There was the soft thud of boots on the trail—leaving behind a smoldering village, its ash swirling like dark specters in the early morning air.

  It was but the fifth village we had come across.

  The men delighted at first—taking out their frustrations of being cooped up all winter, taking out the fear in their hearts. Yet, as the ash of the fifth village mingled with the crisp spring air, a solemn silence replaced the raucous laughter and shouts that had filled our ranks earlier.

  The weight of our deeds—the sheer gravity of our actions under the Lord-Commander’s directive—began to settle heavily upon their shoulders.

  As it had already done on mine.

  I told myself—it was us or them. These people harbored the monsters that hounded us: bandits, brigands that preyed on us. They were complicit, either by action or by silent consent.

  Yet as the embers died, and the cries of the fallen faded into haunting echoes—

  I couldn’t help but gaze back.

  It was a mistake.

  “Kaelitz.”

  A voice growled, and I turned to see Lord-Commander Duclaire. His stoic expression was carved from stone; his black plate armor gleamed as we rode on horseback.

  “Don’t look back,” he said. “You’ll sleep better.”

  His advice—stern though it was—churned within me like a storm I could not quell. The path we trod became a blur, the faces of my men mere shadows in my peripheral vision as I grappled with the moral tempest raging silently in my heart.

  We were warriors, yes—

  But had we become mere executioners?

  The thought haunted me, gnawing at the edges of my conscience with relentless ferocity, threatening to consume me.

  It was not of my will. No.

  I was ordered.

  What choice did I have in the matter?

  As we ventured deeper into enemy territory, the lush verdance of spring seemed to recoil from our approach. Even the air grew heavier, as if burdened by the silent screams of those we left behind.

  The terrain began its ascent into the cragged peaks and deep forests of Lapsia—the path narrowing, winding perilously around cliffs and dense, brooding woods. Here, the Lapsids’ knowledge of their land would be their advantage.

  Their final bastion against our ruthless advance.

  Preparations for the impending assault consumed our days. Maps were studied under the dim light of oil lamps late into the night; strategies debated fervently among the officers.

  The Lord-Commander remained resolute, his orders unyielding as stone—yet I saw the flicker of uncertainty in some of my comrades’ eyes.

  A reflection of my own.

  I wished desperately that this campaign would end.

  Many others, I suspect, felt the same.

  Others, I’m sure, were far less na?ve.

  More than one of my prayers that night was wishing I had died on the fields of Castelon with Alaric—

  Not to live in dishonor like this.

  Lord-Commander Duclaire rode at the front as we marched forward the following evening. His figure was imposing even against the stark white landscape, and his black plate bore the scars of numerous battles.

  A stoic, grim silence followed us—the drums beating—as we marched toward the Lapsid fortress deep in the forest.

  Unknown to us, our doom lurked in the hollow belly of those woods.

  Silent watchers, veiled in white, bided their moment to strike.

  A coalition of forces: Teutons, Lithurians, Polanians, Lapsids—teeming for the spill of Imperial blood.

  But most of all—

  What we feared most was with them as they watched us.

  As we trudged through a narrow pass choked with snow-laden pines, we heard it—

  A cacophony of sounds.

  A volley of arquebus fire.

  Lines of men collapsing.

  Halberdiers wheeling—

  Only to encounter a sight genuinely terrifying.

  Charging out from the woods was the coalition—an avalanche of bodies and steel.

  And what was most terrifying of all was what marched among them, armed with bardiches and muskets. Their imposing size made them unmistakable.

  But it was not merely their size that struck terror into our hearts.

  Their faces were fearsome tapestries of man and wolf—eyes glinting sharply beneath the shadow of their helmets, reflecting lethal intelligence and untamed ferocity. Thick, black-hued fur bristled against the cold in stark contrast to the snow.

  They were the Vuk.

  Immediately—as we processed this horrific fact—they fired a volley in caracole method, far more disciplined than one would give them credit for. Their first rank fired and stepped out while the second—then the third—shuffled forward, keeping up a rapid pace of fire that withered our forces in great volleys.

  We returned fire, of course.

  An odd wolfman or two took a shot—their bodies recoiling, but horrifically… remaining standing.

  Would we need silver to fell them, like the stories told?

  And then, with a great roar, they launched into a charge—

  All within a handful of seconds, before we could return any organized fire.

  Few men from the Holy Empire had the “pleasure” to fight one of these beasts.

  Even fewer had the chance to survive.

  A man has yet to feel fear until a beast twice his size charges him down—

  And while Valtorean halberdiers were famed, they were not fearless—certainly not the green regiments the Streltsy no doubt picked out.

  Thus, those poor souls facing the Streltsy charge ran in terror, breaking before even colliding.

  Men were leaped upon—pounced, ripped apart, or cut in two by bardiches.

  A rout erupted as our flanks began to fold all at once.

  Lord-Commander Duclaire—an old man, but sharp enough to sense what was about to happen if nobody acted—

  “Rally to me!”

  His voice thundered above the chaos, piercing the din of battle—a beacon for scattering soldiers. I watched him draw his saber, its blade catching faint glimmers of the setting sun through the canopy, radiating a subtle promise of hope—

  Or perhaps a last stand.

  My legs moved before my mind registered the choice. Around me, others did the same; even in their fear, they gathered toward his cry, forming a rough semicircle around our Lord-Commander.

  Even then, routers fled past us—a river of men streaming back toward the rear guard.

  These poor men were terrified out of their minds. They were levies of the Baltzers—prone to superstition—and they no doubt believed the Vuk invincible to Imperial steel.

  So they did the only thing they thought they could do.

  They fled.

  And they were more than glad to leave the men of Valtor there to slow down the Vuk, now nearly upon us.

  Their dark forms loomed like specters against the white snow.

  Their howls mixed with the sound of massacre; the air filled with black powder and blood.

  Like the villages we’d left behind.

  Perhaps—

  It was cruel justice.

  My arms softened around my blade.

  And almost sensing it, Duclaire launched into the melee of the few troops still fighting the Vuk—and almost instantly their eyes locked onto him.

  What choice did I have?

  “My lord, we must fall back!” I shouted, drawing my saber as I rushed up.

  Duclaire’s eyes snapped toward me.

  “And forfeit the campaign? Never!” he spat, voice cutting through chaos like the edge of his enchanted blade—a yellow, holy glow bleeding from its length. “In the name of the Lord—we must stand here, or we’ll be hunted down like dogs from here to Vien!”

  He raised his saber and let out a defiant warcry—

  Countercharging the Vuk.

  It was brave.

  Perhaps foolishly brave.

  But romanticism has always had a way of creeping into the hearts of men facing certain death.

  Duclaire’s cry galvanized a handful of halberdiers. They turned on their heels, forming a shaky line beside him as I charged alongside—

  Into the mass.

  The first thing I remember—

  In a single fell swoop, the horse I rode had its head slashed clean off.

  I was flung into the snow within the melee.

  A death sentence.

  Yet fate took a strange turn even as my body plummeted toward the frigid embrace. I slammed into the ground, breath knocked out, the sky spinning, ears ringing—

  But before a wolfman could finish me, Duclaire charged past like an avenging wraith, his blade swinging with uncanny precision and speed, severing two wolfmen’s heads as if they were wheat beneath a scythe.

  Chaos reigned. Men tangled in brutal combat with ferocious Kholodians.

  I struggled to my feet, searching for my saber—flung from my grasp upon impact.

  My fingers closed around the hilt just in time.

  A wolfman leapt, overhead swing threatening to bisect me.

  I threw myself aside.

  The bardiche cleaved into the snow where I had been, sending up a spray of white powder that veiled my frantic movements. My saber rose in a desperate arc, tracing a shimmering line of resistance.

  The Vuk snarled, revealing rows of dagger teeth, lupine eyes narrowing with predatory focus.

  The battlefield had transformed into surreal brutality—men grappling in a dance of death, the stark landscape painted red with the blood of the fallen. The air was thick with the discordant symphony of metal and screams, guttural howls and the relentless percussion of gunfire.

  Still winded, forced onto the defensive—battling a beast with only a saber and a breastplate was foolhardy. The duelist style that served me well against Eclaireans and classmates was useless here.

  A single parry could break my wrist.

  Disarm me.

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  Leave me defenseless.

  The snow made footing treacherous—each sidestep a gamble. One misstep could mean the end.

  Nevertheless, I had no choice but to dance this macabre waltz and launch into the one thing drilled into us:

  Counterattack.

  As the Vuk was pressed back, my saber rang with each slash. In the desperate ballet, I began to see patterns—slight twitches beneath fur that telegraphed the next move.

  With every second, confidence grew.

  As the wolfman raised its bardiche for another sweeping strike, I stepped inside its reach, my saber darting like a viper.

  The haft turned awkward.

  He dropped it.

  A feral grin split his face.

  A claw flashed.

  Pain exploded across my head.

  I spiraled into snow; blood trickled down my face as the warrior moved on.

  I lay there for a second, crying out, trying to rise—

  Only to look up.

  The halberdiers that rallied with us were outclassed. Too many had routed; too few had countercharged. Now it was only a matter of time.

  Duclaire was missing.

  And I was left alone in the snow.

  My breaths came ragged, metallic scent of blood mixing with the pungent odors of battle. I could no longer see out of my right eye.

  Blinded.

  With shaking hands, I propped myself up, using my saber as a crutch. The cold bit into the wound—yet numbed pain, offering grim reprieve.

  Chaos had spread out. Pockets of resistance still fought valiantly while others lay trampled beneath the wolfmen’s advance.

  Uncertainty filled me.

  Was this the end of our noble stand?

  The thought was bitter, but I forced it aside.

  To give in to despair here would be to seal our fate.

  With what strength I could muster, I stood amid the carnage and walked toward the melee.

  I knew my respite would be brief.

  Greedily, I gulped winter air, each breath misting before my grimace—

  And then I saw it.

  A small cadre of cavalry crested a nearby hillock, their mounts frothing with exertion. I recognized their banner immediately.

  The reserve cavalry.

  Had they been there all along?

  A glint of hope sparked as they thundered down the slope, lances lowered, the Imperial crest billowing—a horn crying out…

  The Vuk tried to wheel—

  But even for them, it was too late.

  The cavalry hit like a tidal wave. Steel and flesh collided; crimson sprayed through the air.

  I joined the fray with renewed vigor, lashing out at those caught by the charge. Bones shattered beneath the cavalry’s impact, and even the fearsome wolfmen found themselves on the back foot—

  Routing and fleeing as quickly as they had arrived.

  Dropping weapons.

  Falling to all-fours.

  Slinking back into forests where our horses could not follow.

  Despite all our work—

  Despite our determination—

  The death toll was staggering.

  Twelve Vuk dead.

  For a hundred halberdiers slain.

  As for Duclaire…

  I found him hunched over on his horse, which had been mauled to death. His black enchanted plate had been ripped from him savagely, and he sat bleeding in the snow.

  “Sir!” I shouted, rushing over.

  He raised his head slowly. Grime and blood masked his features, making him a specter risen from trampled snow. His lips parted in a labored attempt at speech; a thin stream of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

  “Leave me,” he rasped—weak, yet edged with iron will.

  His grip tightened on my arm.

  “Listen to me,” he said, each word a struggle. “Don’t you dare die here—don’t you dare leave a politician in charge, or God forbid, one of the Baltizers.”

  His voice waned, effort draining what little remained.

  I knelt beside him, trying to assess wounds beneath ruined armor—futile.

  “Bu—” I started.

  Snow crunched behind me.

  A cavalryman rode up—a demilancer, like I had been in my first campaign.

  “Put him on my horse,” the demilancer ordered. “Quickly. There’s not a second to waste.”

  With effort, we hoisted Duclaire onto the saddle. His body was limp but for occasional grimaces that twisted his face. Bloodstained gauntlets smeared the white fur of the horse like a mark.

  Another horseman came up, and I joined him on his saddle.

  And we rode.

  We rode fast—and hard—other cavalry screening the retreating infantry as we made haste for Rega.

  What awaited us at Rega was the worst welcome a soldier could expect:

  A barred gate.

  Annoyed noblemen demanding answers.

  And a comatose superior who could not answer the questions of a dozen functionaries desperate to know why the great Imperial army had collapsed.

  Words like disaster and massacre were thrown about with reckless abandon, barbed syllables slicing the air sharper than any saber.

  I was swept into a storm of inquiries and accusations as we demanded entry.

  “Stand aside!” I bellowed, pushing forward with Duclaire’s limp form draped across the horse.

  Only after we made our presence felt did the gates groan open, begrudgingly admitting us. Inside Rega’s stone walls, the air stank of politics and fear.

  Duclaire was taken to the infirmary. Healers’ hands moved in hushed urgency, incantations a soft murmur beneath the clink of medicinal vials. I stood by his side, helpless as they worked to save a man—

  A man I did not even know, anymore, if he deserved healing.

  Finally—after two or three days of retreating troops regathering behind Rega’s formidable walls—Duclaire stirred.

  No dramatic gesture heralded his awakening.

  Only a subtle shift.

  A faint tightening of brows, as though resisting death’s grip through sheer refusal.

  I was there when his eyes flickered open, revealing the dull fire still burning within.

  He recognized me immediately and tried to speak, but his voice was a shadow of its former command.

  “Water,” he whispered.

  I poured it into a cup and guided it to his lips. As he drank, I watched pain etched into his face, each line telling a tale of sacrifice and relentless duty.

  Once satiated, he motioned for me to lean closer.

  “The Vuk… did we stop them?” he asked—anxiety in his voice, more than concern for himself.

  “We held them off,” I replied solemnly. “But at great cost. Heavy losses… we still haven’t figured out how many. Between a thousand and two thousand.”

  A heavy sigh escaped him. For a moment, I saw the weight of leadership press down.

  “And the politics?” he asked, resigned—as if expecting the worst.

  “Worse than you might imagine,” I said.

  “Of course.” He closed his eyes briefly, sighing. “Lord forbid we do anything without a criminal dimwit watching over us.”

  A wry chuckle escaped me despite everything.

  “You better brace yourself,” he mumbled. “They’ll be looking for a successor. Unfortunately, I only have one recommendation.”

  His eyes—dimmed by pain and fatigue—still held the old strategic spark.

  “You,” he said solemnly, gaze fixing me with a weight like the whole armor of a knight. “You must take up the mantle.”

  The air stilled around us—chilled, heavy, full of unspoken realization.

  I was taken aback, mind racing through implications and dangers.

  “Sir,” I began, voice barely above a whisper, “are you certain? There are others far more—”

  “Experience?” He laughed softly. “Or perhaps born of higher blood? I’m sure the Kaiser’s uncle or nephew would love a crack at this.”

  He grinned.

  “And that’s exactly what they’ll get. Mark my words. Five more years of this shithole, led by the most incapable men the Imperial Court can muster, and you’ll wish you had taken the chance to die on that field when it was offered.”

  He paused, breathing labored.

  “Trust me. It’ll happen. My days as a commander after this—numbered. Assuming I survive.”

  Despite the grim prognosis, a shard of the old warrior’s humor still glowed through the cracks of his battered exterior.

  He sighed.

  “Bring me some paper and a pen. We must make it official before the other vultures start circling.”

  Resigned to my unexpected, unasked-for elevation, I fetched the items. There was solemnity in the act—as if each step was a step toward irreversible fate.

  He took the pen with a shaking hand and wrote with laborious strokes, each letter etched with the certainty of a man who knew this might be his final command.

  When he finished, he handed me the paper.

  Clear. Concise. No ceremony—only necessity.

  “Take this,” he said, pressing the folded paper into my hand. “Only present it to the Kaiser when he asks for you.”

  He looked at me.

  “And he will.”

  I nodded, tucking the paper inside my jacket. It felt like a stone against my chest.

  “As of presenting that—you’ll be a simple field captain,” he said. “A junior role. But inevitably, when one of the bastards they put in charge slips up, you’ll pick up the pieces. You’ll make it.”

  He assured it—then settled back, eyes closing.

  “…Thank you, sir,” I murmured.

  I left him to rest, stepping out into the cold, dusky evening that enveloped the city. Shadows stretched long across cobblestones.

  I took a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  Sure enough, Duclaire’s words rang true. Word of his failure filtered back to the Empire, and the nobility buzzed with speculation and opportunism.

  Within weeks, Emperor Wolfgang arrived at Rega to address the situation personally.

  His entrance was grand—full of pageantry. His personal guard, the famed Palatine Guard—mercenaries from the mountains of Aldanaz, renowned for fierce loyalty and unmatched skill—marched through the streets past the citizenry and past us, the battered members of the Imperial Army.

  One couldn’t help but turn dour seeing them pass: uniforms pristine, armor gleaming in the waning light, every plate perfectly polished—bit-perfect.

  A stark contrast to our bruised and battered ensemble.

  With the sun sinking lower, the city seemed to hold its breath. The Palatine Guard took their positions in disciplined formation, an imposing sight.

  Then the emperor’s carriage came into view—a beacon of luxury amidst old Rega stone.

  Oddly enough, my heart pounded.

  Not fear.

  A burdensome sense of responsibility already plaguing me.

  I pushed it down, but I knew the Kaiser being here personally was unlikely to bode well for Duclaire, still recovering steadily.

  Once I forced my thoughts away from myself, I watched Wolfgang step down from his carriage.

  He was just a youth—near my age—yet already swathed in the heavy robes of state. His gaze swept over those gathered, face an unreadable mask sculpted by regal disdain and detached curiosity.

  Advisors flanked him, whispering into his ear, hands adjusting scrolls and documents as they walked.

  A hush fell.

  The kind that speaks of reverence and fear.

  A stillness that anticipates thunder.

  “Soldiers!” His voice carried the clear accent of upper nobility—commanding, practiced. “You have served the province of Ostland well in its hour of need.”

  His eyes scanned our lines, perhaps looking for dissent—or fear.

  “And yet we find ourselves at a crossroads,” he continued, “where leadership must be redefined, and trust must be reestablished.”

  He paused, allowing the words to saturate the twilight air.

  “I have not come to chastise or mourn the past, but to secure our future. As such—changes will be implemented effective immediately.”

  The word changes echoed ominously.

  Murmurs rose, hushed but frantic.

  “Effective this sunset,” Wolfgang declared, voice rising over whispers, “the command of the Eastern Garrison will be reassigned.”

  A pause—long enough to hear hearts sink.

  “Commander Duclaire is relieved of his duties due to health concerns.”

  A collective wave of disappointment rippled through the ranks. Despite rumors, despite my private talks with Duclaire, hearing it proclaimed so coldly still struck like a blow.

  “To ensure a smooth transition and maintain discipline,” Wolfgang continued, gaze sweeping like a lighthouse beam through fog, “Duke Heinrich von L?we will take temporary command.”

  My breath hitched.

  A murmur rippled, confusion spreading like a stain.

  I clenched my fist—hard.

  Before whispers could swell into open dissent, the young Emperor raised a hand, commanding silence with an authority that belied his tender years.

  “Duke Heinrich von L?we has served with distinction in other provinces,” he declared. “I trust he will bring fresh perspectives and rigorous discipline to our efforts here.”

  A figure stepped forward from the shadow of the emperor’s entourage.

  Duke von L?we was unmistakable even at a distance: white hair, a black eyepatch.

  Hatred bored through me as he scanned us like a chessboard.

  A chilling silence fell. Soldiers stared in disbelief.

  One question echoed louder than all others:

  What would become of our commander, Duclaire?

  “Attention!”

  The Duke’s voice boomed across the square, echoing off stone buildings. Instantly, murmurs ceased.

  “Slackers,” he growled, pointing a gauntleted fist. “It’s because of you lot that Ostland is in such shambles. Weakness is a luxury we can no longer afford.”

  His steel-grey eye swept across our ranks, each of us feeling the weight of his glare.

  “We will begin immediate retraining. I will not accept anything less than excellence from my command.”

  “Good,” a sergeant grumbled quietly. “A right ol’ bastard.”

  The thought simmered as von L?we paced before us.

  “You will be tested,” he continued, relentless as the wind. “You will be pushed beyond what you thought possible. And some of you will undoubtedly falter.”

  His gaze lingered on younger soldiers, faces drawn with apprehension—

  Then he came to me.

  “Kaelitz.”

  His voice dropped. He turned, eying me as though I were a stain on polished steel.

  A beat passed before I realized he was addressing me.

  I snapped upright and saluted.

  “Sir,” I said, saber at position, heart beating heavily beneath his scrutiny.

  “You came recommended as an aide-of-staff,” he said, inspecting me. “Yet I’ve never met an aide with such a sloppy stance. Straighten your back.”

  I adjusted—

  And a violent kick to my gut sent me into the dirt, breath displaced in a single excruciating whoosh. Dust swirled as I lay stunned.

  “Oi!” a voice barked. “Lay off him, you bloody bastard.”

  Von L?we’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing.

  “Who speaks?” he demanded, voice low and dangerous.

  The sergeant stepped forward, chest puffed in defiance.

  “Sergeant Rottmann.”

  I recognized the man—the voice, barely. I had spoken with him briefly after Castelon, after that dreadful affair.

  Von L?we took measured steps toward Rottmann, boots thudding ominously. The assembled soldiers tensed—hands drifting toward weapons.

  For a moment, mutiny seemed possible.

  Even members of the Palatine Guard shifted, halberds ready.

  “Sergeant,” von L?we growled, standing toe to toe. “I see the dreadful state of discipline begins with its sergeants. Insubordination will not be tolerated.”

  Rottmann crossed his arms. “So be it,” he retorted, voice a daring challenge that rang through the square.

  The tension coiled like a primed spring.

  Before it snapped, I scrambled to my feet, dust clinging to my uniform.

  “Lord Commander,” I said, voice raspy but firm, “he’s traumatized from the affair. The slaughter was brutal, and it has weighed heavily on us all.”

  I hoped the words might bridge the rift—force a sliver of understanding.

  Von L?we’s eyes lingered on me—piercing.

  Then back to Rottmann.

  After a moment that stretched endlessly, his expression hardened again, yet he stepped back.

  “Retraining will begin at dawn,” he said. “Anyone caught deserting is to be hung. No exceptions—not even for those of noble blood.”

  He looked me square in the face.

  “Dismissed!”

  His command sliced through the square.

  Soldiers shuffled, low murmurs buzzing through ranks now fraught with wariness and barely suppressed anger.

  As we dispersed, it felt as though we had crossed a far more dangerous border than the Danubitz River.

  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of blood-red and purple, the barracks were alive with whispered speculation.

  Rottmann approached, heavy steps echoing down the dim hall.

  “Kaelitz,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “You ever had someone tell you how stupid you are?”

  It was half-hearted humor—masking unease.

  I managed a tired smile, still feeling the ache in my gut.

  “More times than I can count, Sergeant.”

  Rottmann grunted and sat beside me on a wooden bench.

  “That was a bold move today—speaking to von L?we after all that. Could’ve ended badly for you.”

  I shrugged, eyes tracing the wood grain beneath our fingers.

  “It could have,” I admitted. “But it seemed worse to stay silent.”

  Rottmann exhaled.

  “This retraining he’s planning…” His voice lowered. “It’s going to break some of us, isn’t it?”

  “I suspect so,” I said softly.

  “And that bastard will claim he’s making us stronger for it. Always how it seems to work out.”

  Then the door creaked open.

  A gust of cold night air swept in—

  And a courier stepped inside.

  “Kaelitz von Ardent…?” His voice trailed as he scanned the room, then settled on me. He strode over, holding an envelope sealed with dark wax, impressed with the emblem of the High Command.

  “Yes,” I replied, standing. “That’s me.”

  “This came for you, sir. Direct orders.”

  He handed it with a stiff bow and exited as swiftly as he’d entered.

  I hesitated, fingers tracing the seal. The weight of everyone’s gaze pressed on my shoulders.

  I broke the wax and unfolded the parchment.

  The message was brief.

  Its content sent a cold shiver down my spine.

  Kaelitz Ardent, report to my chambers at first light. You are to be appointed to the rank of Field Captain of the First Arkehovst Battalion.

  —Lord Commander von L?we.

  Rottmann raised an eyebrow. “What’s it say?”

  I folded the letter and tucked it into my tunic.

  “It seems I’m not out of the fire yet, Sergeant,” I murmured, voice mixed with disbelief and resolve. “I’m to be appointed Field Captain of the First Arkehovst Battalion.”

  “Who in the bloody hell is the First Arkehovst Battalion?” he grumbled. “Not something I recognize.”

  I sighed, running a hand through my hair.

  “Neither do I. Perhaps a restructuring…”

  Rottmann leaned back, eyes narrowing.

  “Aye. Likely. Probably took ten minutes to talk to Duclaire about the situation, and now he thinks he knows the whole problem.”

  He snorted, shaking his head with disdain—and reluctant admiration.

  “Either way, you’re stepping into deeper waters, Kaelitz. Commanding a battalion is no light task. Especially one that doesn’t exist.”

  He smirked.

  I couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Most likely. I can only wonder what made him appoint me—I doubt it was Duclaire’s recommendation alone.”

  Rottmann shrugged.

  “You might be a young man, Kaelitz. A good decade younger than I—but you made it out of Castelon and out of the slaughterfield… with commendations and a decent track record.”

  He studied me, gruff honesty carrying weight.

  “Frankly, I don’t think he has much of a choice. If he’s smart, he knows putting green officers in charge of a newly formed battalion could spell disaster. But someone like you? You’ve already been through hell, came back, and kept your head straight.”

  His words settled in my chest.

  Around us, soldiers who had pretended not to listen shifted away, the initial curiosity fading into the background hum of barracks life.

  I nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Aye, Captain Kaelitz. Least I could do.” He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder—firm, reassuring.

  As he stood, the bench creaked under his weight. He turned to leave, then glanced back and sighed.

  He didn’t say anything.

  And I respected that.

  After all—

  I was overwhelmed.