I rode along the old roads, quietly drawing a brown burlap cloak over myself.

  I had my saber returned to me, but I dared not get accosted alone out in the woods of Baltiva. I rode hard and fast for Rega—hoping that perhaps some emissary of Valtorea would come, some patrol willing to guide me back to the safety of our fortified walls.

  The journey was arduous, fraught with uncertainty, and the occasional bandit lurking in dense thickets—eager to prey upon solitary travelers.

  Despite the dangers, I pressed on, driven by a deep-seated duty that would not allow me to rest until I once again stood on Valtorean soil. Each day presented its challenges: muddy paths that threatened to swallow my horse, sudden downpours that turned the world gray and indistinct, and nights so cold they seemed to leech the warmth from my bones.

  On the fourth night, under a sliver of moon peeking through scudding clouds, I heard the distant clatter of hooves striking stone—a sound that tightened my grip on my saber’s hilt.

  I slid from my horse, pressing against a large oak as shadows moved along the road.

  Emerging from the darkness were two riders cloaked like myself. Their faces were obscured, and their postures wary. One raised a hand, signaling a halt.

  My heart pounded in my chest as I waited for their approach.

  An alien tongue yelled out—I recognized it quickly as Lapsid.

  One of them dismounted—axe drawn—and I lurched out, saber at the ready.

  The other dismounted too, quickly positioning himself with a crude, jagged blade that glinted under intermittent moonlight. Their movements were practiced but raw, carrying the unmistakable mark of marauders used to confrontation and quick theft.

  The first Lapsid—broad and menacing—charged without preamble.

  His axe swung in a wide arc aimed at my head.

  I ducked low, the edge of the blade whistling mere inches above my scalp, and retaliated with a swift thrust of my saber. The blade met chainmail but failed to penetrate deeply, only enraging him further.

  He grunted, swinging his axe back around in a low, sweeping attempt to catch me off-guard.

  Meanwhile, the second marauder circled to my left, attempting to flank me.

  Anticipating his strategy, I pivoted and kicked up a cloud of dirt toward him, momentarily impairing his vision and disrupting his advance. The brief respite allowed me to focus back on the first attacker.

  Our dance was deadly and precise—his axe strokes powerful, yet increasingly predictable.

  I dodged another vicious swing and countered with a piercing jab that finally found its mark beneath his arm.

  He staggered back with a curse, clutching his side.

  At that moment, the second Lapsid recovered and lunged toward me, his blade aimed straight for my chest.

  I sidestepped, and his momentum carried him forward, exposing his back.

  With a rapid turn, I drove my saber into him, feeling resistance as it punctured the leather jerkin he wore beneath his cloak. He cried out and fell to the ground, gasping as he clutched at the protruding blade.

  I drew it back—

  —and ducked at the last second as the other Lapsid hurled himself at me with a desperate, ragged shout.

  His axe came down hard, aiming for where my head had just been.

  I rolled away, my heart pounding, the ground brutal and unforgiving beneath me. As I scrambled to my feet, I saw his figure looming over me again, moonlight casting his shadow long and menacing across the leaf-strewn road.

  Breathing heavily from exertion and pain, he raised his axe for another strike—but his movements were slower now, labored from the wound I had inflicted.

  Seeing my chance, I surged forward with all the speed and strength I could muster.

  My blade arced through the air with lethal precision, slicing through the gap in his armor and into his chest.

  With a choked grunt, he stumbled backward and collapsed onto the cold, hard road.

  I stood over him, breathing heavily, watching as life ebbed from his body.

  The silence that followed was piercing—only broken by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustling of leaves in the faint breeze. Resting my hands on my knees, I tried to steady my breathing and calm the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

  Both men were dying—and I had no cause to stay and help them after they’d accosted me.

  A growl came from my belly, and I lurched over one of their bodies, scavenging…

  Foodstuffs.

  A letter.

  A letter—which I curiously opened, written in Kholodian.

  Kill the traveler on sight, it read, and then burn this message.

  From who it was, it was unmarked. The handwriting was unfamiliar to me—and I pocketed it.

  First and foremost, I had to reach Rega safely.

  With one last wary glance at the lifeless bodies sprawled on the road, I mounted my horse, urgency spurring me forward.

  The remainder of the journey was tense and silent, save for the occasional distant howl of a wolf or the rustle of leaves above. My thoughts repeatedly drifted back to the letter—each scenario I conjured more treacherous than the last.

  By dawn, when the first light filtered through the dense canopy, Rega’s towering spires finally came into view—a sight that brought relief… and a melancholy feeling over me.

  I explained my story again and again, but the inquisitors seemed unimpressed. At every turn, they tried to point out the worst flaws.

  “Did you not take the opportunity to escape at all?” the lead interrogator said. “What kind of soldier are you?”

  I clenched my fists, feeling the cold metal of the shackles bite into my wrists.

  “How would I flee,” I retorted, my voice tight with frustration, “in the heartland of Kholodia—in an alien country, with nothing to my name?”

  “Suicide,” he stated bluntly.

  Those words stung, echoing within the confines of the cold stone chamber. Anger boiled beneath my calm facade, but I knew better than to let it spill over. Instead, I drew a deep breath and stared at him, my eyes hard.

  “I did what was necessary for survival,” I countered, my voice firm yet controlled. “It almost sounds like you’d prefer me dead.”

  The corner of Inquisitor Martinez’s mouth twitched slightly, betraying a flicker of irritation. His gaze intensified, deep creases around his eyes growing more pronounced as he leaned closer.

  “Survival,” he echoed, the word dripping with disdain, as if it were unworthy of even being considered. “Survival without grace is but a hollow shell of existence. You were entrusted with the mantle of our Empire to uphold its values even unto death.”

  His words hung heavy in the air, like a guillotine poised to sever the last threads of any sympathy I might have hoped for from this tribunal. The cold dampness of the room seeped deeper into my bones, each word a reminder of the unforgiving nature of our creed.

  “But let us consider that you did indeed prioritize survival,” he continued, voice now controlled—almost mesmerizing. “Tell us then: how did your actions serve the greater good of the Holy Valtorean Empire?”

  The question stung—more painful than any physical blow. It challenged my decisions and my very identity as a soldier of the Empire.

  “I… I…” I stammered, grasping at the shards of my fractured dignity. “What else could I do?”

  The admission broke something in me. I struggled at the chains.

  “That’s enough,” Martinez sighed. “Take him to the torturer. We’ll reconvene in an hour.”

  The sting of the scourge lashed against my back, cutting through flesh and resolve with ruthless precision.

  At first, anger surged within me toward the torturer. Yet as the pain intensified, self-reproach crept in—filling me with a desire to vanish from existence. I muttered bitter words under my breath, directed curses at the heavens, pleaded for release—

  —all while Inquisitor Martinez observed with detached indifference, his gaze frigid and calculating.

  “That is sufficient for now,” he declared.

  The restraints loosened, sending me crashing onto unforgiving cobblestones. Paralyzed by agony and shame, I lay motionless, tears mingling with blood on my cheeks.

  Inquisitor Martinez advanced toward me, his footsteps echoing ominously as he neared my crumpled form.

  “I trust you, Kaelitz,” he uttered.

  Struggling to lift my head, I warily eyed his boot still pinning down my foot. A glimmer of hope flickered within me at his unexpected declaration, though I dared not fully embrace it.

  “You trust me?” I rasped incredulously. “Then why—”

  He silenced me with a voice sharp as ice.

  “I believe that your actions did not purposefully betray our cause. However, whether intentional or not, they have cast suspicion upon you. And in these difficult times, suspicion alone can be damning.”

  He raised his boot.

  Excruciating sensation flooded back into my foot. I suppressed a pained gasp.

  With hands clasped behind his back, Inquisitor Martinez turned away.

  “Nevertheless,” he continued coolly, “I am not devoid of compassion. You will be allowed to vindicate yourself and demonstrate your allegiance.”

  “An opportunity?” I croaked weakly. “What do you require of me?”

  He turned fully now, torchlight sculpting his features into stark shadow.

  “The moment will present itself in due course,” he replied. “For now… heal.”

  He gestured to his attendants.

  “Escort him to the healers.”

  Strong hands hoisted me up by my arms, fresh waves of agony rippling across my raw back like liquid fire—new rivulets of blood tracing down my skin.

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  “Consider this an act of leniency,” Martinez remarked as they led me away. “Not everyone who enters these chambers emerges breathing.”

  I was half-dragged, half-carried through the winding corridors of the fortress, feet stumbling and sliding on slick stone. Rough hands dug into my arms, grip unrelenting even as I hissed in pain with each jarring step. The world swam in and out of focus, torches blurring into streaks of amber light that seared my vision.

  At last, we reached a small, dimly lit chamber.

  The pungent scent of herbs and medicinal oils assaulted my nostrils, making my head spin. A robed figure emerged from the shadows—the healer, I presumed.

  “Set him down there,” the healer instructed, gesturing to a narrow cot in the corner.

  The attendants complied, dumping me unceremoniously onto the thin mattress. The rough fabric chafed against my ravaged back, eliciting a strangled groan from my throat.

  The healer approached, his weathered face coming into focus as he leaned over me. His eyes, a pale watery blue, held a mixture of pity and resignation—the look of a man who had seen too much suffering in his time.

  “This will hurt,” he warned, voice rasping. “But it is necessary for the healing to begin.”

  I nodded weakly, bracing myself.

  The healer began to apply a salve to my wounds, and I grunted—

  —and passed out.

  And there I was, trapped in the deep dungeons of a Baltivan castle.

  Days turned into nights, and nights back into days within stone walls where no sunlight dared touch. Physicians treated my wounds—salves, stitching, cold efficiency. Relief was slow to come. I learned to quiet the groans as healing began; every movement threatened to tear open what little my body had clawed back.

  As misery ebbed, replaced by desperation for clarity and purpose, I forced myself to focus on what lay ahead rather than what had transpired. The Empire had shaped me once as a soldier.

  Now von L?we sought to reshape me—into what, I was not sure.

  One evening—or it might have been day hidden under night’s cloak—the bolt of my cell door screeched open.

  A figure stepped inside, adorned in an imperial functionary’s austere black and yellow garb. His face was stern—yet a peculiar softness in his eyes seemed out of place in the harsh regimen of Baltivan castle.

  “Kaelitz,” he began, voice resonant in damp dungeon air. “My name is Gerhart. There’s a bit to go over—before your release.”

  I stared up from the thin, straw-filled mattress, muscles tensing instinctively.

  “Release?” I managed, voice raspy from disuse.

  Gerhart nodded, dragging a chair across stone with a screech and sitting opposite me. He placed a small, leather-bound book on his lap, fingers resting on the cover to emphasize its importance.

  “Yes,” he continued. “You are to be given an assignment—a mission that could not only redeem you in the eyes of the Empire but also prove crucial for our current endeavors. But first…”

  He opened the tome. Pages crackled as he thumbed through them.

  “The Inquisition has taken an interest in your case, Kaelitz. Father Martinez himself reviewed the charges levied against you by Lord Commander von L?we. After much deliberation and prayer, he has found them… lacking in merit.”

  I sat up straighter, ignoring the twinge of pain that shot through my battered body.

  The Inquisition was not known for leniency. If they had intervened, it could only mean they wanted something from me in return.

  Gerhart must have sensed my skepticism, for he leaned forward, voice low and urgent.

  “You must understand, Kaelitz—this is no small matter. The Inquisition does not overturn the rulings of a Lord Commander lightly.”

  I remained silent, mind racing. The Inquisition had the ear of the Emperor himself. If they believed in my innocence—or at least my usefulness—then there was still a chance to regain honor and standing.

  Gerhart closed the book with a soft thud, eyes boring into mine. Then he opened it again, revealing pages filled with dense, meticulous script.

  He began to read aloud, measured and clear in the oppressive silence of the cell.

  “By decree of the Lord-Commander, Heinrich von L?we, Captain Kaelitz von Ardent is now assigned to the Verlorener Haufen…”

  He coughed, noticing my eyebrow raise—his High Valtorean barely unfamiliar.

  “The Forlorn Hope.”

  He paused, gauging my reaction.

  I merely stared back, blinking—unresponsive.

  Gerhart went on, voice echoing off dank stone.

  “You are to lead the assault on the traitorous Arch-Duke Duclaire, leader of the Black Band, which has taken refuge in the Tartuvian marshes—and to execute them to the last man.”

  He closed the book with a soft thud.

  I sat up straighter despite the pain, my mind whirling.

  The Tartuvian marshes—lonely, treacherous; bogs that could swallow a man whole, strange creatures lurking in the mists.

  And now I was to venture there, still bearing the marks of the inquisitor’s cruel attention—and put Duclaire to the sword.

  Duclaire. The man who had once been my mentor. My friend.

  He had betrayed me—betrayed the Empire.

  Now I was being sent to hunt him down like a dog and end his treachery once and for all.

  I let out a slow breath, ribs aching with the effort.

  “And if I refuse this… generous offer?”

  Gerhart’s expression hardened, eyes glinting in flickering torchlight.

  “Refusal is not an option, Kaelitz. The Inquisition has spoken. You will carry out this mission—or you will face the consequences of defying the will of the Empire.”

  I closed my eyes briefly, the weight of my fate pressing upon me like a physical burden.

  When I opened them again, Gerhart watched me intently.

  “Very well,” I said at last, voice hollow to my ears. “I will do as the Inquisition commands.”

  Gerhart nodded, a flicker of something like respect crossing his stern features.

  “As you say, Captain. The Empire expects great things.”

  “…I… When do we begin?” I asked, steadier than I felt.

  Gerhart’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile.

  “At dawn, three days hence.”

  Morning passed.

  The food became remarkably better as I was left alone in the cell, silence broken only by distant water drip and the rasp of my breathing.

  The only interruption came one sudden morning, when the heavy iron door creaked open and a guard entered holding a sealed letter. He tossed it at my feet with a sneer before turning on his heel and slamming the door shut behind him.

  I picked up the letter with trembling fingers, breaking the familiar wax seal of my family crest.

  My dear son Kaelitz, it began. I write to you with a heavy heart and grave tidings. That vile snake Von L?we has used your supposed dishonor as a pretext to confiscate our ancestral estate here in Vien—formally, in the court of the Reichskammergeicht. A few family friends have helped out—in legal funds—to contest such a manner. Though it matters little. The estate has already fallen into his hands.

  But even then, my greater fear is for you, my brave boy, fighting in those godless eastern lands against the Kholodians and the barbarians. Pray tell—when will you return?

  I sighed wearily, tossing the letter aside as I slumped back against my prison cell’s cold, unforgiving stone.

  My father’s words—filled with concern—bored into me like an icy wind slicing through the tatters of my uniform. I knew not what was coming next, but dread loomed large and ominous, like storm clouds gathering over Rega’s gray, forlorn skyline.

  I could only hope I was prepared.

  In the days that followed, I was subjected to a grueling regimen of training and preparation.

  My body, weakened by confinement and deprivation, was honed anew through hours of punishing drills and sparring matches. Wearing imperial plate over flayed skin made me feel like a penitent flagellant; pain became a constant companion—a searing reminder of my fall from grace.

  A dozen or so men would accompany me.

  They were the scum of the lowest.

  The dregs of the Empire—rapists, murderers, thieves. Men who had nothing to lose, and everything to gain by taking on a suicidal task.

  But could such men truly be trusted?

  Would they fight with me—or turn on me at the first opportunity?

  Perhaps… that was what Von L?we feared as well.

  In the pre-dawn hours of the third day, we gathered in the fortress courtyard, breath misting in the chill air. Von L?we stood before us, face an impassive mask.

  “You know your mission,” he said, voice carrying across assembled men. “Find the Black Band. Uncover their purpose. And bring me the head of the traitor Duclaire.”

  I nodded grimly, hand resting on the hilt of my saber—finally gifted back to me. The weight of steel was comforting, a reminder of oaths sworn and duty that lay ahead.

  Around me, the men shifted uneasily, eyes darting between Von L?we and the looming gates.

  “You may take your leave,” Von L?we continued. “You have a week to return. Should you not come back—you will be declared outlaws and hunted down.”

  With those final, ominous words, he turned and strode away, soon swallowed by the shadows of the keep.

  I stood a moment longer, the weight of the task settling upon me like a shroud.

  Then, with a deep breath, I turned to face the men who would be my companions.

  They were a rough lot—faces scarred and weathered, eyes hard and jaded. Some bore marks of the lash, others the crude tattoos of prison gangs.

  They were men who had known little but violence and brutality.

  And it showed in their feral, hunted gazes.

  I, perhaps, feared them more than the hundred men in the Tartuvian swamps awaiting us.

  The life I had seen when I first arrived here on campaign now seemed like a distant memory—a fading dream swallowed by war and betrayal.

  As we marched through bleak, ravaged landscape, my task bore down upon me like a physical burden.

  I glanced at the men around me—hardened criminals and outcasts, now my reluctant allies. They moved with sullen, predatory grace, eyes constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of threat.

  I knew they would fight fiercely if called upon.

  But I also sensed their resentment—barely contained anger at being pressed into service.

  As the sun sank toward the horizon, painting the sky in lurid shades of orange and red, we came upon the ruins of a small village.

  The buildings were little more than blackened husks, windows gaping like sightless eyes. In the center of the village square, a single gallows stood—timbers weathered and gray.

  I called a halt.

  The men gratefully sank to the ground, resting weary limbs. We could not linger long, but even a brief respite was welcome after the long march.

  I watched as they tended blistered feet and gulped water from canteens, faces etched with exhaustion.

  And I overlooked the ruined village we had stumbled into.

  It was one we had marched past—back when Lord Commander Duclaire led us. I presumed it was little more than wasteland, like most of Baltiva.

  “Oi, sir?” a voice called—careless tone, coming from a trooper, what passed for a sergeant.

  I turned to face him: wiry and sinewy, badly pocked face, crude tattoo of a hanging man on his neck.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” I asked, carefully neutral.

  He hawked and spat, wiping his mouth with his hand.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but some o’ the lads were wonderin’… what’s our stake in all this? I mean, we’re riskin’ our necks out here, goin’ after these Black Band bastards. Seems only fair we get a cut o’ the spoils out here, y’know?”

  Anger flashed at his audacity, but I kept my expression impassive.

  “Your ‘stake,’ Sergeant, is your life,” I said. “You’re here because the alternative was the gallows or the chopping block. The only spoils you’ll see are the rations in your pack and the air in your lungs. Understood?”

  His face twisted into a sullen scowl, but he nodded grudgingly.

  “Aye, sir. Understood.”

  He slunk away, muttering under his breath.

  As he retreated, I let out a slow breath, feeling tension coiled within me like a serpent ready to strike.

  I knew I walked a razor’s edge with these men—and any sign of weakness or uncertainty could prove fatal.

  I cast my gaze once more over the ruined village: charred remnants of homes and shops, scattered bones gleaming white amidst ash.

  How many had died here, I wondered.

  How many innocents had been snuffed out in the name of this bloody, senseless war?

  A sudden movement caught my eye.

  I whirled, hand flying to the hilt of my sword—

  —but it was only a skinny dog, picking its way through rubble on stick-thin legs.

  It paused, looking at me a long moment—eyes hollow and haunted—before slinking into the shadows.

  I felt a sudden, irrational anger at the pathetic creature.

  What right did it have to live when so many good men had perished?

  But the anger faded, replaced by profound weariness and despair…

  …and something foreboding.

  Bones—in the snow.

  I moved over to one of the skeletons and kicked it over.

  The bones clattered across frozen ground, scattering in macabre display.

  I knelt, eyes narrowing as I examined the remains more closely.

  These were no ordinary bones, picked clean by scavengers and elements.

  No—these had been deliberately arranged, skull and limbs positioned in a grotesque pattern.

  A chill that had nothing to do with bitter wind crept down my spine.

  This was no mere abandoned village.

  It was a warning.

  A message left by someone.

  Perhaps the Black Band—but did they dabble with the macabre and the sinister?

  I rose slowly, fist clenched around my saber’s hilt.

  The men had gathered, faces pale and uneasy as they took in the scene.

  “Mount up,” I said, voice harsh and commanding in eerie stillness. “We ride hard—and we don’t stop until we reach the edge of the swamps.”

  For a moment, hesitation rippled through them.

  Then—grudgingly—they moved, gathering gear and saddling horses with grim efficiency as the sun bled out behind the ruins.

  We set camp on the edge of the swamp.

  A flickering fire cast eerie shadows across the men’s faces as they huddled close for warmth. The air was thick and heavy with the stench of decay, and strange, chittering sounds echoed from darkness beyond the firelight.

  I sat apart, staring into flames as my mind raced with dark thoughts. The warning in the ruined village weighed heavily upon me—a promise of horrors waiting in the swamp’s depths.

  One of the men approached: a grizzled veteran with a face like weathered leather. He squatted beside me, eyes glinting in firelight.

  “Ye feel it too, don’t ye, sir?” he said, voice low and rough. “The evil that lurks in this place. It’s like a livin’ thing—watchin’ us, waitin’ to strike.”

  I nodded grimly, hand tightening on my sword’s hilt.

  “Aye, I feel it. But we have no choice but to press on. Our duty lies ahead—no matter the cost.”

  “Tis’ a fool’s errand,” he said, settling beside me. “Chasin’ ghosts and shadows through this accursed swamp. Ye mark my words, sir—we’ll not find anythin’ but our deaths in there.”

  I turned to him, eyes hard.

  “Then so be it.”

  The veteran shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips.

  “Aye, the Inquisitors worked you over alright,” he snarled. “They filled yer head with all that nonsense about duty and sacrifice. Bugger them—and bugger the bloody Empire. It’s every man for himself out here.”

  I forced the thought away, jaw clenched.

  “Watch your tongue, soldier,” I snapped. “Or I’ll cut it out myself. We serve the Empire and the Emperor’s will. That’s all that matters.”

  He spat into the fire; phlegm hissed as it struck flame.

  “Do we now?” He leaned in close, breath rank with cheap tobacco. “I’ve been servin’ the Empire longer than ye’ve been alive, boy. And I’ll tell ye this—the Emperor only cares about himself. Him and his pretty little lords and ladies, sittin’ safe behind palace walls while the likes of us die in the muck.”

  Anger rose—hot and bitter.

  But beneath it: a flicker of doubt, a nagging whisper that perhaps there was truth in what he said.

  I crushed it down, fixing him with a cold stare.

  “I’ll not hear such treasonous talk, Corporal,” I said. “You swore an oath. The same as I did. An oath to serve—to obey—to die, if need be. If you can’t honor that, then you’re no better than the scum we hunt.”

  “Aye, sir,” he said, grin playing over his mouth.

  He looked at me—like I was defenseless.

  And then—

  I lunged out with my fist.

  The man collapsed—unconscious.

  A few others rose in alarm, hands gripping weapons, staring at me in shock and anger.

  “Anyone else wish to question their oaths?” I snarled, wrenching back. Blood gleamed dark and wet upon my knuckles. “To spit upon their sacred duty?”

  The men glanced at each other uneasily, tension crackling.

  For a long moment, I thought they might turn on me—his words taking root in weary, disillusioned minds.

  But then they lowered their eyes, one by one, mumbling oaths of loyalty and obedience.

  I nodded grimly, wiping my hand clean on my armor.

  “Get some rest,” I ordered, voice hard and cold. “We march at first light. And let this serve as a reminder to you all—the Emperor’s will is absolute. Always.”

  As the men dispersed to their beds, I knew I would not sleep easy that night.