As the enemy prepared to depart at dawn, the camp of King Janusz and King Igor was a bleak sight. Soldiers, weary from days of pursuit, were weak with thirst and hunger. The blockade had drained their morale, and the few remaining supplies were running dangerously low. Hope was flickering like a candle in the wind, and it seemed that any spark of salvation had long since been extinguished.
But in the dead of night, a small caravan arrived at the enemy's camp. To their surprise, Wolfram had sent a few sacks of food and barrels of water—not nearly enough to sustain an army, but enough for a few men. The soldiers, desperate for any relief, quickly devoured what little they were given. Those lucky enough to drink water in front of their comrades became a symbol of hope, but also of deepening desperation. Soldiers watched in agony as others quenched their thirst, fueling the growing desperation to leave the cursed blockade as soon as possible.
King Janusz and Igor, in their tent, exchanged tense glances. They both knew what this meant. The soldiers were breaking. There was no coming back from this. King Janusz ran a hand through his beard, his eyes full of resignation.
"This is it," he muttered. "There's no way they'll hold out any longer. We have to move at dawn, or we risk mutiny."
Igor, leaning against the edge of the table, clenched his fists. "Wolfram's message is clear. He's forcing us into retreat, and his men are clever. The longer we stay, the weaker we become. Our men are dying out here, Janusz. We can't fight on."
The kings knew it was over. They had been outplayed, not through strength of arms, but through the cunning of the mind.
Meanwhile, back at Wolfram's camp, the atmosphere was starkly different. The moonlight flickered over the makeshift tents, and a small fire crackled between Wolfram and Tanrıverdi as they sat, silent in thought. Wolfram broke the silence, his voice calm but sharp as steel.
"Do you think Kara's body will reach the capital safely?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. He wasn't just concerned about the logistics of the journey. Kara's body carried with it the weight of a legacy—a symbol of fear and strength to his people.
Tanrıverdi, always the steady hand in times of uncertainty, nodded firmly. "The men carrying him are some of our best. They'll make it. The real threat is here, not toward the capital. We should focus on tomorrow's outcome."
Wolfram looked into the flames, his expression unreadable, but there was a glint of something in his eyes. A glint that Tanrıverdi had come to recognize—calculation, foresight. "After the gifts I sent tonight," Wolfram said, tapping the side of his temple as Kara used to, "the battle is already over for them."
Tanrıverdi's gaze locked onto Wolfram, and he felt a surge of admiration for the man before him. Wolfram wasn't just Kara's apprentice anymore. He had grown into something more. He had become a leader—a tactician who could see beyond the battlefield, into the minds of his enemies. He had delivered supplies not to show mercy, but to break them mentally, to give them just enough hope to crush them completely.
"They've lost here," Wolfram continued, still tapping his temple, "in their minds. They won't fight us tomorrow. They're already defeated."
Tanrıverdi's trust in Wolfram solidified in that moment. The young prince had inherited not only Kara's strength but also his cunning. Every step Wolfram took was calculated, every word spoken with purpose. And now, as the enemy teetered on the edge of collapse, Tanrıverdi knew that they were witnessing the dawn of a new era—an era where Wolfram would lead them to victory, not through brute force, but through the mastery of the mind.