The sun hung low in the sky as the final rays of light spread across the war-torn battlefield. Dust and blood had stained the earth, and the remnants of the enemy forces lay trapped and weary within their barricaded camp. Their spirits were broken, and hope had long since withered. Then, unexpectedly, a few horses approached Wolfram's camp, carrying supplies—a sign that the Teutonic knights had reluctantly followed his orders.
One of the knights, the man Wolfram had spared earlier, stepped forward cautiously. His face bore a mixture of confusion and awe. "Are you truly Wolfram, grandson of the Kaiser?" he asked, his voice trembling with uncertainty. "What are you doing here, my prince? Let us save you from this chaos."
Wolfram, standing tall and imposing, looked the knight in the eye. His face, marked by both nobility and the toll of battle, softened only slightly. "Yes, I am Wolfram, Kaiser's grandson. But I have been in training for this my whole life, and I will not leave this battlefield until I have finished my work. This war is mine to end. Fear not—if you follow my rules, you will see my good side when I am crowned. But for now, go. This is not your battle."
The knight, still bewildered, hesitated before bowing his head. "As you command, my prince," he muttered. He and his men quickly retreated, deciding it was best to camp nearby and reassess the situation. The battlefield had shifted dramatically in Wolfram's favor, and they knew better than to challenge the heir to the Holy Roman Empire.
For the next three days, Wolfram and his Hunnic riders harassed the enemy trapped inside the baggage fort. Their numbers had swelled with the arrival of fresh reinforcements—more Hunnic riders had arrived, their swift horses and deadly bows a constant threat. From morning to night, they rained arrows upon the enemy, launched smoke bombs, and, in a grim display of psychological warfare, hurled the severed heads of fallen soldiers over the enemy barricades. It was a relentless assault designed to break their spirits and sow fear.
Inside blockade, King Janusz and King Igor had reached their breaking point. Their men were exhausted, out of water, and morale was at an all-time low. There was no escape, and the noose was tightening. With no other choice, they sent a messenger to Wolfram, pleading for peace.
The letter arrived in Wolfram's camp. He stood at the center, wearing the wolf sigil given to him by Timurtaş, a clear symbol of his authority. The enemy messenger, a man weary with desperation, approached him with caution, eyeing the fierce warriors that surrounded Wolfram.
Wolfram took the letter and read it carefully. His expression softened, and after a long moment of contemplation, he looked up at the messenger. His tone was calm but resolute. "We accept," he said, much to the messenger's surprise. "You shall have a clear path to retreat. We are also low on resources. This ends with peace."
The messenger, stunned by Wolfram's words, blinked in disbelief. "Peace?" he asked, as if unsure he had heard correctly.
Wolfram nodded and removed the cuffed bracelet from his armored wrist. He handed it to the messenger. "Take this to your commander," he said. "A token of our agreement."
The messenger, still bewildered, took the bracelet and mounted his horse. He left the camp, riding back to King Janusz and King Igor with the unexpected news.
Tanrıverdi, watching from the side, approached Wolfram as the messenger rode off. "What did you say to him?" he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. He had overheard the exchange but didn't understand Wolfram's fluent High German.
Wolfram's face changed. The sad, weary expression he had worn during the conversation with the messenger was gone. In its place was the hard, determined face of a leader born for war. He looked Tanrıverdi straight in the eyes and spoke in a low, dangerous tone. "I told him we would let them leave the blockade. That we, too, are running low on resources."
Tanrıverdi's confusion deepened. "But we have enough supplies to outlast them, Wolfram. We could defeat them. What were you thinking?"
Wolfram's eyes darkened as he gazed out toward the enemy's camp. His voice, cold and calculated, sent a chill down Tanrıverdi's spine. "Do you know what happens to a wild herd that thinks there's an escape? That believes there's hope for survival? They run blindly, desperate to flee, not looking back. And when they do, they fall right into the trap they were so eager to avoid."
The realization dawned on Tanrıverdi and the other riders nearby. They exchanged uneasy glances, their faces growing pale. "Surely you don't mean…," Tanrıverdi began, but his voice trailed off.
Wolfram turned, his gaze fierce, his resolve unshaken. "We will take no prisoners," he said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. His eyes blazed with the cold fire of a warrior who had been pushed to his limits, a man who now embraced the brutality of his lineage.
The men around him stood in stunned silence. Wolfram's plan was clear now. He had given the enemy false hope, only to shatter it at the last moment. They would flee, thinking they had won their freedom, but in reality, they would be running straight into their doom.
With a single, decisive command, Wolfram would destroy them all.