The drills intensified as they marched on, the sun beating relentlessly on the 22nd Grenzers. I watched them march past their peers, the crisp cadence of their boots on the hard-packed earth filling the air. To their side, I noticed the other regiments were also training hard, but something about their formations and armaments caught my eye. It was different—far different than what I was used to.

  “Lieutenant Márton,” I called out, gesturing for him to join me.

  He trotted over, a questioning look on his weathered face.

  “What is it, Major Kaelitz?” he asked in his thick Horathian accent.

  I nodded towards the other units. “I wasn’t aware we were redrilling the whole army. No more tercios. They’re all in line formation now. No more halberds—no more pikes. No more of those blasted old arquebuses,” I stated.

  Márton nodded. “Aye. The whole army is to be redrilled. The Emperor’s orders, straight from his mouth,” Márton replied, casting an appraising eye over the precise lines and gleaming bayonets of the infantry regiments drilling nearby.

  I frowned thoughtfully. “I wonder where they found the gold to re-equip so extensively. Let alone the muskets—only a few months ago, it was a royal pain in the arse to get a hundred, let alone a few thousand.”

  The lieutenant snorted derisively. “Where else? The damned merchants of the League and Free Cities. Loans. They’re all too happy to outfit our forces, knowing we’ll be spending Valtorean blood to expand their trade routes and fill their counting houses once it’s all over.”

  I sighed heavily, knowing he was right. The merchant princes that ruled the Free Cities only ever acted in their self-interest. Even as nominal vassals of the Emperor, their loyalty was always subordinate to their ambitions and greed.

  “Well, at least it means the army will be better equipped to face our foes,” I said grimly. “Though I suspect those fat burghers will expect to be well-compensated in plundered gold and new markets for their ‘generous’ support.”

  “Aye, there’s always a price to be paid,” Márton grumbled, spitting in the dust. “I suppose the Emperor is going all in. They outfitted us with rifles only a year ago—but that was a specialized case.” He grinned. “The only rifles made in Aurisca are from Arlenia. It’s a shame no one’s bothered to make them domestically.”

  “Too true,” I said with a sigh. The workshops on the home front were likely overflowing with pressed men and hasty orders to churn out the new arms.

  “Those gunsmiths are likely working overtime to fulfill the Emperor’s orders for the army’s new muskets,” Márton said. “They’re saying this will be the biggest campaign in the East since the first Crusade here, over two hundred years ago.”

  I nodded solemnly, the weight of Márton’s words hanging between us. The first Crusade into Baltiva was a pivotal moment in Valtorian history, a grand campaign that solidified the Empire’s hold on these lands and opened vital trade routes. But it had come at a steep cost in blood.

  “Two hundred years...” I mused, my gaze drifting over the drilling soldiers. “And yet, it feels like little has changed in some ways. The weapons may be different, the tactics evolved, but the heart remains the same—men marching off to fight and die in foreign lands for the glory of the Empire and the profit of the merchant princes.”

  Márton grunted in agreement. “The more things change, the more they stay the same, as they say. But this time, Major, I fear the scale of it will be unlike anything we’ve seen before. The Emperor is staking everything on this campaign—wrapping up the Eastern Front and then pivoting westward.”

  “How are the men holding up?” I asked.

  “They’re not eager. The Vuk have the advantage in the woods. Our boys might be foresters and poachers, but they’ll get ripped apart there. And if we can’t use the woods, what good is a bunch of light infantry and skirmishers?”

  Márton sighed. I let out a heavy breath, his words weighing on my mind. The Vuk were renowned for their fierce forest fighting skills. Even with rifles and drilling, engaging them in the thick woods of Baltiva would be a death sentence for many of my men.

  “Those damned wolfmen will tear us apart,” I muttered. “Halberds and pikes would give us a fighting chance—at least we’d have some reach on them...” I sighed again. “We’ll have to figure it out.”

  As we watched the men drilling with their new weapons, a courier galloped up on a lathered horse. Dismounting hurriedly, he saluted.

  “Urgent dispatch for Major Kaelitz, sir!”

  I took the sealed missive, noting the Imperial seal. Breaking the wax, I scanned the contents, my brow furrowing. Márton looked at me expectantly.

  “Orders, sir?”

  “As always,” I sighed grimly. “The Kholodians are striking first, it would seem—and we’re to skirmish them at Valka.”

  I strode into Colonel von Olenstross’s command tent, the canvas flaps whipping behind me in the chill breeze. Lantern light flickered over the large tactical map spread across the campaign table, casting dancing shadows. Von Olenstross stood hunched over it alongside a dozen other regimental officers.

  Colonel von Olenstross stood at the head of the table, his hawklike features shadowed. “Gentlemen, the time has come. The Kholodian Army is on the march, aiming to cross into our territory near the border town of Valka. His Imperial Majesty has commanded that we prevent this and drive them back.”

  He paused, steely eyes sweeping the assembled officers.

  “Our scouts report their strength at approximately twenty-five thousand men in seventeen battalions, with one hundred and seventy cannons. We field around sixteen thousand in twelve battalions, with one hundred and twenty-two cannons. The odds are not in our favor, but we can choose our ground to make a stand.”

  Mutters circulated through the tent at the prospect of facing a significantly larger foe. Major Sternberg, commander of the 3rd Battalion, spoke up in his booming voice.

  “If I may, Colonel—we should immediately dispatch the cavalry and light infantry to harass their advance. Slow them down, force them to deploy early, and sap their energy and will to fight. By the time they reach Valka, they’ll be exhausted and ripe for a counterattack.”

  Colonel von Olenstross nodded approvingly. “Of course. The 22nd Grenzers will act alongside the 8th Saxonian Dragoons and the 12th Kroate Hussars. From what I understand, the land around Valka is open—though there is some forest.”

  I stepped forward, the lantern light flickering across my face. “Colonel, with all due respect, I must express my reservations about this plan. While I understand the strategic necessity of slowing the Kholodian advance, sending my men—light infantry—against their main force in open terrain is tantamount to suicide...”

  The Colonel fixed me with a steely gaze. “Major Kaelitz, your concerns are noted. But we must buy time for the main army to arrive and fortify Valka.”

  “And what of the Vuk, sir?” I pressed on. “They can outrun us, and they have rifles of their own. The Kholodians have a significant skirmishing capability we’re dismissing—and if they were to bypass us and skirmish the army...”

  A heavy silence hung in the air.

  Major Sternberg cleared his throat. “The Major raises a valid point, Colonel. Perhaps we should reconsider—”

  But Colonel von Olenstross cut him off with a sharp gesture.

  “Major Kaelitz, the orders stand,” Colonel von Olenstross said firmly, his gaze unwavering. “We cannot allow the Kholodians to advance unchecked. Your Grenzers will skirmish them and slow their march, buying precious time for our main force to dig in at Valka. That is your duty, sir.”

  Von Olenstross turned back to the map.

  “The 22nd Grenzers will advance and engage the enemy vanguard. Delay them as long as possible. The cavalry will support you.” He looked up, his gaze sweeping the gathered officers. “We’ll fortify here, here, and here,” he said, pointing at several critical positions around Valka. “And pray that reinforcements arrive in time. Another batch of thirty thousand men will be arriving from Varsaw and Lithuria within about six days, should conditions hold...”

  Eventually, the meeting concluded. It would seem this was the first act of a full-fledged war: about one hundred thousand Imperial men against an estimated force of one hundred and seventy thousand Kholodians marching to seize the Frontier.

  As I exited the command tent, the weight of the impending battle settled heavily on my shoulders. The cold wind nipped at my face as I returned to where my men were encamped, mulling over the Colonel’s orders.

  Márton fell into step beside me, his expression grim. “What’s the word, Major?”

  “We’re to advance and engage their vanguard,” I said, my jaw tight. “Skirmish and delay them as long as possible so that the main force can fortify Valka.”

  Márton let out a low whistle. “That’s a day’s march at a light infantryman’s pace. We’ll get ready right away.”

  My mind raced as we walked, the enormity of the task ahead sinking in. Skirmishing against the Kholodian vanguard, with their Vuk shock troops... It was a daunting prospect. But orders were orders, and I had a duty to fulfill, no matter the cost.

  “Lieutenant Márton, have the men strike camp and prepare to march within the hour,” I said, my voice steady despite the unease churning in my gut. “We’ll need to move quickly to reach the enemy in time.”

  Márton nodded, his weathered face set in determination. “Aye, Major. The lads will be ready.”

  He hurried off to relay the orders, barking commands in his thick Horathian accent. I watched him go, grateful for his steadfast loyalty and competence.

  I made my way to my tent, ducking inside to gather my gear and don my battle harness, my mind still churning with the weight of the task ahead. As I reached for my saber, a sharp twinge shot through my maimed hand, the scarred flesh protesting as I tried to grip the hilt. I grimaced, flexing my fingers slowly, feeling the pull of the damaged nerves and tendons. The injury, a parting gift from Siegfried, had left my swordsmanship a shadow of what it once was.

  With a heavy sigh, I slid the saber into its sheath.

  The 22nd Grenzers, all four hundred of them, marched with a sense of urgency through the rolling countryside of Lapsia toward the town of Valkia. The late afternoon sun hung low in the western sky, casting long shadows across the patchwork of golden wheat fields and emerald pastures that stretched out before us. A warm breeze rustled the tall grass, carrying with it the earthy scent of soil, adding to the anticipation of the impending encounter with the Kholodian forces.

  In the distance, a handful of imposing hills rose from the plains like ancient sentinels, their slopes draped in a thick cloak of dark, brooding forest. Shafts of amber light pierced the dense canopy, dappling the forest floor in a mesmerizing play of light and shadow. The air grew cooler as we drew closer to the woods, a welcome respite from the heat of our march.

  As the day wore on, the men—faces glistening with sweat and streaked with dust kicked up by hundreds of marching boots—grew increasingly weary. But they pushed onward with grim determination, their exhaustion a testament to their unwavering commitment to the mission and the knowledge that every step brought us closer to our objective—and the waiting Kholodian forces.

  The sun was dipping below the horizon as we crested a final rise and caught sight of Valkia in the failing light. The small town huddled in the shelter of one of the more prominent hills, a cluster of sturdy stone buildings and thatch-roofed houses surrounded by a stout defensive wall.

  But even from a distance, I could see the banners of Kholodia fluttering. The garrison had already surrendered to the Kholodians.

  “Orders, sir?” Márton asked. Nightfall was descending, and being out in the open was hardly ideal.

  “We’ll set up on the top of the hills.”

  I surveyed the hills overlooking Valkia, their slopes shrouded in lengthening shadows as dusk settled over the land. The dense forest would provide ample cover for my men to hunker down for the night, shielding us from prying Kholodian eyes—and hopefully, with a suitable picket around us, enough warning against the Vuk.

  “We’ll make camp in the woods,” I said, gesturing toward the dark tree line. “Have the men disperse and set up a perimeter. No fires, cold rations only. I want us hidden and ready to move at first light.”

  Márton nodded, already moving to relay the orders. “Aye, Major. We’ll make sure the Kholodians never know we’re here.”

  I watched as my men fanned out into the forest, their ragged gray uniforms blending into the shadowy undergrowth as they moved to establish our perimeter. Despite the fatigue etched on their faces, they moved with the practiced efficiency of seasoned soldiers, setting up camp with minimal noise and fuss.

  I went into the woods, picking a spot beneath a towering oak to lay my bedroll. As I settled down, my back leaning against the rough bark, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease. The Kholodians were formidable foes, their Vuk shock troops renowned for their ferocity and skill in battle. And here we were, a mere four hundred men, tasked with delaying their advance.

  It was a daunting prospect. But I had faith in my men, in their courage and determination.

  As the last vestiges of daylight faded, the forest came alive with the sounds of the night: the hooting of an owl, the chirping of crickets, and the rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush. I let the familiar noises wash over me, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

  Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and plagued by dreams. I saw the faces of the men I had lost, the friends I had buried. Alaric, his lifeless eyes staring up at me from the blood-soaked fields of Castelon.

  Would this be another Castelon?

  I wondered about that as I slept.

  I woke with a start, my heart pounding, my maimed hand throbbing with phantom pain. The first pale light of dawn filtered through the trees, casting the forest in a ghostly half-light.

  It was time to move.

  I rose, shaking off the lingering tendrils of sleep, and roused my men. We had a long day ahead of us, and every moment counted.

  As the camp stirred to life, I caught sight of Márton, his face grim as he approached.

  “Major,” he said, his voice low. “Sentries just reported in—the Imperial Army is a mile behind us, and the Kholodian host is moving into position.”

  We broke camp swiftly, our movements as silent as the forest around us. Márton led the way, his eyes scanning the path ahead while I brought up the rear, ensuring no man was left behind. The journey was arduous, the terrain treacherous, but we pressed on, driven by grim determination.

  As we neared the crest of a hill, I signaled for my men to halt.

  Ahead lay our destination—and our destiny.

  From the top of the hill, the view stretched out before us, a panorama of war and devastation. The fields below were churned and muddy, scarred by the passage of thousands of boots and hooves. In the distance, the town of Valkia huddled behind its walls, a fragile island in a sea of violence.

  And arrayed before those walls, dug in like ticks behind a formidable line of breastworks, was the Kholodian army.

  Even from this distance, I could see the exhaustion in their postures, the way they sagged against their muskets. They had been digging all night, preparing for our arrival.

  I allowed myself a grim smile. “Colonel von Olenstross will be in for a surprise,” I remarked to Márton. “He was expecting to arrive first and fortify the town himself.”

  Márton grunted. “Aye. Your orders?”

  I surveyed the enemy lines, my mind racing. The Kholodians had the advantage of position and fortification. But they were tired, and we had the element of surprise. If we struck hard and fast...

  “How far out would you say we are from the edge of the Kholodian lines, Márton?”

  “A good five hundred paces or so, sir.”

  I considered for a moment, my eye narrowing as I studied the Kholodian lines. Five hundred paces—at the edge of our rifles’ effective range. But these were no ordinary marksmen under my command. They were the 22nd Horthian Grenzers, and the finest shots in the Empire. If any men could make those shots count, it was them.

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  “Márton, have the men drop prone along the crest of the hill,” I ordered, my voice low and intense. “Instruct them to take careful aim at the flanks of the Kholodian line. Pick off their officers if they can.”

  Márton nodded grimly, then paused. “And our ammunition, sir? If this turns into a prolonged engagement...”

  “Then we make every shot count,” I said firmly. “These may be the most important volleys we ever fire. The fate of the Empire could hinge on what we do here in these next few moments.”

  As Márton moved to relay my orders, I gazed around. Morning mist swirled around us, wreathing the forest in a ghostly shroud. In the distance, I could hear the low rumble of the Imperial artillery, the prelude to the coming storm. A low, quiet cheer went through the ranks of prone riflemen.

  “Steady, boys,” I murmured, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my own heart. “Wait for my command.”

  The seconds stretched out, each one an eternity. I could hear the rasp of my breath and the creak of leather as my men shifted slightly, adjusting their aim.

  The morning calm was shattered by the thunderous roar of Imperial howitzers and smoothbore cannons, their muzzle flashes lighting up the misty dawn like flickers of summer lightning. Moments later, fountains of dirt, splintered wood, and mangled bodies erupted along the Kholodian lines as the shells found their marks.

  The Kholodian response was swift and furious. Their guns roared to life, sending a hail of iron and lead back toward the Imperial batteries. The ground shook with the concussive impacts, and the air filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the screams of the wounded.

  I watched in grim fascination as the two armies traded blows, each seeking to overwhelm the other with sheer firepower. The Kholodian earthworks began to crumble under the relentless Imperial bombardment, but their gun crews worked with desperate speed, keeping up a punishing rate of fire.

  “Their artillerymen are no slouches,” Márton observed, his voice tight with tension. “Think they know they have us outgunned?”

  I nodded, my jaw clenched. “They’ll figure it out soon enough. Wait longer—we’ll engage once the infantry moves up.”

  As the minutes ticked by, the artillery duel intensified. It was a bloody scene—the breastworks the Kholodians dug did little against explosive shot and cannonballs. The quality of our Imperial artillery was indeed higher despite being outgunned, and it began to win the duel as the morning wore on. The Kholodian guns fell silent one by one, smashed into ruin by the relentless bombardment. Plumes of smoke and dust rose from their shattered emplacements, obscuring the carnage.

  As the last Kholodian battery was silenced, a cheer rose from the Imperial lines. The men knew the tide was turning in their favor. The way was clear for the infantry to advance and finish the job.

  I watched as the first regiment of Imperial infantry began to move forward, their black uniforms and gleaming bayonets a striking contrast to the drab earth tones of the battlefield. At their head rode Major Lazarevi?, his saber raised high. The regimental banner fluttered proudly in the breeze, the golden double-headed eagle of the Empire resplendent upon a field of rich purple—the banner of Kroate.

  The Kholodians saw them coming and scrambled to form a defensive line. Their officers shouted hoarse commands, trying to instill order amidst the chaos. Men rushed to take up positions along the remnants of their earthworks. The few working cannons they had left were loading canister as fast as they could.

  “Now!” I shouted. “Open fire!”

  As one, my men squeezed their triggers. The crack of the rifles shattered the morning stillness, a rolling volley that echoed off the hills. Through the drifting smoke, I saw Kholodian soldiers tumbling, their bodies jerking and twitching as our bullets found their marks.

  For a moment, the enemy line wavered. I could see the confusion and panic as they realized they were under attack from an unexpected quarter. Officers shouted orders, trying to rally their men, but the continuing volleys from my Grenzers drowned out their voices.

  “Reload!” I shouted. “Let’s keep the pressure on, boys!”

  We fired again and again, our rifles spitting lead and smoke. Each volley struck the Kholodian flanks like a hammer blow, sowing chaos and destruction. I saw gaps opening in their lines, men falling, and others turning to run. The first layer of breastworks was largely devastated.

  The enfilading fire from my Grenzers was devastating, ripping bloody gaps in the Kholodian line. Men screamed and fell in droves, cut down like wheat before the scythe.

  And then the first Kroate regiment charged in with a mighty roar, their uniforms flashing amidst the smoke and chaos. They surged over the breastworks like a tidal wave, bayonets gleaming as they crashed into the faltering Kholodian line.

  A fierce melee erupted—men grappling and stabbing in desperate hand-to-hand combat. The clash of steel, the cries of the wounded and dying, and the sharp cracks of pistol shots all blended into a hellish cacophony that assaulted the senses.

  The Kroatians fought savagely, hacking and slashing, driving the Kholodians back. The enemy’s right flank crumbled under the onslaught, dissolving into a rout as men threw down their weapons and fled for their lives—a cheer erupting from among us.

  But then, to our left, the wooded hills erupted with gunfire and war cries as Vuk skirmishers materialized from the shadows. Large shapes darted from tree to tree, bullets whizzing past us. A few unfortunate Grenzers who had crouched rather than gone prone fell twitching as I glanced over.

  I dropped to the ground, pressing myself flat against the earth as bullets whizzed overhead. Around me, my Grenzers did the same, taking cover wherever they could find it. I cursed under my breath—we had been so focused on supporting the Kroatian charge that we had neglected to watch our flank.

  “Return fire!” I shouted, my voice hoarse from the smoke. “Pick your targets, boys!”

  My men needed no further encouragement. They rolled onto their bellies, rifles at the ready, and began to fire back at the Vuk skirmishers. The crack of our rifles was almost lost amidst the din of battle, but I saw several of the enemy fall, tumbling from their perches in the trees.

  But the Vuk were canny fighters, well-versed in the art of ambush and skirmish. They used the terrain to their advantage, darting from cover to cover, never presenting an easy target. And they quickly adapted, shifting their fire to concentrate on my exposed position.

  I felt a hot, searing pain in my left shoulder as a bullet glanced past me. I grunted, gritting my teeth against the sudden agony. But there was no time to dwell on the wound—not with the battle still raging around us.

  “Márton!” I called out, spotting my second-in-command a few yards away. “Take a good third—move around the side and flank these bastards!”

  Márton nodded, his face grim beneath the soot and grime of battle. He barked orders, directing the men to shift their fire and keep the Vuk pinned down.

  I forced myself to my feet, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder. I realized the Kroatian charge was faltering—they had driven deep into the Kholodian lines, but now they were bogged down, the momentum of their attack blunted by sheer weight of numbers.

  They needed support, and fast. I looked around, assessing the situation with a commander’s eye. The Kholodian left flank was still holding, pouring a withering fire into the Kroatian ranks. If we could shift our fire, take some of the pressure off...

  “Boys!” I shouted. “Shift fire left! Target those Kholodian bastards pouring it into the Kroatians!”

  The Grenzers—most of them not speaking Valtorean—hesitated at my shouted command. They glanced uncertainly at each other, gripping their rifles with white-knuckled hands. But Márton was there, bless him, barking the order again in their native Horthian, his voice cracking like a whip. They reluctantly began to comply, shifting their fire to the left.

  The effect was noticeable almost immediately. The punishing barrage the Kholodians had laid into the Kroatian flank slackened as the Grenzers’ fire found its mark. Men fell, screaming and writhing, as bullets punched through fur, flesh, and bone. The Kroatian line surged forward again, a defiant roar rising from their ranks as they pressed their advantage.

  But the Kholodians were far from beaten. Even as their left flank crumbled beneath the Grenzers’ onslaught, their right flank suddenly erupted with a thunderous barrage, slamming into our position.

  I threw myself to the ground as the Kholodian artillery opened up, the earth shaking beneath me from the impact of the shells. Dirt and debris rained down, and I could hear the screams of wounded men amidst the chaos.

  “Rifled cannons,” I breathed. It was the only explanation for that kind of accuracy. The Kholodians must have somehow gotten their hands on the latest Arlenian artillery designs. This changed everything.

  I racked my brain furiously. What were those cannons supposed to be doing anyway? Common sense would dictate battery fire. But they were well concealed, dug in on the reverse slope of a hill, virtually immune to our small arms. And we had no artillery of our own in this position to counter-battery them—and now they were firing at skirmishers.

  I peered over the hill’s edge to get a better look at the enemy position. The smoke from the cannons obscured much of the hill, but I could make out the glint of metal in the sun—the barrels of the rifled cannons pointing directly at us.

  Something didn’t add up.

  Why would the Kholodians waste precious ammunition on a small force of skirmishers like us? We posed no real threat to their position. The placement of those cannons was almost as if they were expecting a much larger force to attack from this direction.

  A sudden thought struck me, and a chill ran down my spine.

  What if this was all a trap?

  What if the Kholodians had deliberately left their flank exposed, luring us in with the promise of an easy victory, only to unleash hell upon us with concealed artillery?

  I turned to my second-in-command, Lieutenant Janus, who crouched beside me in the trench.

  “Something’s not right here,” I said, my voice low and urgent. “Those cannons—they’re not firing like they should be. It’s almost as if they’re waiting for something.”

  Janus frowned, his brow furrowed in thought. “You think it’s a trap, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But we can’t afford to take any chances. Send word back to the main force—tell them to hold their position and wait for further orders. And have the men spread out and take cover. If the Kholodians are planning something, we must be ready.”

  Janus nodded and scrambled off to relay my orders.

  I turned my attention back to the enemy position, my mind racing with possibilities. If this was a trap, what was their endgame? Were they trying to lure us into a false sense of security, only to launch a devastating counterattack? Or was something else at play here, something we had yet to see?

  The cannons continued to thunder, their shells exploding around us with deafening booms. But now, each shot only deepened my unease. Something was coming—I could feel it in my bones. And whatever it was, I knew we had to be ready for it.

  For now, all we could do was wait and watch—and pray my suspicions were unfounded.

  But deep down, I knew this was only the beginning, and that the actual test of our mettle was yet to come as the battle reached its crescendo.

  The Kholodian cannons continued their relentless barrage, each thundering shot shaking the earth beneath our feet. Plumes of dirt and shattered rock erupted around us as the shells found their mark, showering us with debris. I could hear the screams of wounded men amidst the chaos as we lay pressed behind the hill. It had been fifteen minutes of being surrounded under an artillery barrage.

  I gritted my teeth, trying to block out the cries of pain and focus on the task at hand. We couldn’t afford to lose our nerve now, not with so much at stake.

  Janus returned, his face grim as he crouched beside me.

  “The men are in position, sir,” he reported, his voice strained. “But they’re getting restless. This waiting—it’s wearing on them.”

  I nodded, understanding all too well the toll that this kind of uncertainty could take on even the most seasoned soldier. “Steady them as best you can,” I said. “Soon enough, this will be over with!”

  Janus gave a tight nod and moved off to rally the men.

  I turned my gaze back to the Kholodian position, my mind whirling with possibilities. What were they waiting for? Why hadn’t they pressed their advantage yet?

  And then, as if in answer to my unspoken question, I saw it—a flicker of movement on the far side of the hill, barely visible through the haze of smoke and dust.

  At first, I thought it might be a trick of the light, a phantom conjured by my overactive imagination. But as I watched, the flicker resolved into a solid shape, then another, and another.

  My blood ran cold as I realized what I was seeing.

  Troops—Kholodian troops, hundreds of them, marching in perfect formation up toward the hill. A detachment sent to root us out. Smoke from cannon fire and musket volleys had obscured the rest of the field. Did the Kholodians finally have a free hand to do away with us?

  “Grenzers! Grenzers—to me!” I shouted, standing up over the crest and pointing downward.

  A cannonball screeched by my head, the shockwave nearly knocking me off my feet.

  Around me, the Grenzers were scrambling into position, their faces etched with fear and determination.

  “Steady, boys!” I shouted over the din of battle. “Pick your targets carefully. Make every shot count!”

  The Kholodian infantry was closing fast, their bayonets glinting in the sunlight as they charged up the hill. I could see the whites of their eyes, the steady drumbeat of their advance.

  “Fire!” I roared, raising my smoothbore pistol toward the oncoming horde and firing.

  A thunderous volley erupted from the Grenzers’ line, a sheet of flame and lead tearing into the Kholodian ranks. Men screamed and fell, their bodies tumbling and cartwheeling down the slope.

  But still, they came on.

  Heedless of their losses, driven onward by their Vuk officers.

  “Reload!” I shouted, saber raised. “Second rank, fire!”

  Another volley. Another wave of death and destruction.

  The air was thick with smoke and the coppery scent of blood. We fired repeatedly, each volley tearing bloody gaps in the Kholodian ranks.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  For every man that fell, two more seemed to take his place, surging forward with grim determination.

  I felt a surge of despair as I realized the hopelessness of our situation. We were hopelessly outnumbered, outgunned, and outflanked. It was only a matter of time before we were overrun.

  But even as the realization of our dire straits sank in, I felt a sudden surge of defiance rise within me.

  We might be doomed, but by the gods, we would make the Kholodians pay dearly for every inch of ground they took.

  “Grenzers!” I bellowed, my voice rising above the din of battle. “Ready yourselves!”

  There was a rasp of steel as my men obeyed, locking their long, wicked-looking blades onto the ends of their rifles. They knew as well as I did that it would soon come to hand-to-hand fighting. The Kholodians were almost upon us, a sea of snarling faces and gleaming steel only a few paces below.

  I raised my saber, preparing to give the counter-charge order to meet our fate head-on.

  But the ground beneath our feet began to tremble before I could speak.

  At first, I thought it was the impact of the artillery. Then I realized it was something else entirely.

  Hoofbeats.

  The thunder of hooves—hundreds of them—grew louder by the second.

  And then, cresting the hill behind us, I saw them.

  A sight that made my heart leap with sudden, wild hope.

  Cavalry.

  Imperial cavalry, a whole brigade of them, their pennants snapping in the wind as they counter-encircled the Vuk behind us. I recognized them at once: the 8th Saxonian Dragoons and the 12th Kroate Hussars.

  Their arrival could not have been more timely.

  With a thunderous roar, they rushed into position—stopped, leveled their carbines, and let loose.

  The Vuk streltsy skirmishers, caught entirely by surprise, faltered and whirled to face this new threat. Lieutenant Márton’s picket detachment was finally relieved, just as the climactic showdown between us and the column of Kholodian line infantry ahead of us was on the verge of breaking over. The whole valley seemed to resound with the clash of steel, the screams of men, and the ceaseless roar of gunfire.

  As the dragoons and hussars swept down upon the Kholodian flank, I glimpsed a momentary disarray among their ranks as they scrambled to reorganize against this unexpected assault.

  It was our chance.

  Our only chance.

  “Charge!” I cried out, thrusting my saber forward and signaling the Grenzers. “For the Empire! Charge!”

  With a defiant yell that echoed off the hillsides, my men surged forward—bayonets fixed, faces set with fierce resolve—in a desperate charge that left no time for the Kholodians to let off a shot.

  The impact was devastating.

  Bodies collided with a sickening crunch of bone and metal. Men grunted and screamed as they pushed and shoved, stabbed and slashed in a fierce melee.

  And just as quickly as we had surged forward, the Kholodian line began to crumble under the combined weight of our ferocity and the blistering cavalry onslaught.

  Already muddy from an earlier downpour, the ground became slick with blood and trampled debris. Boots slipped, and men fell, rushing away downhill—the once imposing formation of hundreds of men now scattering like leaves in the wind.

  The Kholodian officers tried vainly to rally their men, but their voices were drowned out by the clamor of battle and the panicked cries of the routed infantry.

  I pressed forward with savage determination.

  We had them on the ropes.

  Our dragoons and hussars were harassing them relentlessly. The Kholodians would likely form square at the base of the hill and forest below us to deter cavalry and preserve cohesion. The perfect target for harassment.

  At last, our battalion of rifles was having an impact.

  “Detach bayonets! Prepare to open fire!” I commanded, my voice hoarse from the strain of battle.

  The Grenzers responded efficiently, unlocking their bayonets and readying their rifles. Below us, the remnants of the Kholodian column were retreating toward the tree line, their formation dissolving into a disorganized mass as they sought shelter from our cavalry’s withering fire in what appeared to be a disorderly square.

  “Level!”

  The Grenzers obeyed, their weapons trained on the milling Kholodians below. We had the advantage of the high ground and the element of surprise. We might turn this rout into a full-fledged victory if we could break their command structure and sow further chaos in their ranks.

  “Fire!”

  The hillside erupted with a cacophony of gunfire as the Grenzers unleashed a blistering volley into the enemy’s midst. Dozens fell, and the Kholodians quickly realized they were going to suffer horrific losses from enfilading fire from both us and the dragoons. Realizing their dire situation, they began to scatter in all directions, forming into a panicked mob—some throwing down their arms and surrendering wildly.

  “Cease fire!” I called out, not wanting to waste ammunition on a broken foe.

  The Grenzers obeyed, lowering their smoking rifles as they watched the Kholodians’ disorderly retreat.

  I turned to survey the battlefield, taking in the scope of victory on our flank. The hillside was littered with the bodies of the fallen, Kholodian and Valtorean alike.

  But we had held our ground, and with the timely arrival of our cavalry, had turned the tide of battle.

  As I watched, the dragoons and hussars began to round up the surrendering Kholodians, herding them into makeshift prisoner groups and ushering them away. I looked out over my men, battered and bloodied but unbowed. They had fought with the courage and tenacity that exemplified the finest traditions of a Horthian battalion. Against all odds, we had prevailed.

  But even as I savored this hard-won triumph, I knew we could not rest there.

  Just then, the Kroatish major rode up to me, his steed’s hooves churning the blood-soaked mud. He was a striking figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with a sweeping, fierce mustache and a hawkish gaze.

  His skin was olive-toned, smooth, and sun-kissed, reminiscent of the seafaring people of southern Aurisca. Yet his jaw was hard, and his brow had a bold set that spoke of resolve forged in the crucible of countless battles against the Kholodian menace.

  “Major Miroslavios, 12th Kroate Hussars,” he declared, his voice rich and resonant, tinged with the melodic cadence of the south. “My compliments, Major. Your Grenzers fought with exceptional bravery today.”

  I nodded my thanks, too spent for a more elaborate reply.

  Horvat’s gaze swept over the battlefield, taking in the scale of the carnage. His eyes, a striking blend of blue, narrowed as he appraised the situation.

  “This is but a respite, Captain,” I said gravely. “The Kholodians are far from beaten. Even now, their main force is pressing hard against our center. The rest of your brothers are down there—somewhere in that damnable smoke.”

  I followed Horvat’s gaze, my heart sinking as I saw the thick plumes of smoke rising from the valley below. The distant thunder of artillery and rattle of musketry told a grim tale of the desperate struggle unfolding there—the back and forth of charges, a standstill having been reached. Our lines couldn’t push past the first layer of breastworks, and now it was up to the flank to make a decisive move.

  “Then it is up to us,” I said, my voice hoarse with exhaustion and emotion. “The Grenzers are ready, Major Miroslavios. Give the word, and we’ll march.”

  He nodded, his expression grim, wheeling his horse around.

  “I’ll order the Saxonian dragoons to dismount and join you as you seize the second layer and the town itself, and my hussars will wheel around, bypass the bulk of their army, and cut off reinforcements,” he said. The hussar’s grin was telltale—a seasoned look, a golden tooth flashing.

  “Or perhaps get the first shot at plundering,” I said.

  Miroslavios let out a hearty laugh, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Ah, Kaelitz, you know us hussars too well! But fear not—we’ll save some spoils for your brave Grenzers.”

  I couldn’t help but grin in return, even as the weight of the task ahead settled upon my shoulders. We still had a long, hard fight ahead of us, but with the hussars and dragoons at our side, I felt renewed confidence.

  “Very well, Major,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “Let us waste no more time. The sooner we strike, the sooner we can end this bloody affair.”

  Miroslavios nodded, his expression turning serious once more. “Agreed. I’ll rally my men and brief the Saxonians. We’ll be ready to move out within a few minutes.”

  With that, he spurred his horse and galloped off, his saber flashing in the sunlight as he rode to gather his troops.

  I turned back to my men, seeing the mix of exhaustion and determination in their eyes. They had already been through hell today, but I knew they would not falter now, not with so much riding on our actions.

  “Grenzers!” I called out, my voice ringing with authority. “Reform the line! Check your ammunition and ready yourselves—we’ll be the first bastards down there, mark my words!”

  A ragged cheer rose from the Grenzers as they hastened to obey, their weariness forgotten in the face of this new challenge.

  I watched with pride as they fell into formation, their movements crisp and precise despite the toll of the day’s fighting.

  As I surveyed my Grenzers, I felt pride rising within me. They were a ragtag bunch, to be sure—their uniforms were tattered and stained, their faces grimy with dirt and blood. Many of them sported bandages hastily wrapped around wounds.

  But beneath the grime and the weariness, I saw something else.

  A fierce, unyielding spirit that refused to be broken. That unique southern Auriscan spirit that seemed undaunted—always.

  I had only been their commander for a short time, thrust into the role by twists of fate and fortune, but already I was proud.

  In moments, the dragoons rode up alongside us, their mounts snorting and stamping eagerly. Major Miroslavios was at their head, his face set with grim determination.

  “Ready, Kaelitz?” he called out, his voice carrying over the din of preparations.

  I nodded, drawing my saber and raising it high.

  “Ready, Major! Grenzers, forward march!”