Instead of charging into the mass of enemy forces, you decide to take advantage of the gap between this group and the second line. You guide Aurora into this large gap, riding behind the footmen so focused on your knights.
You whip your sword down in an arc as you ride, striking the neck of an oblivious rebel. He drops instantly, and you reel your sword around for another strike. It comes away bloody as a second man falls.
You reach the edge of the semicircle and ride around the back of your own forces, readying yourself for another strike. This time, however, the enemy is wise to your actions.
Your blows have much less effect this time. Your blade, though vicious, bounces harmlessly off shields as the footmen turn toward you. At the same time, another volley from the archers falls. They strike both friend and foe, killing or maiming both Kantonian knight and rebel footmen alike.
One arrow deflects harmlessly off your helmet, while another bounces off your plate greaves. You continue to ride through the assault.
Despite being unable to down anymore, your attack distracts the enemy forces. Obren lifts the banner high, lets out a rallying cry, and charges forward. The rebels turn in time, but the sudden momentum from the armored knights puts them on the backpedal.
The knight Obren deflects an attack from a billhook and presses forward, cutting his assailant's hand from his wrist. Before the rebel can react further, Obren slashes brutally across the man's chest, and the rebel collapses with a scream.
You bring your horse to a stop behind your advancing line and slide off. You turn to join the attack, but decide against it. You need to check on the twins. You move to the two shapes that were the subject of all this brutality.
Both are dressed in their royal armor, with one of them lying against the flank of his own felled horse. The other clasps the fallen one's hand tightly, saying incomprehensible words under his breath.
You approach and kneel down next to them. The one who holds the other's hand turns to you and lifts the visor of his helmet up. You are met with the face of Vedran, fear on his face.
Fear of war. Fear of his brother's fate. Fear of you.
You nudge him out of the way as you examine the fallen form of Belos. His helmet has already been taken off and tossed aside, revealing his face. His face covered in blood. An awful wound is present on the side of Belos's neck, streaming blood.
His eyes stare distantly, though they lock onto you as you near. His bloody lips mouth a silent cry for help. He wants to speak. He tries to speak. But the blood from his wound is leaking into his throat, making him keel over in a fit of choking.
Belos's eyes find no purchase in your helmet.
You lean close, nearly pressing your helmet into his forehead. You shout, "Why? Why! Why did you do this! Men are dead because of you! You're going to die!"
Belos breaks down, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looks up at you, eyes filled with terror, and chokes out, "I'm… s-sorry."
And then the boy king goes still.
"Belos?" Vedran says from over your shoulder. He takes hold of Belos's limp shoulders. "Brother?"
You hear someone call from behind you, "Marshal!"
Obren rushes over to you, coated in blood, his own and that of those he has killed.
"Is… he?"
You nod your head. Obren slowly lowers his head and drops the banner he was holding.
But you pay no attention. Your old command instincts have already kicked in.
You bark to Obren, "Sir Obren, get Vedran back inside the walls!"
He blinks. "Y-yes, Marshal!"
Obren quickly approaches Vedran, saying, "Your Highness, we need to fall back! You must follow me!"
Vedran makes no response, but he stands up, nearly trips over himself, and starts to follow Obren. Obren leads the prince, who wanders slowly like he's in shock. But eventually, he reaches the horse Obren was leading him to.
Another volley of arrows flies, and Obren throws himself in front of Vedran, who just stands still and unmoving. Obren takes an arrow to the chestplate, but it deflects and snaps in two.
You turn away from the sight and toward the fallen form of Belos. You realize that you must carry him. In plate armor.
Alone.
Next
You're actually taller than Belos, but plate armor is still heavy. You loosen the straps on his greaves and gauntlets, pulling them free. You spend a few moments detaching whatever you can from his body to make it lighter.
Finally, you take a deep breath. You know the best way to do this would be with a fireman's carry. You reach under his armpits, lifting him into an almost standing position, then letting him slouch against you.
You crouch down and bend over slightly, allowing his form to lean over your back. You stand back up, gritting your teeth as your muscles strain to carry the heavy load. You clasp his limp hand to his leg and hold it tight, keeping your right hand free.
With this efficient carry, you quickly approach Aurora and sling the body on the back, just behind the saddle.
Aurora is clearly not happy with the weight, especially because of the arrow in her flank, but you know she'll just have to deal with it.
You pull yourself onto your saddle, muscles still aching from your hauling. You take a deep breath, feeling the sweat run down your body.
You flick Aurora's reins. She lets out a pained whinny but complies, setting out at a brisk trot for the walls.
You glance behind you, searching for Obren. You see him atop a horse with a blank and unmoving Vedran sitting behind him. Despite having Vedran with him, Obren continues to command the remaining cavalrymen, directing them to retreat.
This is your last glance upon the killing fields. And then you clear the gates of Wrido, once again entering the safety of the city.
Next
The field hospital is almost as awful a place as the battlefield. Entire streets have been converted into a makeshift hospital, anyone with any medical knowledge being pressed into service to help those who need it.
Even hours after the fighting, troops have been trickling in from the battlefield. Many die on the way. Even more die only minutes after stumbling through the gates. Those still capable of combat are left near the gate, providing cover for those entering again.
But the biggest load of soldiers was with Sir Obren. He finally returned, leading the survivors of the brutal melee you crashed into earlier.
There were hundreds. Some mounted, some dismounted. The majority were wounded, many mortally. Vedran was taken away to a surgeon to seek medical examination.
Belos's body was taken to the embalmers.
You wander the streets, emotions dulled and hazy. You're still trying to pinpoint how you feel about Belos's death. But the more you think, the more you realize.
You feel nothing.
You clutch your wrist with your opposite hand, mailed gloves latching onto mail, and take a stabilizing breath.
Outside of combat, the adrenaline begins to fade, leaving you feeling exhausted. Sweat drips down your body and face, making you acutely aware of just how heavy your armor is.
You reach up and pull your great helm off, tucking it against your body in the crook of your elbow. You sigh as the cool air sets in on your face. With your vision fully restored, you begin to look yourself over.
The entire right side of your body is covered with the blood of others. The sight doesn't shock you. You've seen so much blood, on yourself or on others, that it seems normal.
You idly wonder if it's like this for others. If others feel the same emotional deadness, even when soaked in the blood of dead men.
You can't remember any other way.
With the adrenaline gone, you're beginning to feel the pain of your wounds setting in. You feel bruises up and down your back and chest, most of which were from arrows deflecting off your coat of plates. Both your arms are sore from the shock of impacts running up them.
You were fortunate enough to avoid getting too many cuts. Such wounds are often more difficult to treat and can result in the accursed rot, if not treated. Your poor Aurora was not so fortunate.
"Marshal, what the hells you doin'?"
You spin around, only to see Darin standing there, looking annoyed. "You should be gettin' treated with the rest of the cavalry! And you need to tell me what the fuck jus' happened!"
Darin places both hands over his face and slowly pulls them down. "Fuck," he says. "Fuck. Fuck!"
It takes a moment for him to calm down. "Does Vedran know? About Elya?"
You shake your head. Darin curses again. "He's gonna find out. And he ain't gonna be happy."
Suddenly, his focus snaps over to you. "Have you been treated?" he asks.
"No, but—"
Darin cuts you off. "No. None of this 'commander gets treated last' or 'it's not that bad' bullshite. You ain't even a commander yet. I am takin' you to the field surgeon, whether you like it or not." He says this with finality, clearly not taking no for an answer.
You sigh. "Lead the way."
You make your way through the streets of Wrido.
Next
You come across another large tent, this one set in the middle of the city, where the marketplace might normally reside.
It's a depressing sight.
The best Kanton had to field lie writhing in agony on straw mattresses. The constant moans and wailing of the dying makes you hang your head in sympathy.
But the sound that makes you grit your teeth is the sawing. The constant grinding of metal on bone, accompanied by cries of excruciating pain. Some may be treated with opium before the amputation. Others aren't so lucky.
You try not to look at the rows of dying men as you walk through, but you feel a sense of responsibility. You know that you shouldn't, that you did all that you could, but a nagging thought keeps hitting you.
Did I do all that I could? You close your eyes, trying to blot it out, but it keeps coming. I'm responsible. I got men killed. It's my fault. Why didn't I try harder?
Why do I let people die?
You clench your fists, mail digging into itself. You don't feel the steadying pain. Your breath starts to pick up.
Darin places a steadying hand on your shoulder, but you reflexively shrug it off and reach for your blade. You look up, meeting Darin's steel-gray eyes. There's worry in them.
You take a deep breath, relaxing yourself. He gives you a slight nod and gently motions for you to keep moving. You suddenly feel very aware of the surgeons around you, staring at you.
Your stoic mask remains in place, hiding your inner turmoil. Instincts kick in. Remain strong for my men. They must not know the commander's torment.
But I'm not the commander.
Are you?
Afraid of suffering another panic attack, you ignore your inner thoughts and continue to move through the cramped space of the makeshift hospital.
Next
Toward the back, you see the familiar sight of Lada, knelt down over the form of a knight. The man is writhing in pain, though she keeps an iron grip on his arm. She holds it across her knees, using them as a brace as she slides a needle in and out of the man's flesh, pulling a line of catgut to suture the wound closed.
Her clothes are purely functional. She's wearing an apron over a simple kirtle, which comes down just below the knees, shorter than anything else you've seen her wear. The apron is bloodstained, same as her hands, and sweat runs down her forehead and back. She appears to have been working hard for a decent while.
By the time you reach her, she's finished the suture. She stands and turns around, jumping slightly at your sudden appearance in front of her. "Oh, my mistake, I didn't see you there."
You raise an eyebrow. "Where'd you learn to do that?"
"Doesn't matter," she says dismissively. "But what does matter is if you're hurt. I'd be happy to treat you, if you need it."
Darin glares at Lada, anger in his steel-gray eyes. Lada glares back, a fake smile spread across her face. You take a hesitant step back, confused by the sudden confrontation between the two of them.
Darin nudges you, signaling for you to lean down. You do so, allowing for him to lean in and whisper, "Careful, Marshal."
You raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't clarify further.
Darin sighs and takes a step back, then looks at Lada, back to you, to Lada, and then to you again. He smirks.
"If ya need me, Marshal, I'll be in my office. I gotta… finish some things."
Next
Lada has led you outside of the medical tent and into the center of the now-occupied marketplace, where the air smells less of blood and the moans of wounded men are less prevalent. This is one of the few places in the marketplace not covered by a medical tent.
You sit down, cross-legged, setting your helmet in the dirt next to you. Lada stands behind, her hands already moving to remove your armor. As soon as she makes contact, you whirl around out of instinct.
She says with a small bit of amusement, "I can't treat you with your armor on."
You relax slightly, allowing her to pull your coat of plates up and over your head. Next comes the mail hauberk, and you're forced to stand in order to remove it. She discards it haphazardly off to the side, causing you to wince at the mistreatment of your armor. The gambeson comes off and is added to the growing pile.
All that's left is your tunic. It's torn on the sleeves, with one larger rip on the back, where you received the nasty blow from a halberd during the battle. You feel warm blood spill down your back from the wound. You stifle a gasp of pain as Lada gingerly presses on it.
Her hands then move for the hem of your tunic. As soon as her hands start to pull it up, you slam your own arms to your sides, preventing it from being taken off.
Lada sighs, sounding… disappointed. With a playful tone, she says, "Again, I can't… you know… actually get to your wounds if you keep your tunic on."
Reluctantly, you move your arms away, allowing her to pull the tunic off of you. She hovers around you, looking at your body from all angles. A part of you wonders if this hovering is actually part of a medical examination.
She then gently rubs her hand over your chest. You tense up at the contact, but she continues. Her hand runs across your various bruises, causing you to flinch. She meets your eyes and says, "Well… these are just bruises. Minor. There's not much I can do for those…" Her eyes remain fixed upon your chest, running up and down the various scars that cover it.