Over a week, as we journeyed past the heartland of our Empire and entered the rugged eastern frontier, silence hung heavy amongst us—punctuated only by the occasional clink of armor and the distant calls of wild birds.

  The lands to the east were fraught with uncertainty and whispers of dissent. It was said that the people there had not sworn allegiance to our Emperor, and their warriors were fierce and unyielding.

  One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the earth, Lord-Commander Duclaire halted our march beside a brook. The men set about making camp with practiced efficiency, their movements almost reverent in the quiet of twilight.

  It was there—by that gently murmuring water—that Lord-Commander Duclaire finally addressed me directly.

  Though as deep and commanding as rolling thunder from a summer storm, his voice carried an unexpected warmth.

  “You’ve been rather quiet since we left Castelon,” he began, his eyes searching mine for a hint of my inner thoughts.

  I shifted uncomfortably on the balls of my feet, feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical pressure against my chest.

  “I am here to serve, my Lord,” I replied, keeping my tone respectful and measured.

  The Lord-Commander nodded slowly, as if assessing the sincerity of my words before he continued—and sighed.

  “Come. Sit with me.”

  He motioned to a fallen log near the water’s edge, and I obeyed, my armor clinking softly as I moved. The Lord-Commander looked out over the water, his gaze distant, as if reading secrets in the ripples.

  “You’re a young man,” he said. “You’ve seen things—haven’t you? Terrible things.”

  His words stirred a storm within me, unearthing memories I had buried deep beneath layers of duty and resolve.

  “Yes, my Lord,” I confessed, images of battle flashing before my eyes—the clash of steel, the cries of the fallen, the relentless march of death. “I have seen much that I wish I could forget.”

  Lord-Commander Duclaire turned his head slightly, twilight reflected in his eyes as if he held a sliver of the fading day.

  “That is the burden of those who serve,” he said softly, his voice barely above the brook. “Such… is the burden of men. You’ll shake it off in time.”

  He patted my shoulder—reassuring, yet heavy with the gravity of experience.

  “We march onward to our next campaign, in the east. Have you been to the frontier?”

  “No, my Lord. Though my grandfather told me a few stories of the Crusades.”

  “Ah.” He gazed toward the forests and sighed. “How much do you know of history?”

  I shrugged. Though I might have been lesser nobility from an unremarkable village outside of Strossberg, I had never put much time into lessons of old.

  “Not enough, my Lord,” I admitted, eyes downcast.

  Duclaire nodded as if expecting it. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, weathered book. With a thoughtful expression, he handed it to me.

  “It’s a brief history. It was written by monks in the old monastery of Strassu. A great read. I read it when I was on campaign here a decade ago.”

  I blinked, surprised.

  “You fought against the Polanians?”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “Though you could hardly call it a campaign. It was a partition. Polania had been a thorn in the Empire’s side for generations—a backward land, much like the Kholodians. Yet… they fell easily. Now we march out there to re-establish order.”

  “I see,” I grumbled. “…When might this campaign be over?”

  I started—careful not to voice my reluctance too openly. I had seen quite enough with the Eclaireans. Witnessed sufficient. Home seemed ever sweeter—every day that passed.

  Duclaire gave a small, humorless chuckle, a sound that carried the weight of years.

  “That, young Kaelitz, is a question many a soldier asks. The truth is, it ends when it ends. The sand does not bind wars in an hourglass—nor adhere to homesick men’s desires.”

  He paused, gaze returning to the brook. The water shimmered with the last light of twilight, a tapestry of moving shadows and flickering silver.

  “These conflicts—they’re never truly over. We pacify, govern, and hope to see home again,” he said, sorrowful.

  I remained silent, contemplating his insight. The brook babbled beside us, indifferent to the weight of human conflicts.

  Duclaire continued, his voice softer now—almost reflective.

  “When I was about your age, I too was thrust into the clamor of war. Though it was so long ago, I hardly remember it. They were the olden days—of fighting with pike and crossbows. Such antiquated times.”

  He chuckled softly to himself, and then his expression sobered as we stared ahead in silence.

  “Now we do the fighting with arquebusies and halberds. Though… I reckon that’ll change soon, too. Musketry is the way of the future. So I’m told, at least, by correspondence in the Imperial War Ministry.”

  “A terrifying thought,” I said. “I would dread to fight with each man holding a musket. There would be nowhere safe unless you wore an enchanted plate.”

  “Very true,” he said, grinning. “I would hate to be in your boots when such a time comes.”

  Then, more quietly:

  “But meanwhile… I think you’ll do fine as a squire. Keep your head on your shoulders, and you may make it home.”

  He smiled—as he patted me on the back—and left me there by the stream.

  At that river, the boundary marking the edge of Polania and Valtorea, a realization struck me.

  It would be a significant period before I would be home again.

  Thoughts of my distant homeland tugged at my heart as twilight descended, nudging me back to my tent where the day’s burdens lingered heavily. Seeking solace in the dim glow of a lone candle, I unearthed parchment, a quill, and an inkwell from within my belongings.

  The intention to update my father had lingered too long—unfulfilled.

  With a steadying breath, I immersed the quill into the inkwell, its tip hovering over the blank sheet with a slight tremor as I commenced penning down my sentiments.

  Only…

  I simply could not.

  Instead, as I sat there, the feather quill quivered between my fingers like a leaf in the wind, betraying the turmoil within me.

  I could not do it. Perhaps, once we arrived in Rega, I could bear to write again.

  Our journey through Western Polania commenced in the warmth of late autumn, with the sun still high in the sky. As we moved further east, the greenery of the Polanians gradually gave way to stark, barren borderlands. The change was slow and subtle, but as weeks turned into months, we found ourselves in a land that seemed perpetually locked in winter’s cold embrace—

  Baltiva.

  For us—just arriving in Baltiva, marching into the old city of Rega—we were put into winter quarters.

  The local nobility here were descended from old Valtorean nobles—known here as Baltors. Their stone castles, bleak and imposing, perched atop rocky capes overlooking harsh, frozen rivers that snaked through the landscape. Our winter quarters in Rega were similarly bleak, constructed from dense gray stone that seemed to absorb the chill from the air itself.

  As we settled in, the stark reality of our situation became increasingly apparent.

  Though the Baltzers shared blood with us, they were distant and reserved. Their customs and manners were as cold as their climate, and it was clear our presence was tolerated more out of necessity than welcome.

  Arguments between Lord-Commander Duclaire and the local nobles became constant, as we were settled into the merchant district’s many inns—Duclaire buying rooms for us out of his own pocket, a gesture not unnoticed by the men.

  Tensions within the ranks began to surface.

  “These bastards,” one older veteran spat. “Never grateful, they are. Always havin’ us do the dirty work.”

  His voice echoed down the dim corridor of the inn, earning nods and murmurs of agreement from others huddled around a flickering hearth. The fireside offered little comfort against the cold that seeped through thick stone walls; men’s breaths hung visibly in the air, mingling with pipe smoke.

  “Aye,” mumbled an arquebusier in the early stages of frostbite, his fingers wrapped tight in cloth. “These Baltzers—hardly cousins of the Empire, eh? And here we are, marchin’ our arses off to keep ’em from being lynched.”

  Duclaire, hearing the grumbles, would stride into those gatherings with his usual commanding presence, attempting to quell discontent with firm but fair words.

  “We’ll be out of here soon enough. Don’t you all worry,” he would say, standing tall amidst the weathered faces of his men. “We’re here for the Empire—not for local politics.”

  One chilly evening, as the wind howled like a pack of wolves outside the sturdy walls of our inn, Duclaire summoned me to his private quarters—a modest room adorned only with the necessities of military life and a few personal belongings that spoke more of duty than comfort.

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  He sat at a small wooden table, over which a single candle flickered, casting long shadows across his weathered face. Maps and dispatches were spread out before him, every edge weighed down with small stones to keep them from curling.

  “Sit,” he gestured, indicating a stool across from him.

  As I took my place, I noticed the lines of fatigue etched deeply into his features.

  “I’ve been reviewing reports from the local scouts,” Duclaire began, his finger tracing a line along a map that showed Baltiva bleeding into Lapsid territories. “There’s unrest in the outer villages—raids. Possibly dissenters, or perhaps even Kholodian infiltrators.”

  He paused, looking up to gauge my reaction. I remained silent. My role was listening, not speaking.

  “We cannot ignore these threats,” he continued, voice firm yet weary. “It’s unfortunate—but we cannot simply sit here in Rega while the Lapsids gather strength over the winter.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, candlelight flickering in them like a storm contained.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, decisive, “we ride out to these villages at once.”

  “…Are you sure, sir? Is it truly that urgent?”

  “It is,” he mumbled. “The eyes of the Empire are upon us.”

  I noticed a dispatch—our Emperor’s holy coat of arms on its seal.

  “It’s damnable. It’s stupid. I ought to have this letter burned—claim it never reached me,” Duclaire despaired. “But… there’s a point to the Kaiser’s handling of this.”

  He leaned forward, voice lowering.

  “Were spring to come, and the Kholodians notice our ill-preparedness on the frontier…” He exhaled. “They could seize the opportunity to push through and lay waste to both Baltiva and the surrounding regions. We must tighten our defenses—and strike preemptively if we must. The Empire cannot afford a weakened frontier this winter.”

  He leaned back, hands clasped.

  “You’ll be dispatched to Northolt. This is for the magistrate there.”

  He produced a sealed letter.

  “Northolt is the largest of the villages—loyal to the Kaiser. But keep your wits about you. Take forty men. And keep an eye on the locals.”

  I nodded, understanding the gravity of the task at hand. The room seemed to grow colder as we contemplated the weight of our orders; my mind already raced with the logistics of the mission.

  “Understood, sir,” I replied, voice steady despite the doubts swirling beneath.

  Duclaire grimly nodded, gaze shifting back to the maps. He brushed his fingers over one area marked with red flags.

  “I expect little resistance—compared to other fiefdoms. It will be good practice for you.”

  Silence.

  “I understand, sir.”

  “And while you’re there,” he added suddenly, eyes flicking up with dry humor, “finish that damned book already. A commander should be well-read, after all.”

  I gave a small smile, acknowledging the jab, and marched out—promising I’d finish it by the time we reached Northolt.

  Garrisoning Northolt was simple, after the grueling winter march, which took about three days.

  The town was settlers from the League—a mercantile town that spoke our tongue and shared Valtorean blood from generations past. The streets, lined with hardy timber and stone buildings, resembled the heartland of old Volkia, so far from home.

  They were grateful to have our protection.

  The magistrate, in particular, seemed relieved.

  “Thank the Lord!” he said, once he read the letter. “The Lithurs, the Lapsids—and the Teuton bandits. They’ve been nothing but trouble since the snow began. We feared the worst this winter, without the Empire’s support.”

  He exhaled, almost laughing from sheer relief.

  “The rest of our brethren—they went back east, to Volkia.”

  “I see,” I said, more aware of the situation now. “So… you’re the last Volkian town here?”

  “Aye. At least, in southern Lapsia.” He leaned forward, hands clasped. “It’s a hard place to hold, this close to the wildlands. We’ve had run-ins before… skirmishes and raids. But never anything we couldn’t handle.”

  Then he smiled—hopeful, naive.

  “But with you here… perhaps things won’t be so bad anymore. I doubt the Lapsids could stop you and your men.”

  Unfortunately—

  He was wrong.

  There was one thing that could stop us.

  The winter.

  A few days after we took position, a harsh storm rolled through. It was more ferocious—and more unpredictable—than the most savage Teuton warrior. The wind screamed night and day, twisting through cobbled streets like a malevolent spirit. Cold seeped through timber and stone alike, and despite ample preparations, morale began to falter.

  Frostbite claimed fingertips and toes. The chill invaded lungs, making every breath a struggle.

  I spent those days making rounds, visiting quarters where my men huddled around meager fires that could barely fight back against the pervasive cold.

  During one particularly relentless storm—when visibility was reduced to mere inches—a cry rose from the eastern watchtower, a section exposed to the wildlands.

  Straining against the howling wind, I made my way there with a few of my most trusted soldiers. The watchman, barely discernible behind layers of frost-covered wool, pointed into the white abyss.

  “There!” he shouted. “Through the storm!”

  Squinting into the snowy assault, I saw them.

  Dark figures—moving like shadows against the blinding whiteness. Numerous. A procession that seemed to merge with the storm itself, a living part of the tempest.

  “Who the bloody hell are they?!” I yelled, heart pounding with dread and resolve.

  They were distant—yet unmistakable.

  Heavy fur cloaks. The glint of armor.

  They were our men.

  We rushed them out of the cold into Northolt’s sole tavern.

  Two dozen of our own, from a border town perhaps a day’s march away, had been caught off-guard by a Lapsid attack and forced to retreat through the merciless blizzard. Their faces were gaunt; their eyes hollow with torment—both from defeat and the cold.

  “We held as long as we could,” their sergeant, a grizzled veteran named Harlitz, explained through chattering teeth. “But the Lapsids… they got to our granary. Burned it down.”

  He shuddered.

  “They had us encircled for days—starving us. Hiding in the church…”

  His voice dropped, and a haunted look crossed his face.

  “There’s something else out there. We heard… sounds,” he whispered. “Not human sounds. Howls. The sounds of the Vuk—no doubt.”

  “…The Vuk?” one man mumbled, face pale with frost and fear. “Savior—protect us!”

  He made a sign of protection.

  Harlitz nodded solemnly, frostbitten fingers trembling around a mug of steaming brew, warmth barely touching the deep chill in his bones.

  I could only blink.

  The Vuk—a group of wolfmen that ruled over the Kholodian Tzardom. Monstrous men of fur and fang, known for bloodlust and the way they ruled barbaric lands—enslaving humans into serfdom and playing at civilization when, in truth, they were little more than bloodthirsty, oversized wolves.

  But it was odd.

  The Vuk, as barbaric as they were, practiced a faith with vague similarities to ours—and similarly despised the pagans of Baltiva.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, voice tinged with skepticism and fear.

  Harlitz met my gaze. In his eyes was sincerity that chilled me more than the wind outside.

  “Yes, commander. We all heard them—every night. The howls didn’t sound like any wolf we’ve ever known. And the footprints—too large for any normal beast—circled our home.”

  The room fell silent.

  If Harlitz’s account was true, then the threat looming over us was far greater than bandits—or winter.

  “Prepare yourselves,” I announced, standing. “We fortify. I want a double watch throughout the night—just to be sure.”

  The men nodded grimly.

  I left them to their thoughts, sergeants taking over, and returned to my quarters to plan. The maps sprawled across my table seemed almost mocking—clear lines and orderly towns, so remote from the chaos beyond the walls.

  Half were outdated.

  The other half were simply wrong.

  That night, as I pored over strategies and contingencies, a soft knock came at my door.

  It was Father Johann, the town’s priest, face etched with concern beneath his hood.

  “Commander,” he said quietly. “May I have a word?”

  “Of course, Father. Come in.” I gestured toward a chair by the fire.

  He sat, warming his hands before he spoke.

  “I overheard talk of the Vuk,” he began hesitantly. “Working with the Lapsids—correct?”

  I nodded, the weight of our situation settling heavier on my shoulders. “It seems so. If what they say is true…”

  The priest sighed and shook his head.

  “Foolish. Simply foolish.” His tone sharpened. “The Vuk—they’re an honorable sort, and honor the Savior. They would never willingly ally with the godless Lapsids.”

  He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering.

  “It must be something else. Something far more dark—and far more sinister.”

  I leaned in, intrigued despite myself. “What do you mean…?”

  Father Johann shifted uncomfortably, aged hands intertwining as if to draw strength from the gesture.

  “The Vuk,” he said, reverent and dread mingling, “are by far the least of the problems in these lands.”

  He inhaled slowly.

  “For one thing—the cults… of the Great Foe.”

  Father Johann’s words hung heavy in the air. I shifted, feeling the room tighten around the syllables.

  “The Great Foe,” I echoed, frowning. “Out here—in the borderlands?”

  “Quite. The furthest away from the scrutiny of the Holy Inquisition.” His eyes narrowed. “While their diabolic practice is foolish, misguided… their blood magic is quite real.”

  He spoke as if reciting a sickness he’d watched spread for years.

  “They’ve been biding their time, growing in strength and influence in the shadows. They may have swayed some of the Vuk to their cause—or perhaps the Lapsids serve them.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “These pagans would do anything to force the Faith—and the Reich—out of their lands.”

  “Savior…” I murmured, making the sign of the Holy Icon.

  Father Johann nodded solemnly, firelight ghosting across his features.

  I sighed.

  “Father—as much as your tales of devilry excite the mind, and as God-fearing as I am, we need evidence before we act. I cannot rally the men on rumors and fears alone—scare them into believing they fight the Great Foe.”

  He nodded at once. “Of course. Of course. If I were in your boots, I would say the same. Anyone would.”

  Then, more urgently:

  “But do me a favor. Surround the village with salt—and put up icons at every entrance. I assure you, these are not mere superstitions, but age-old defenses against the darkness that lurks beyond our sight.”

  Salt was expensive. Icons less so.

  Yet in his eyes I saw sincere concern—true belief.

  “Very well, Father,” I conceded. “I will see to it that your precautions are implemented.”

  He thanked me and departed with a weary bow.

  After he left, the room felt colder.

  More isolated.

  That winter—hardship passed us by.

  After we put up the icons and sprinkled salt around the village, it all seemed silly… but reports came in of more villages raided. More and more tales of Vuk-like things attacking reached us.

  We were too few to rally out.

  Yet each night, we remained unassailed.

  Come early spring—we were the sole village left untouched by the chaos that swept through the region.

  A fact that did not escape the notice of my superiors—

  Or the villagers.

  As spring unfurled its greenery once more, I was summoned back to Rega—to attend Lord Duclaire.

  To say the journey was tense would be an understatement. Roads were lined with rumors turned real: ravaged villages, burnt homes, desecrated churches—grim sentinels of devastation. My men moved with grim determination, hardened by winter’s trials and the strange safety our measures had afforded us.

  Once in Rega, I couldn’t help but notice the contrast.

  Merchants and nobles acted as if the countryside wasn’t desolate. As if streams of refugees weren’t filing out—headed back to Valtorea—seeking refuge from horrors that plagued their lands.

  I presented myself before Lord-Commander Duclaire, report ready—detailing not just survival, but how it had been achieved.

  He seemed aged. In only three months, the old man I knew looked older still. His eyes, once sharp as a falcon’s, now carried the burden of sleepless nights.

  They flickered with interest as I recounted our experience.

  He leafed through the pages, fingers trembling slightly.

  “You’ve done well,” he said slowly, voice mixed with relief and incredulity. “This… approach of yours, Commander—it’s unprecedented, but seems effective.”

  He paused, then looked up sharply.

  “We must consider deploying similar measures elsewhere if these… circumstances continue.”

  The Lord-Commander leaned back, the creak of old leather a somber melody in the expansive, book-laden study. Banners and symbols of our forefathers lined the walls, as if holding their breath while Duclaire weighed what came next.

  “But there is more pressing news,” he continued, tone heavier, taking up a sealed scroll. “We cannot linger on defense alone. News from our scouts is dire—the Lapsids grow ever more bold, and their raids increasingly audacious.”

  He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment with deliberate care.

  A map.

  Detailed. Marked with encampments and paths through dense woods of Lapsia—terrain merciless and unforgiving.

  His finger traced a route deep into the heart of shadowed lands.

  “I am planning an assault,” Duclaire declared, voice firm with command. “No mere counter-raids this time—we shall pierce the heart of the matter, once and for all.”

  A series of villages were marked—each a bastion of potential Lapsid activity.

  We were tasked not with reconquest—

  But to dismantle the infrastructure that fed their insurgence.

  To sack.

  To pillage.

  “It is imperative,” Duclaire continued, gaze fixed on inked routes as if he could see the battles ahead, “that we teach them a lesson they will not soon forget. A lesson that shall echo through the hills and valleys of the Lapsids—a stark reminder that the might of our Reich, guided by the Holy Father, cannot be challenged without dire consequences.”

  I listened intently, mind weaving through each command, each strategy.

  It sounded more and more like a punitive expedition.

  We wouldn’t be holding ground.

  We would burn anything and everything that could aid resistance.

  Our goal was absolute:

  To cripple their ability to wage war against us ever again.

  I stood there, body frozen in shock and horror.

  “And the people, my lord?” I managed, fearing the answer.

  The Lord-Commander’s eyes bored into me, face set with cold determination—like a sharpened sword poised for battle.

  “Kill them all. Let the Lord sort out his own.”

  And so it was decreed.

  Our first real mission in these foreign lands—

  Would be bloodshed and destruction.