Wolfram mounted his horse with a newfound authority, his demeanor no longer that of a boy, but a man hardened by war and loss. He glanced at Tanrıverdi, his eyes cold and resolute, like the steel of his blade. His voice, once filled with uncertainty, now commanded absolute respect.
"Tanrıverdi," Wolfram said, his voice deep and fierce. "Don't let anyone escape from that baggage frame. We leave no loose ends."
Tanrıverdi could hardly believe the transformation in his comrade. Wolfram, who had once been a student under Kara's guidance, now carried himself with the presence of a seasoned Norse warrior. His voice had the tone of a man who had seen enough bloodshed to make a god weep. Three seasoned Hunnic riders stood beside him, awaiting his command.
"You three," Wolfram continued, his tone brooking no argument, "ride with me. Now."
Without hesitation, the riders spurred their horses forward, flanking Wolfram as they charged toward the Teutonic Knights. The knights, seeing the small group approach, did not immediately reach for their weapons. They believed Wolfram had come to negotiate, but as he neared, they noticed something different about him. Wolfram had removed his helmet, allowing his Nordic features—sharp cheekbones, cold blue eyes, and a strong jawline—to be fully visible. His royal bearing was unmistakable, and the knights grew uneasy.
As Wolfram reached them, he stopped abruptly, his steely gaze piercing through the knights. He spoke in perfect High German, his voice thundering across the battlefield.
"Do you know who I am?" Wolfram demanded, his voice so authoritative that it sent shivers down the spines of the knights. "I am the grandson of Kaiser Anno, heir to the throne. And you—" he pointed his axe toward them, "I know who you are. You are Teutonic Knights, once under my father's command. But he is dead now. And with him gone, you take your orders from me."
The knights exchanged nervous glances. Wolfram's presence was undeniable, but their leader remained unfazed. He stepped forward, his armor clinking with every movement, his expression skeptical.
"And why should I listen to your orders, heir?" the leader mocked, his voice dripping with disdain. "We are here to aid King Janusz. Your father is not our concern. We only just learned of his death. How can you be sure?"
Wolfram's face hardened, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Because I buried him," Wolfram growled, his voice filled with rage and sorrow. "I laid him in the ground with my own hands. And that means you take orders from me now!"
The Teutonic leader scoffed, a laugh escaping his lips. But the soldiers behind him were less confident. They had heard rumors of the Kaiser's grandson being in the region, but none expected to see him on the battlefield, wielding a Nordic axe with such fierce determination.
"If you are truly who you claim to be," the leader said with a sneer, "then we shall escort you to Alamania. Perhaps your grandfather would like to see his heir, wielding an axe like a savage."
Wolfram's fury boiled over. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the handle of his Norse axe, an heirloom passed down to him by his grandfather. He raised it, its blade gleaming in the dim light of the overcast sky.
"Take this to him," Wolfram said, his voice a venomous snarl. "Tell the old man that I am coming home, after I finish what I've promised."
The leader of the Teutonic knights chuckled mockingly. "Are we your couriers now, heir?" he asked with derision. "Shall we deliver your axe to the Kaiser and tell him his grandson is still playing soldier?"
The words were barely out of his mouth when Wolfram's axe cleaved through the air with deadly precision. The blade struck the knight's neck, severing his head clean from his body. Blood spurted from the stump as the body crumpled to the ground, head rolling away in the dirt.
The Teutonic soldiers stared in shock, their leader's laughter silenced forever. Wolfram, breathing heavily, his face twisted in righteous fury, glared at the rest of the knights.
"Is there anyone else," Wolfram roared, his voice carrying over the battlefield like a war cry, "who wants to question their prince's orders?!"
The knights stood frozen, too terrified to move or speak. Wolfram pointed his blood-stained axe at the knight who appeared to be second-in-command.
"You," Wolfram growled, his tone unyielding, "you are in charge now. You will deliver this axe to the Kaiser. If I hear of any treachery, I will hunt you all down, and I will kill every last one of you with my own hands. Do you understand?!"
The knight nodded shakily, his face pale with fear.
"Good," Wolfram said, his voice cold. He thrust the axe into the knight's trembling hands and turned his horse around. His heart was pounding, not from fear, but from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had never felt so alive, so powerful.
As he rode back to his men, Tanrıverdi approached, his face filled with curiosity. "What happened over there?" he asked. "I heard screams."
Wolfram, his eyes still blazing with intensity, wiped the blood from his face and said, "They'll bring us food and drinks. But our enemies—" his voice lowered, dripping with menace, "they won't be so lucky."
Tanrıverdi stared at him, a mixture of awe and fear in his eyes. Wolfram was no longer the man he had once known. He had become something more—a warrior, a leader, a man to be reckoned with. The battlefield, drenched in blood and rain, had given birth to a new Wolfram.