Meditation often soothed the soul—before battle. Prayer before righteous battle gave succor later for men of firm conviction. Prayer. Hymns. Oaths—the rituals of Faith and the holy, true Communion. I was one of many men bearing arms, awaiting a final confession before attending the field with the rest of the cavalry.

  The air was thick with the scent of oil and steel as the chaplain moved among us, his voice a soothing balm against the clangor of armor being fastened and swords being sharpened. Each man turned inward, reflecting on his life and the deeds that had led him to this day.

  As I knelt there in prayer, my mind drifted back to Strossberg: the barley fields, golden stalks swaying as a storm ravaged the land—upturning fields. It was a memory from mere weeks ago when my father had summoned me. I had stood tall and proud in his study, the shelves lined with ancient tomes and the walls adorned with maps of the Valtorean Empire. Our Empire—that glorious, heady thing which each Valtorean, each Volkian, held close to his heart.

  I could smell it now. The scent of pipe smoke had clung to the walls in my father’s study. And in those dark days, the smell of despair was hanging in the air.

  I could remember now—my last parting words to my father.

  “Kaelitz,” he had said, his voice stern yet not unkind.

  My father's face was lined and weathered, his hair more silver than the chestnut brown of my youth. He stood by the window, gazing at the sprawling estate—the deserted villages and the thunder outside.

  “My son,” he began, turning to face me fully. He clasped his hands behind his back, straightening his shoulders with visible effort. “There are matters we must discuss, unpleasant though they may be.”

  I nodded solemnly, steeling myself for ill tidings. “Of course, Father. What troubles you?”

  A sigh escaped him, and he sank into the high-backed chair behind his desk, gesturing for me to sit as well.

  “Our family has held these lands for generations, Kaelitz. Tended them, nurtured them. But I'm afraid…” He paused, grimacing. “I have not been as diligent a steward as my forebears.”

  His gaze turned northward. My father's fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the polished mahogany of his desk.

  “The war effort demands much from us all. Grain, horses, men… Our stores dwindle, and our fields lay fallow.” He swallowed. “We've not the hands to work the earth as we ought. I’m sure you know.”

  His voice was heavy—weighed down by an unseen burden—before he paused, seeming to gather his resolve.

  “So…I took loans. Loans from the Duke of Saxonia-Pomerdania.” He pushed a letter in front of me—and I looked.

  “The treasure fleet I invested in—sent across the Citalantic Ocean to Valcaz-Cruz—was lost.” He grunted.

  I stared at the letter, the Duke's seal staring at me accusingly. A sense of dread settled in my gut as I read the words, each striking like a physical blow. The Duke was calling in the loans, demanding payment in full. But it was clear from my father's ashen face that we did not have the means to satisfy the debt.

  “What will happen, Father?” I asked, my voice sounding distant to my ears. “If we cannot pay?”

  He closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging as if under a great weight. “The Duke has the right to seize our lands and holdings as recompense. The estate, the fields, the villages… all of it will pass into his hands.”

  I shook my head in disbelief, rage, and despair. Our ancestral home was lost, and our people were abandoned to an uncertain fate. It was unthinkable.

  “There must be something we can do to forestall this!”

  My father looked at me then, a deep sorrow etched into the lines of his face.

  “I fear there is only one path left to us, my son. To you.” He pushed another document across the desk, the parchment adorned with the Duke's crest. “In lieu of payment, the Duke has offered to forgive a portion of the debt… if you enter into his service. Into the Imperial Army.”

  My heart seized in my chest as understanding dawned, and I looked up at my father, my eyes widening in shock as the implication of his words sunk in.

  The Duke of Saxonia-Pomerdania…

  Even the mere thought of the man sent a shiver down my spine. I had heard tales of him since I was a child, whispered stories passed down through generations of my family.

  The Duke was a formidable figure, a man whose cruelty was matched only by his cunning. He was considered ancient, his white hair and weathered face bearing the marks of countless battles and intrigues. But his eyes haunted the stories—one a piercing blue, the other hidden beneath a black eyepatch, a testament to some long-forgotten war.

  I had seen him once, years ago, when he had deigned to visit our estate. I remembered how he had looked at my father, a sneer twisting his thin lips as if he had found our family's existence distasteful. His one good eye had roamed over our lands with a calculating gaze as if he were already plotting how to wrest them from our grasp.

  And now, he had found his chance.

  The weight of my father's revelation settled heavily on my shoulders as I stared at the parchment before me. To enter into the Duke's service, to march under his banner in the Imperial Army…

  “Father, there must be another way,” I said, my voice tight with barely suppressed anger. “The Reichskammergericht, the Imperial Court—surely they could overturn this, force the Duke to grant us more time to pay.”

  My father sighed heavily, shaking his head. “You know as well as I do that the courts move slowly, Kaelitz. By the time they reached a decision…” He exhaled. “It would have been too late. The lands already seized—there would be nothing left for you, even in the unlikely chance you succeed, my son.”

  He stated before he looked at me, standing up.

  “Your grandfather served. It is a chance to make a fortune—frankly, less risky than heading to the New World.”

  My father walked around the desk beside me, placing a weathered hand on my shoulder.

  “Kaelitz, my son, I know this is not the path you would have chosen. But we must think of our family and our legacy. The Duke's offer, while distasteful, may be our only chance to save what we have left.”

  I shook my head vehemently, shrugging off his hand as I faced him.

  “No, father. I cannot—I will not—serve under that man. The mere thought of it sickens me. Have you forgotten the stories? The whispers of his cruelty, his treachery? I would sooner die than march under his banner!”

  My father's face hardened, his eyes flashing with anger and desperation.

  “You speak of honor, young Kaelitz, but where is the honor in letting our family fall to ruin? In seeing our lands, our very name, stripped away and forgotten? Is your pride worth more than that?”

  I met his gaze unflinchingly, my jaw set with stubborn resolve.

  “It is not pride, father. It is the principle. I am a Von Ardent, and we do not bow to such a man, no matter the cost. If I must serve, let it be in the Imperial Army proper!”

  My father's brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as he considered my words. The silence hung heavy between us, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured.

  “The Imperial Army proper, you say? And how do you propose to secure such a position? With what influence? With what connections?” He said. “You would leave our lands barren—our property seized.”

  I paused, considering his words. He was right, of course. But there had to be another path that did not lead to servitude under a cruel and dishonorable lord.

  I turned to face my father fully, my voice steady with conviction.

  “Father, there is more to life than lands and titles. More even than the Von Ardent name. There is honor, tradition, and glory. The very principles upon which the Holy Empire was founded.”

  I gestured to the portraits lining the study’s walls, the stern faces of our ancestors seeming to watch us from across the centuries.

  “These men, our forefathers, did not measure their worth in acres and crowns. They stood for something greater. They fought and bled and died for the Empire, for the ideals it represents. How can I do any less?”

  My father's expression softened, and there was a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

  “You speak of the old ways, of a time when a man's word was his bond, and honor was valued above gold. But those days are fading. The world is changing, and we must change with it or be left behind.”

  I shook my head, unwilling to accept defeat. I turned around, anger in my voice.

  “I will go to the capital,” I said, my voice steady despite the fear churning in my gut. “I will petition the Emperor himself if I must. Surely, he will see the injustice of the Duke's actions, the unfairness of his demands.”

  My father let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head.

  “The Emperor, Kaelitz? Do you think he will concern himself with the plight of one minor noble family? He has an empire to run and wars to wage. Our troubles are beneath his notice.”

  I clenched my fists, frustration boiling up inside me.

  “Then I will make him notice! I will not let our family, our legacy, be destroyed by the machinations of one cruel man. I will find a way, Father. I swear it.”

  My father looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed.

  “You have heart, son,” he said, his voice tinged with pride and resignation. “But heart alone will not save our family. Von L?we is a powerful man with deep connections in the capital. To defy him is to court ruin.”

  I stepped forward, my gaze intense.

  “Then let ruin come if that is the price of honor. I will not bend the knee to a tyrant no matter how high he sits. The Von Ardents have served the Empire faithfully for generations. Surely, that must count for something.”

  My father's face reddened, his temper flaring.

  “It counts for nothing in the face of raw power! Do you think the Duke cares for our history and our loyalty? He sees only what he can take, what he can control.”

  He slammed his fist on the heavy mahogany desk, rattling the ink pot and quills.

  “Damn it, Kaelitz, I am trying to protect you! To protect our family! Why can you not see that? You are my only heir—my only son.”

  I could see the desperation in my father's eyes, the weight of generations pressing down upon him. But I could not yield, not on this. My honor, my very soul, demanded that I stand firm.

  My father's shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him as he realized the futility of his arguments. He looked older in that moment, the lines of care and worry etched deep into his face.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation. “If you are determined to walk this path, I will not stand in your way. But know that you go with a heavy heart and that the consequences will be yours.”

  I nodded, a lump forming in my throat.

  “I understand, father. And I am prepared to accept those consequences, whatever they may be.”

  My father turned away, gazing out the window at the rolling hills of our estate. The golden light of late afternoon bathed the landscape in a warm glow, but there was no warmth in my father's eyes.

  “Your mother's gardens,” he said softly, almost to himself. “She loved them so. She tended them with her own hands, coaxing life and beauty from the soil. And now…”

  His voice trailed off, and I saw his shoulders tremble slightly. I stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort.

  “What will you do, father?” I asked gently. “When the Duke's men come. When the estate is seized.”

  My father laughed, a harsh, bitter sound.

  “What can I do? I am an old man, Kaelitz. My fighting days are long behind me. Perhaps I will go to Vien.”

  I felt a pang of guilt at leaving my father to face this alone. But I knew in my heart that I had to forge my path.

  “I will write to you,” I promised, my voice thick with emotion. “As often as I can. And I will find a way to restore our family's standing, to make the Von Ardent name one that is spoken with respect once more.”

  My father nodded, still not meeting my gaze.

  “I know you will, son. You have a fire in you, a determination that reminds me of your grandfather. He was a stubborn old goat, too.”

  Despite the moment’s gravity, I felt a smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

  “I will take that as a compliment.”

  My father finally turned to face me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  “It is. The highest compliment I can give.” He clasped my shoulder, his grip firm. “So—you will join the Imperial Army?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  Then, with a final squeeze of my father's shoulder, he looked at me.

  “…Are you sure?” he asked—this time, not mentioning the estate. He gazed at me with worry. “You are a smart man. I can write to a counting house—or perhaps, the Reichskammergericht, to take you as a—”

  “I’m sure, Father.”

  My father sighed heavily, the lines on his face seeming to deepen.

  “Kaelitz, my son, I know your heart is set on this path. But I fear you do not fully grasp the challenges ahead.”

  He turned slowly to his desk, running a hand along the polished mahogany.

  “As junior nobility, our family's position is… precarious. We have our title, yes, but little else. No great wealth, no powerful connections. In the Imperial Army, that will matter more than you realize.”

  Picking up a framed portrait of my grandfather in his military uniform, my father continued.

  “Your grandfather fought hard to earn his commission. He has won accolades in the Zephyran campaigns and the Crusades. But even with his accomplishments, he never rose above Colonel. The high command, the generalships—those are reserved for the old aristocracy. The Von Mühlenburgs, the Schwarzenfelds. The Von L?we family.”

  He set the portrait down and fixed me with a sad gaze.

  “I do not say this to discourage you, Kaelitz. But I want you to have clear eyes about the road ahead. As a junior officer from a minor noble house, you must be twice as clever, twice as bold, twice as ruthless as your peers to even have a chance of advancement.”

  My father walked to the window, the fading sun casting his face in shadow.

  “The Imperial Army is not like the storybooks. There is no glory, no shining path.” He swallowed. “But so be it. Ride to Strossberg—and head straight to the recruitment grounds. Only speak to Commandant Barlow—he’s a supervisor from the Imperial Army. He’ll set you in the right way—perhaps, even get you a commission.”

  I nodded solemnly, my resolve hardening like tempered steel.

  “I understand, Father. I’ll write. Soon.”

  He stood up—and, without another word, hugged me.

  I blinked back to the present—to the makeshift church I was at. I hardly realized tears on my face were beginning to form. A craving for vengeance—for revenge. For glory.

  Unlike home, we didn’t have the luxury of confessional booths or ornate altars adorned with gilded icons of old saints where one could kneel and feel the comforting shadow of divinity. Here, our chapel was the open sky, our altar a makeshift crate of supplies, and our confessional the quiet corner behind the tents where whispers could be exchanged with the slight assurance of privacy.

  The chaplain made his way down the line of soldiers, offering absolution and final blessings. When he came to me, I bowed my head and closed my eyes, trying to steady my nerves.

  “Do you repent of your sins and ask for the Steel Lord’s guidance?” the chaplain asked gently.

  “I do,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

  The chaplain clasped my shoulder.

  “Then—go with His blessing, and be unafraid,” he said solemnly.

  It brought peace—despite having been told to me a thousand times. Today I needed it more than ever. Today was the day history would be made in the fields of Castelon.

  A man has little way of knowing if the battle he was heading into was a skirmish—or one of those battles written about centuries later. Castelon—Castelon was its own monster. As with war, Castelon Fields is many things to many men. What would occur there would scar men for the rest of their lives. It would change men—and perhaps, it was in this moment that the Savior decided the fate of our beloved Empire.

  But what the Savior decided was not for the hearts of men to know.

  We were obligated to our Emperor to be present on the battlefield—and to have faith that the Savior deemed our mission just. We had a force beyond measure: an army of fifty thousand troops from the Holy Valtorean Empire. It may have been the most significant military host gathered by the Empire in over forty years.

  As the chaplain’s words faded into the cold morning air, the handful of men around me began to mount their steeds. The beasts snorted and stamped, as restless as their riders, sensing the impending chaos that was to come.

  From our position, the view of the entire army was staggering—a sea of armored men, flags fluttering in the wind. The sound of metal clanking, horses neighing, and distant orders shouted in commanding tones created a terrifying and exhilarating cacophony.

  Around me were the faces of friends—comrades from the same town I hailed from. Among these comrades were a few fellow young nobles, fresh-faced and filled with the fiery zeal of youth; they were friends who shared the same untested dreams of glory and honor.

  Alaric, a young baron with eyes like storm clouds, rode beside me. His family crest—a rampant lion—was emblazoned proudly on his breastplate. Alaric’s laughter often cut through the tension of our more sad moments, and now, as we prepared for what may be our defining fight, his joy seemed a vital shield against the growing dread.

  “Kaelitz, good Lord. You look like you didn’t sleep at all!” He grinned at me, his teeth flashing white against his tanned face. “Ready to carve our names into the annals of history?”

  I managed a strained smile, tightening my grip on the reins of my steed.

  “As ready as one can be for such things,” I stated. “You kept your powder dry, right?”

  “Of course!” He grinned, checking his bandolier—half-a-dozen wheel-lock pistols of satisfactory quality. “And what about you?”

  Alaric’s question hung in the air momentarily as I adjusted my gear, ensuring each piece was secure. My saber was sheathed at my side, the edge honed to a razor's edge, and my pistols loaded and ready within easy reach.

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  “All set,” I responded with a nod, pushing aside the gnawing fear that tried to seep into my bones.

  The sound of horns suddenly pierced the morning haze, deep and resonant, signaling the time had come. Our conversation ended abruptly as duty called us to focus. We fell into formation, our horses lining up shoulder to shoulder as the army slowly marched toward the battleground.

  My eyes gazed forward—towards the halberdier columns marching grimly ahead of us. One could tell each regiment’s sheer expertise—the veterans from the chaff—simply by the way they held formation and their step. The dirt. That hushed fatalism they spoke in.

  Few men assigned to halberdier duty lived long—a constant, dimmed youth was the trademark of an Imperial halberdier in these days, the continual weariness in their eyes as they trundled past. Drums and fluttering flags marked their steady advance, the banners emblazoned with the Imperial Eagle, soaring above all—and then the second banner, the just-as-sacred regimental banner that a man would die to protect.

  Those lovely regimental and provincial banners were fluttering. The heraldic wolf of Volkia fluttered next to the stoic bear of Stadtenmark. Each of those smaller banners, a symbol of pride for those men, stitched into the fabric with the care of a mother's love for her child—sent off away to the front.

  No small wonder these men would die for such symbols, for they were not merely dyed cloth. They were something far more in the hearts of men.

  Our Empire's pride was in the halberdiers as they marched onward in those columns, followed by arquebusiers and demi-cannons. Each of these regiments was a combination formed in the style of the Castelorians—a mixture of halberds, cannoneers, and arquebusiers. A formation widely adopted throughout Aurisca for nearly fifty years: that of a Terjico—a wondrous thing to behold, each column holding its unique character and discipline—though, too often, they all died the same bloody way.

  Then there was us.

  Those lesser nobles—adorned in simple plate and equipped with pistols and cavalry swords—were assembled at the front, alongside plate-armored knights towards our flanks. My comrades were nervous but energetic as I checked my sides. The knights accompanying us were grim, clad in thick, bullet-resistant plate armor, their visors down and expressions unreadable—yet their posture spoke of unyielding resolve. They sat astride massive warhorses, bred for battle and towering over our lighter mounts.

  This was a cavalry that could break an enemy line with sheer force, provided they reached the right point at the right time.

  Then the horn called out—our steady trot turning into a steady run.

  As we moved closer to the fields of Castelon, the terrain began to reveal its challenges—the ground became undulating with shallow dips and rises, perfect for maneuvering but treacherous for those unfamiliar with its subtle tricks. Perhaps this should have been the first clue to what lay ahead, as it was just enough to disrupt our momentum—

  —but the first sight of the enemy drove away our thoughts.

  They were arrayed across the opposite ridge, a dark mass bristling with pikes and banners of their own, an ominous mirror to our forces.

  “There they are—the bastards!” Alaric said, having caught up beside me. “Eclairean dogs.” He spat out, and his eyes narrowed, scanning their formation as if trying to decipher a challenging puzzle. His hand instinctively went to one of his pistols, fingers brushing against the cold metal in anticipation.

  “We'll teach them otherwise,” I shouted back, feeling the weight of my sword at my side. The echo of clashing wills and steel seemed inevitable—adrenaline building, drumbeats rising—a symphony that swelled in intensity as we rode forward.

  “At the double-quick!” shouted an officer just ahead of us, a few cheers rising from the throats of soldiers, a ripple of determination spreading through our ranks. The sound of hundreds of hooves thundering across the earth was like the roar of an oncoming storm as we parted away from the infantry columns, rushing ahead and screening them.

  My doubts were steady. Mounting perhaps—as I saw our foe closing in—our first opponent was the famed Eclairean cavalry, steeped in equestrian traditions, perhaps more so than our own. They faced us from across the fields in their great masses.

  They had sent out a light cavalry regiment to prevent us—the duty of us demi-lancers would typically be to avoid them as well so the main body of the cavalry could continue unhindered—

  —but rather than that, we surged towards them: impetuous, focused on the kill. Both the heavy cavalry and light cavalry mixing in as one significant charge.

  Today, it was dictated that one grandiose charge in a sweeping maneuver would drive our foe from the field, like in so many battles before.

  The Eclairean breastplates and tall, helmeted plumes gleamed in the morning sun, and their lances were held at the ready. I knew their reputation—fierce, nimble riders who could strike fast and then melt away before a counterattack could be mustered.

  We were armored like tanks in comparison; our horses were bred for power and stamina to withstand the crush of a massed charge.

  “Stay steady, Kaelitz!” Alaric’s voice cut through the chaos, his eyes glinting fiercely beneath his plumed helmet from ages past as he drew his pistol.

  I pulled mine as we eyed them charging towards us, their formation a stark, disciplined line, the tips of their lances aimed with lethal precision. The ground beneath us seemed to tremble with the collective thunder of our charging steeds, heralding the collision that would soon unfold—

  —were it not for the fact they broke away, splitting in two.

  On our left, a few whizzing bullets smashed into the dirt as they discharged a handful of carbines—a skirmishing force—while another body of Eclairean cavalry circled to the right side, sunlight glinting off their lances.

  While fundamentally, even a novice could see them preparing for a hammer-and-anvil, preparing to dictate the momentum of the entire battle…

  …it was simply too late to maneuver for our bulky force, and our ranks had no cohesion in command.

  It was there that the Eclaireans had us beat.

  So here, the youth of Valtor charged headfirst—perhaps one would have heard the old knights slowing down and wheeling back—but we were drawn in, swept up in the enthusiasm of battle. Our horses’ hooves kicked up clods of earth as we pressed toward the enemy.

  “Remember the Emperor!” we bellowed, hefting the familiar banner high above our regiment—a cry from many others shouting out in our charge—as the Eclairean skirmishers split away, doubling back at a gallop. Though a few of them were too slow to stop our reckless charge—the sheer momentum catching them.

  Our two formations crashed into one another like two unstoppable forces of nature.

  The world exploded into a cacophony of steel on steel for those too slow. Horses screaming as they trampled across the bloody field, lances shattering, and men falling from their steeds—to be trampled underfoot or skewered—while pistoleers fired into the chaos.

  Gunpowder smoke filled the air, mixing with the dust kicked up by the horses, creating a gray mist that obscured vision and made breathing difficult.

  My blade missed its mark as the Eclairean I had aimed for deftly guided his horse aside, dodging narrowly as he bucked his horse to go even faster—and we passed each other in a thunderous blur, and I struggled to bring my mount back under control.

  All around me, the charge had met in a vortex of violence. Cavalrymen on both sides traded crushing blows, lances piercing armor or glancing off steel plate. Pistols and sabers rang out as riders closed to the grand melee—the light cavalry we smashed into having been practically eviscerated in a single, bloody moment—blood seeping into the ground of horse and man alike, a cascade of gore that marked the field.

  Here, in the chaos of melee, I was trapped.

  I wheeled my horse about, occasionally trading blows with a few overwhelmed stragglers. It was only a few seconds into this chaos that I glanced out past the smoke and the dirt clouds hanging low to the ground—

  —that flanking regiment of cavalry of Eclaireans coming in, circling us to smash us from our rear—

  —as cannons rung out from the Eclairean’s side.

  Cannonballs ripped through our ranks, sending men and horses flying in eruptions of blood and gore. Screams of the dying filled the air as our melee faltered in the face of the bombardment.

  Just ahead of me, the outstanding Graf Heinrich bellowing orders, trying to rally us, even as his black armor was splattered with crimson. The thunderous barrage threw the charge into chaos as we frantically tried to reform and meet this new threat—

  —but then, out of the smoke, the Eclairean cavalry appeared, fresh and eager for battle compared to our disorganized troops, and a horrific melee occurred with us on the receiving end.

  The Eclairean cavalry smashed into our disjointed ranks with terrifying speed, their lighter horses far nimbler than our destriers. All around me, the battle dissolved into utter chaos as men screamed and died. Lancers found themselves shot point-blank by these light cavalrymen or slaughtered by round shot. All around me, the proud men of the Empire were being cut down and trampled into the bloody mud.

  The Eclairean tactics had shattered our vaunted charge, and now it was little more than butcher's work, as I fought—and fought.

  My thoughts in this disorienting melee were frenzied, and I was scrambling for survival more than victory. Thoughts of strategy or command had dissolved into a primal urge to live through the onslaught. I parried a thrust from an Eclairean saber, feeling the shock run up my arm as our blades met with an almost lost clang amidst the tremendous tumult.

  In this dire moment, my mind flickered back to the old barracks tales of old wars and the legendary heroes who turned the tide single-handedly. But here, surrounded by the blood-soaked earth and dying cries, such tales seemed distant fantasies.

  Thoughts ran through me—would we die here, in this forsaken field? What had happened to the great knights who rode behind us?

  When such thoughts run through your head—the battle is already over.

  Casting a glimpse from behind, the Valtorean knights stood in reserve, having refused to be drawn in—the sole knight among us was the Graf, clad in bulky black plate armor—the odd bullet pinging off his enchanted armor as if swatted by an invisible hand.

  Yet even magical armor has its limits, and I saw him falter under a particularly fierce assault by two Eclairean riders. Their lances had been discarded, now relying on swords that flashed faster than the eye could follow.

  Graf Heinrich managed to unhorse one with a mighty blow of his broadsword, but the other’s blade found a chink beneath his arm. The great knight grunted, a rare display of pain, before retaliating with a savage cut that sent the Eclairean sprawling into the mud.

  In a rare realization, I noticed where I was in this chaos. Perhaps through Providence and sheer fate, I was lucky enough to find myself on the flank—on the opposite end of Eclairean’s bloody momentum—yet it provided hardly any relief.

  Cannonballs ripped through horse and man alike. The only thought coming to my mind was a glance back over at our lines—what could we do here?

  And worst of all, the steady drums of the Eclairean foot marched steadily closer, their royal banner raised high, perhaps higher than our Imperial Eagle that lay on the ground, trampled with blood and lost in the chaos.

  Then a voice cut through the chaos.

  “Retreat! Fall back—damn you all!”

  I didn’t need more encouragement. I turned, with what others remained on the flank, and I bucked my horse onward, fleeing the horrific slaughter. I felt the gaze of each man ahead of me—each halberdier and officer—watching what would have been a glorious charge to break the back of the skirmishers fail catastrophically.

  We left our standard in the mud and blood there—and as we fled, we were slowly followed by those skirmishers, ensuring our retreat back as the odd bullet whizzed past us, the bizarre horse keeling over as we rode for safety.

  We filed back behind our lines, seeking safety, as the battle raged onward. Out of the six hundred demi-lancers, perhaps only a hundred remained as we reassembled ourselves.

  Shame filled our hearts as we watched the battle unfold—and then, I looked around.

  Alaric was nowhere to be seen, still stuck in the fray or worse. My heart hammered as I scanned the chaotic landscape, desperately hoping for a sign of him amid the carnage of the battlefield. He was not only my comrade but my closest friend since childhood, his family crest almost as familiar to me as my own—and then…

  “You did well today.”

  A voice rang out. That of Graf Heinrich, my commander, as I turned back. The scarred visage of him glancing over at me, blood coating that black plate armor belonging to someone. His helm was lifted upward—a middle-aged man with a blond beard and a tired, worn-looking face.

  “Though—I suppose the same cannot be said for the rose of Valtorean nobility.” He scowled. “Had the knights simply followed our orders—we would have smashed through.”

  Heavy with fatigue and frustration, his eyes shifted from my face back to the battlefield, where the sounds of fighting still raged fiercely.

  “But what’s done is done. We must regroup and prepare for what comes next…”

  “What about us?” I asked. “The demi-lancers?”

  The Graf sighed, his gaze drifting over the remnants of our once proud unit.

  “Exhausted, broken men will not win the battle.” He shifted his weight, the armor creaking slightly as he moved. “We will take stock of who remains, rearm, and wait for a chance to counterattack or reinforce another line. But likely—there will be no more.”

  “I… I see,” I stated.

  A feeling of cravenness overwhelmed me, despite how I tried to push it down. Somewhere out there on the field was Alaric—and I had left him.

  Fresh troops were marching up to plug the gap our retreat had opened in the line. Halberdiers and pikemen, led under the command of Lord Commander Duclaire, were interspersed with companies of arquebusiers. They marched forward, coming up to where we had been slaughtered, their faces set in grim determination. They were still out of range, but it was a matter of time before they entered the range of the Eclairean guns.

  And yet, I still stood there, watching, alongside a dozen other boys who couldn’t stop but watch other men do their task for them.

  The Graf, noticing our spirits rising, came up beside us.

  “You will have your chance again before this war is through,” he declared. “Let the failure temper you like fine steel. The next time—we will triumph. We will have vengeance—for our Emperor. But pray, do not do anything foolish in despair. It is not just your lives at stake, but the very fate of the Empire.”

  His words, meant to steel our spirits, hung heavy in the air as we watched lines of troops march toward imminent danger. The men's armor glinted under the wan sunlight that struggled through the smoke-filled sky, a silent testament to hope and impending doom.

  Other men, perhaps, would have been satisfied with being in the rear, having already bloodied themselves. But I wasn’t.

  I had run, simply waiting for the moment to present itself in our first action. A call in my blood as I looked over the fields of men marching forward. I was unharmed—miraculously.

  But how could I go back, knowing full well I hadn't even drawn blood?

  I would be labeled a coward—a craven—coming back home.

  Lord, protect me if I must tell Alaric’s family I ran and left him there.

  There was only one thing left I could do—the honorable thing, the foolish thing.

  I grabbed my horse’s bridle, forcing the weary beast towards the front.

  “Boy! Stop!” The Graf shouted, trying to stop me as I ran forward.

  I didn't dare look back—for fear of what I might see in his eyes: disappointment or anger, perhaps both. But my mind was set; the fire of redemption burned too fiercely within me.

  I made my way to the front, where a halberdier regiment was crossing a bridge stream, stoically marching under the fire of distant cannonballs as I rode up. The steady beat of drums—the Valtorean eagle fluttering as these men marched.

  The aged sergeant looked up at me as I winced from the sound of cannonballs and bullets whizzing past us.

  “Aw’ come on lad. Ain’t nothin’ to be afraid of,” he said.

  I stared at the sergeant, now noticing his eyepatch, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

  “I’m not afraid,” I lied unconvincingly.

  The old soldier gave me a knowing look.

  “First battle, eh? There is no shame in it. We've all pissed ourselves the first time shot and shell flew around us.”

  The crude words made me bristle, but I held my tongue. I was here to prove my courage, not argue with a grizzled veteran.

  “Now, boy—you have orders for us?”

  I shook my head.

  The sergeant, marching forward, glared at me.

  “Then get off that damned horse, fore’ someone gets you.”

  As if to punctuate his warning, a cannonball collided with the bridge ahead, sending stone and timbers flying. Men cried out as they were tossed like ragdolls. The column staggered, then continued its advance—despite the gore and death surrounding us.

  I quickly clamored off my horse, joining them in their regiment.

  My feet found uneasy footing among the cobblestones slick with rain and blood, the rhythmic marching of the regiment my only guide as I tried to keep pace. The air was thick with gun smoke and the harsh cries of men giving orders, their voices barely carrying over the sounds of explosions around us as I made my way to the front.

  The sergeant glanced over at me, my saber drawn as I marched forward.

  “You ever been with us halberdiers before? Tis’ bloody work—not for a noble sop like you.”

  He grinned, and I met his gaze with determination. Today, I would prove my worth or die trying.

  “I may be a noble,” I replied, my voice steady despite the cacophony around us, “but I am a man, first and foremost.”

  “That’s the spirit, lad!” He clapped me on the back with a force that nearly sent me stumbling forward into the mud.

  But I steadied myself, gritted my teeth, and kept moving.

  The ground beneath our feet became increasingly treacherous, a mire of blood-soaked earth and dislodged stones that threatened to send us to our knees with every step.

  The drums of the halberdiers kept beating as we kept a steady pace forward. I couldn’t help but be amazed by the stoicism that presented itself around me. The odd man fell from a stray bullet or a slice of shrapnel, but the ranks closed up quick as anything, barely pausing in their relentless advance.

  The stench of black powder and blood mingled in the air, a foul perfume that seemed to define this hellscape, as the sergeant gazed over at me.

  “Well, lad,” the sergeant said. “Here it is in a nut’shell. You see those bastards?” He gestured to the enemy awaiting us at the top of a slight hill. “It’s your job to impale ’em before they impale you.”

  The grizzled veteran laughed, his remaining eye twinkling with mirth at my expense. We were closing in for perhaps the bloodiest work for a man—spear wall against spear wall.

  The drums stopped abruptly as we reached the base of the hill. Everything seemed to pause—a stillness before the storm.

  Then a shout emerged from our front: “E’re we go lads! Remember yer’ oaths!”

  It rippled through our ranks like wildfire, and with it, we surged forward.

  I gripped my saber firmly alongside the other men around me. The air was thick with gun smoke—a volley cutting down the first rank ahead of us as we climbed over their bodies, the screams of the wounded mingling with the battle cries of the living.

  My heart pounded in my chest, a drumbeat synchronous with the fervor of war that enveloped us. Each step up the muddy slope felt like wading through a nightmarish swamp, and each inch gained a small victory in itself.

  Then, with a great roar, we lunged forward.

  The clash of steel—halberd against halberd—arquebusiers firing—desperate screams—horrific noises. All around me, the battle raged at close quarters. Men cursed and spat and cried out as they killed and died. The din was deafening: steel rang against steel, firearms cracked, and officers bellowed commands. Underfoot the ground turned to sucking mud mixed with blood and worse.

  The Eclaireans we faced were formed similarly to us in formation. While tacticians and strategists could have argued over ratios, on that battlefield, as we closed in to kill each other, the simple fact came down to training.

  The Eclaireans lacked Valtorean zeal. They were a medieval, backward people, relying more on their flashy cavalry—their infantry lacked the fire of conviction that bound ours together so well.

  But regardless, they held the high ground, backed by cannons.

  Bloody work was in abundance as we scaled the hillside—slick with blood, men tripping and dying, suffocating in the mud beneath us as we marched forward. I couldn’t help but feel myself outarmed—a cavalry saber did little against a pike or halberd in the thick of such a melee. Yet it was all I had, and I was determined to wield it with all the fury and resolve a desperate man could muster.

  As we pushed them back, a colossal boom announced our front row’s obliteration under the impact of a cannonade of grapeshot. Shrapnel hissed through the air like demonic whispers, finding flesh to tear and bone to shatter—narrowly missing me as I ducked, a sharp fragment grazing the side of my cheek.

  The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth; it mingled with the grit and gunpowder that hung in the air.

  For a moment, the world seemed to slow down, and every noise intensified—my heart pounding in my ears, the rasping breaths of dying men around me—as I stuck down for a second, glancing over.

  To my side was a fallen comrade, a young man like me, his lifeblood draining into the churned earth—his arm missing from the elbow down, a grotesque testament to the brutality of grapeshot. He tried to speak, his lips moving feebly, but no sound emerged save for a harsh gurgle.

  His eyes met mine, filled with pain and pleading.

  I knew I could do nothing for him but offer a silent prayer to the Savior, who I hoped might be watching over this forsaken field.

  From seeing him, I knew it could have been me, and it might still be me—if we didn't take the hillside and silence those guns.

  Pushing forward—killing—was our only option. There was no retreat, no fallback. It was do or die.

  The sergeant's screaming and cursing brought me back to the terrifying present.

  “Push, you sons of whores! Push!” he roared, his voice rising above the din of battle.

  I found strength I didn't know I possessed, trudging uphill.

  The Eclaireans fought with desperate courage, their polearms jabbing and thrusting to hold us off. But we were an unstoppable tide, driven by fury and fueled by the need to survive as we moved uphill. Their wall of pikes broke—fleeing back and routing as we drove them from a field.

  In an instant, we had overrun them, the dead and dying lying around us—and yet, our work was far from over.

  Ahead of us—ahead of the fleeing Eclaireans—were their arquebusiers, firing and supporting in volleys, their shots blocked by their retreating men. Our momentum carried us forward with the ferocity of a river bursting its banks, our lines reforming even as we pressed the advantage.

  The Eclaireans' disciplined volleys began to falter, their shots becoming erratic as panic overtook precision—the arquebusiers fleeing before our charge despite the mud and blood.

  As relief filled us, I looked around. The rest of the line was fighting across the plain—few had been as lucky as us. Entire columns smashed apart by cannon rounds, the dead and dying laying in great piles, the wounded walking back to our lines.

  Our victory on this flank, while critical, was only one piece in the brutal tapestry of battle—and half of the regiment had perished.

  The sergeant—that aged warrior with his eyepatch and scars—lay in the dirt and mud, like all the others. His breathing was ragged, and his remaining eye stared up at the smoke-filled sky.

  “Sergeant!”

  My voice was lost in the din, but he heard it somehow, his one good eye focusing on me with immense effort.

  “Ah… you made it,” he rasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “S’pose you did well enough in my ranks.”

  Surprisingly steady given the circumstances, his hand reached out to clasp my shoulder, leaving a slick print of red upon my armor.

  Then I heard it: a horn sounded in the distance—a call to fall back.

  My gaze darted toward where we had come from. And then back to the wounded sergeant. His grip on my shoulder tightened once before slackening completely.

  “G’on,” he whispered with a bloody grin. “Th’ Savior be watchin’ o’er me. His good eyes are on me now.”

  A hint of relief in him.

  As he growled at me, I struggled to break eye contact for a moment.

  “Move, boy—damn you!”

  The raspy urgency in his voice spurred me on, a mix of command and desperation that couldn't be ignored.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” I murmured, joining the ragged ranks of the retreating regiment as we fell back from the hill we had bled—and killed—on.

  The only thing harder than ascending it was descending it. Ranks upon ranks of dead and dying lined the path, their anguished faces frozen in time, a ghastly gallery. As we trudged down, each step was haunted by the echoes of those we had left behind.

  The descent felt endless, each footfall a reminder of the lives extinguished on that blood-soaked hill—a sacred hill that we would all carry with us.

  The end of the battle finally approached as I stumbled back with perhaps forty men. My fine, glistening plate turned dented and scarred—my face covered with soot, grime, and splattered blood as we ran.

  And then I saw it.

  Limp on a horse, laying down with our old banner, was Alaric, gazing up at the sky. I pushed myself forward up to him, believing him to be dead, his eyes closed and face a mask of peacefulness amidst the chaos.

  But as I neared, his eyes flickered open—startlingly clear against the dirt that marred his face.

  “You’re alive,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, each word punctuated with pain.

  “Thank the Lord,” I replied, kneeling beside him.

  As I gazed back, a cry echoed across the field—the élan of men ignited as a frightful charge of rallying Eclaireans began towards our lines. I nearly fell onto my back. They sought to kill us all.

  “The banner,” he said urgently, nodding weakly toward the flag beside him. “Don’t leave it here—don’t you dare.”

  He coughed as I grimaced.

  “They’ll kill you—the damned banner can wait,” I protested, but even as the words left my lips, I knew they were futile.

  Alaric's eyes hardened, the steel in them sharpening.

  “You stupid bastard,” he spat, his voice gaining a shard of its old strength. “I’m as good as dead. My legs—they’re broken. Take it. And go.”

  His hands clawed at the mud, trying to pull himself up, but the agony was too much; he collapsed back with a groan that tore at my heart. The sounds of the charging Eclaireans grew louder; their cries mingled with the clattering of steel and thundering hooves.

  Time was running out.

  I grabbed the banner, its fabric heavy with blood and mud, and rose to my feet. Looking down at Alaric, I saw the resignation in his eyes—a warrior accepting his end.

  He didn’t dare look me in the eyes—and I was glad for that, as I turned and ran.

  The odd bullet whizzed past us—but eventually, the Eclairean gave up their pursuit, rallying back to their camp as we made our way to our own.

  We were the battered remnants of a regiment that had numbered over three hundred at the start of the day. Now, we numbered perhaps fifty.

  There were no cheers when I returned with our standard banner.

  Back in camp, I sat staring into the fire, unable to shake the sights and sounds from my mind. A veteran sergeant—another one of the halberdiers—sat beside me. Silent understanding surrounded us.

  “What’s your name, lad?” he asked, his voice a low rumble after a few moments of silence.

  “Kael,” I replied dully.

  The veteran nodded. “Good job.”

  It was a quiet exchange between us. We didn't say a word afterward, quietly brooding on our luck.

  Soon enough, I turned in, heading back to the noble quarters I belonged to.

  In the coming days, I avoided Heinrich, dreading his reaction to my foolish charge into battle. But when he finally summoned me, his manner was almost fatherly.

  “Reckless but brave,” he pronounced. “You have potential if you can learn discipline. With proper training, you may make a fine knight.”

  He said to me.

  But I still remember my answer to this day, facing him.

  “…Is it not over?”

  Heinrich's expression hardened.

  “War does not end so easily, boy. There will be other battles, other fields soaked red with blood. The conflict between Valtore and Eclaire will rage on. I give it another few summers before we fight again.”

  He said that bitterly, as he turned away before glancing back.

  “…I have put a good word or two about you to Lord-Commander Duclaire. He is to be sent to the borderlands—and you, along with it.”

  Heinrich's words hung heavy in the air, a mix of doom and opportunity bound together like chains. I swallowed hard; moving to the borderlands—a place of desolation and incessant skirmishes—was daunting and oddly thrilling.

  “The Borderlands, sir?” I managed to say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

  “Yes, Kael. It's a harsh place but one where true warriors are forged. You will learn much under Duclaire's command. He is stern but fair. His leadership has turned many a raw recruit into a battle-hardened veteran.”

  I nodded, unsure if I was ready for such a drastic change. The fire of battle still burned within me, but our losses clouded my heart with doubt.

  “You may leave now. Prepare yourself,” Heinrich concluded, his tone final.

  I quietly nodded.

  “Yes, sir.”