Kara and Wolfram woke up the next day to the soft, early morning light filtering through the thick canvas of their tent. Outside, the sounds of the camp slowly came to life. The Hunnic Riders were making their final farewells to their loved ones. It was a solemn and bittersweet moment, with wives, children, and elders embracing the men who would soon depart, heading into the unknown.
The families, loaded with spoils of war, were preparing to make their way to the Balkans. Isaakios had become their last hope. They had faith that he would provide them with protection, a safe haven far from the ever-encroaching chaos that threatened to consume the lands they once called home.
Once the families had left, the 20,000 Hunnic Riders began to gather under Kara's command. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with a mix of determination and uncertainty. These were not mere soldiers—they were Kara's men, bound by years of loyalty and shared battles. Today, they marched not just to survive, but for something greater.
As they rode, Wolfram couldn't help but notice that Kara seemed different. There was a lightness to his demeanor, a rare glint of something in his eyes that hadn't been there before. Usually, Kara was stoic, focused, driven by the unrelenting weight of his responsibilities. But today, he seemed almost... at peace.
Wolfram, who had known Kara for years, found it unsettling. He turned to his commander, trying to mask his unease with a casual question.
"Kara," Wolfram said, "you look... different. Happier. More optimistic, even. What's going on? Is everything okay?"
Kara smiled, his weathered face softening with the rare expression. He glanced at Wolfram, then looked ahead, as if weighing his response. His voice, when he spoke, was calm but carried a gravity that made Wolfram sit up straighter in the saddle.
"You know, Wolfram," Kara began, "my whole life, I've obeyed and followed the rules of others. I thought I was part of something greater, part of a grand vision that would outlast us all. But now, I realize... I was just living someone else's dream."
Wolfram furrowed his brow, unsure of where Kara was going with this.
"For the first time in my life, I feel liberated," Kara continued. "These men follow me—not because I wear Timurtaş's Sigil on my chest, or because I carry Uluç's axe. They follow me because they believe in me. In my dream. And you see, Wolfram... I've never felt that before. It's a strange, intoxicating feeling."
Kara's voice trailed off as he gazed ahead, his mind clearly somewhere far from the march. Wolfram felt a chill crawl down his spine. This wasn't like Kara—the unbreakable, unstoppable force that Wolfram had known for years. There was something final in his words, something that felt too much like a farewell.
"And I feel," Kara added, almost as an afterthought, "like it won't last long. Like we're on the edge of something, and it's only a matter of time before we go down in history. God knows how. But we will."
Kara turned to Wolfram, his eyes glinting with that same strange light. "And you, my friend... you'll be just one of my soldiers going down in history. You filthy German."
Kara laughed heartily, but the sound rang hollow in Wolfram's ears.
Wolfram didn't laugh. In fact, he didn't like any of this exchange. It felt too much like a man making peace with his fate. Like Kara was preparing for something terrible, and Wolfram couldn't shake the feeling that his commander was saying goodbye in his own twisted way.
"Why do you keep saying it like that?" Wolfram asked, his voice edged with frustration. "We'll survive this. You know that, right? We've been through worse. Way worse than this."
Wolfram's voice grew more insistent. "We have you, Kara. I've never seen you fail. Not once. You won't fail now. We're not going to lose everything. I believe in you."
Kara turned his gaze toward Wolfram, his smile softer now, almost fatherly. There was a sadness in his eyes, one that Wolfram hadn't seen before, and it unsettled him deeply.
"Ah, Wolfram," Kara said, shaking his head slightly. "You've got that youthful optimism. I envy that."
He shifted in his saddle, letting out a long sigh before adding with a smirk, "But this damned pimple on my ass... it just keeps growing and growing. Feels like it's part of me now."
Wolfram stared at Kara, trying to read between the lines, but Kara's words, like the man himself, were always half-truths hidden behind humor and bravado.
As they rode on, Wolfram couldn't shake the feeling that this conversation was more than just banter between comrades. It was a moment, one that would stay with him long after this march was over. After some time they saw scouts of the enemy that's when they felt the reality of the situation. Kara wore one sheild on his back and one on his left arm making him look even bigger.
When Kara laid his eyes on the enemy army, he took a moment to survey them closely, his gaze piercing through the rows of soldiers, commanders, and banners. After a long, assessing silence, he signaled for his mounted messengers to come to him. They approached quickly, awaiting his command.
"Bring out parchment and ink," Kara ordered sharply, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had seen a lifetime of war. One of the soldiers scrambled to comply, handing him a small inkpot and a simple feathered quill. As Kara began to write, his voice muttered names aloud, as if he were speaking more to himself than to anyone else.
"Kiev Duke Haftan... King Igor of Galicia-Volhynia... King Janusz of Poland..."
Wolfram, standing nearby, watched the scene unfold with growing confusion. He stepped forward slightly, his brow furrowed. "What are you doing, Kara?" he asked, uncertain of the purpose behind Kara's list.
But Kara didn't respond. He continued to write, his hand steady and sure, and when he was finished, he folded the parchment carefully. The air around him seemed heavier now, filled with the weight of something unsaid.
Kara turned to one of the messengers, pressing the folded paper into the man's chest with deliberate force. "Now," Kara said in a low, commanding tone, "you will take this message as far as you can ride. First, you will head to Isaakios in Bosnia. Ride like the wind, and don't stop until you've delivered this to him. After that, ride straight to Ilkay Hatun in Constantinople."
The messenger, a young man with eyes wide with understanding of the gravity of his task, nodded solemnly.
"These are just a few of the traitors," Kara continued, his voice now rising so that even Wolfram could hear clearly, "the ones who dared to raise their heads against us. Their names will be known, and their heads will be taken—if not by me, then by those who come after me."
The soldier nodded again, and without another word, he mounted his horse and sped off, the hooves of his steed thundering against the earth as he disappeared into the horizon.
Wolfram stood there, utterly speechless. He had seen Kara command armies, tear through enemy lines, and make decisions that could change the course of a battle, but this—this was something else entirely. It was as if Kara had resigned himself to a certain fate, yet still ensured that their vengeance, their legacy, would live on even if they didn't.
"Kara..." Wolfram began, trying to make sense of the scene he had just witnessed. "Why did you—why did you do that? We haven't even begun to fight yet."
Kara finally turned to face Wolfram, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, though his eyes remained dark and serious. He glanced down at the banners of the enemy army, his gaze calculating, almost as if he were mentally mapping the battlefield in his mind. "Because," Kara said quietly, "even if we fall here, the fight doesn't end. This is bigger than us. These men—they think they've already won. But they haven't seen the storm that's coming."
Wolfram's chest tightened. He realized that Kara wasn't just preparing for the battle at hand—he was preparing for the long game, for the war that would rage even if they didn't survive to see it through.
"I've named those whose heads will roll after us," Kara said, his voice steady and unshaken. "Whether it's by my hand or another, these traitors will pay. Their names will be written in blood, and no one will forget what they've done."
The weight of Kara's words settled heavily over Wolfram. It wasn't just a matter of winning or losing this battle—it was about ensuring that their enemies knew the price of betrayal, no matter how long it took. This wasn't just a war—it was a reckoning.
As the messenger vanished into the distance, Kara gave one last look at the banners before turning back to Wolfram. His smile returned, thin and sharp. "Don't look so shocked, Wolfram," he said. "It's all part of the plan."
But to Wolfram, it felt as if Kara had already written his own epitaph, and the weight of that realization sank deep into his bones.