. "Explain."
Albert recounted Hilda's mission. Flatly, without embellishment, without drama. Twenty-five archers, a roundabout route, a low cliff, two hundred and fifty arrows in one minute. Supply wagons burning, officers' tents destroyed, chaos behind enemy lines.
When he finished, the room fell silent.
Lady Mirelle was the first to speak. "Twenty-five people. No casualties. And you destroyed their supplies for... a week? Perhaps more?"
"My estimate, My Lady."
Lord Harald laughed—a short, raspy laugh, like someone who hadn't been surprised in a long time but genuinely was now. "You sent a small force behind enemy lines, burned their supplies, and returned without losing a single person?"
"Though it was my suggestion, Hilda's execution and the Dornenholz archers' skills made it possible."
"Hilda," Lord Harald repeated. "The leader of those archers."
Lady Mirelle smiled. "My people truly are the best."
Another officer—one Albert didn't recognize—asked, "And what about your duel? Against Sir Aldric?"
Albert paused briefly. This was the complicated part, if he was being honest.
"I didn't win," he said truthfully. "But I didn't lose either. It was a draw."
The room fell silent again. But a different silence—heavier, more curious.
"A draw? Are you joking?" the officer repeated. "With Sir Aldric?"
"I broke his hammer. He wounded me—my ribs are cracked, I have a gash on my side. But he couldn't bring me down, and I couldn't bring him down. Hilda's archers arrived in time, threatening his men. He let me go."
"He let you go?" Lady Mirelle frowned. "Why?"
"Honor, perhaps." Albert shrugged. "Or because he knew that if he killed me, the archers on the cliff would kill all his men. I don't know."
Lord Harald stared at him for a long moment. His eyes—old, experienced—scanned Albert's face, searching for something.
"Do you know who Sir Aldric is?" he finally asked.
"Not really. I only gathered that he's a Leandrian elite warrior and commander of special forces."
"That's all?" Lord Harald smiled thinly. "Sir Aldric is one of the best knights in the Kingdom of Leandria. He's fought in twenty major battles, never lost a duel. His soldiers—the ones you saw yesterday—are his personal guard, whom he trained himself for ten years." He paused. "And you, a youth from Götthain, held him to a draw. And apparently this isn't exaggeration..."
Albert didn't know how to respond. He just sat there in silence.
An officer whistled softly. "The Black Sword Demon, eh? Maybe that nickname isn't an exaggeration after all."
Lord Harald raised his hand, silencing them. "I've heard your report, Albert. I'll make note of it. Your forces held well, the mission behind enemy lines was successful, and you... you sent Sir Aldric back empty-handed." He smiled broadly. "This is good news. Very good news."
"Thank you, My Lord."
But Lord Harald wasn't finished. He leaned forward, looking at Albert with new intensity.
"One thing bothers me." His voice was lower. "You reported without exaggeration. You said it was a draw, when you could have said 'almost won' or 'defeated him.' You said the mission succeeded without casualties, when you could have said 'destroyed' or 'slaughtered.'" He shook his head. "Most nobles would embellish their reports. But you... you just state facts."
Albert didn't answer.
"Why?"
Albert thought for a moment. "Because the facts are more than enough. My soldiers know what happened. The surviving enemies know too. If I lied, sooner or later the truth would come out. And when that happened, no one would trust my reports ever again."
Lord Harald stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed—a loud laugh that echoed through the tent.
"You're strange, Lord Götthain. Truly strange." He slapped the table. "But strange in a good way. I like that!"
***
In the Leandria camp, the atmosphere was different.
Sir Aldric lay in his tent, his face flushed with fever. The wound on his arm—a small gash from Albert's sword—was now swollen, red, hot to the touch. The gash on his temple was also beginning to swell, not large but clearly infected.
The camp physician—an old man with a thin white beard and trembling hands—examined his wounds carefully. Beside him stood the Leandrian force commander, Marquess Karl vin Schneebär, arms crossed, his face tense.
Marquess Karl stared at Aldric. The large man lay with eyes closed, his breathing heavy, sweat soaking his forehead and neck. Occasionally he murmured something—perhaps a name, perhaps an order—but nothing coherent.
"He must recover. We need him."
The physician shrugged again. "I've done what I can. The rest is up to the Goddess."
Marquess Karl snorted, then turned and left the tent. Outside, the sky was darkening. Campfires burned dimly. Soldiers moved slowly, exhausted, some wounded.
News of the burned supplies had already spread. As had word of Aldric's duel ending in a draw. Troop morale... wasn't good.
"Sir Aldric," Marquess Karl murmured to himself. "Defeated by a young man... no, not defeated. They drew. But that small wound..." He shook his head. "What happened on that battlefield?"
No one could answer.
Inside the tent, Aldric continued to lie there. His fever rose and fell, carrying him between consciousness and dreams. Sometimes he saw Albert's face—those empty green eyes, that black sword, movements unlike any ordinary soldier. Sometimes he saw his men dying on that rocky field.
"Retreat..." he murmured in his fever. "Retreat... he's... strange..."
The physician just sat beside him, soaking a cloth in cold water, placing it on Aldric's forehead. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for the fever to break, or wait for the body to give up.
Outside, the night wind blew, carrying the scent of river and forest.