The morning was colder than the last, with a thin frost dusting the earth beneath Adrian's boots. The town of Hohenwald had offered a night's respite, but there was no mistaking the tension in the air. The soldiers moved with the stiffness of men who had not yet shaken the exhaustion from their bones, their breaths rising in white clouds as they gathered their equipment. The road ahead was long, treacherous, and now shadowed by unseen enemies.
Adrian stood near the town's gate, his gloved hands resting on the hilt of his sword as he surveyed the men preparing to march. Klaus and Otto were already at work, barking orders, ensuring supplies were evenly distributed. Despite the hardships, his men remained disciplined. That alone gave him some reassurance, though the weight of command grew heavier with each passing day.
As the sun crested over the horizon, casting an amber glow upon the frost-covered fields, the march resumed. The dirt road stretched far into the distance, winding through rolling hills and thick woodlands that seemed to watch them in silence. Every step forward felt like another challenge waiting to unfold.
Adrian found himself lost in thought as they marched, his mind drifting back to a world that felt further away with each passing day. He had once known certainty, a structured life dictated by the rigid efficiency of modern warfare. Strategy was numbers, logistics, aerial superiority—clean and calculated.
But here? War was fought in the mud, in the exhaustion lining his men's faces, in the slow, grinding attrition that could break an army before a single battle was fought. There were no drones to scout ahead, no satellite images to predict enemy movements. Only the instincts of men, the reports of scouts, and the whisper of the wind through the trees.
A scent carried through the air, one that made his stomach tighten in longing—woodsmoke and roasting meat. It was so faint that he almost convinced himself it was a trick of the mind, a remnant of memories best left undisturbed. But it wasn't just a memory. It was a cruel reminder of home.
He could still see the diner, the cracked leather booths, the grease-stained menus. The sound of clinking glasses and muffled laughter. His friends teasing him about his obsessive nature over flight tactics, the smell of fresh coffee mingling with the salt of crispy fries. A world so distant, so impossible now, that it felt like another life entirely.
"Lord Adrian?"
The voice pulled him from his trance. He turned to see Otto walking beside him, his brows furrowed with concern.
"You've been quiet," Otto observed. "Something troubling you?"
Adrian hesitated before shaking his head. "Nothing more than the road ahead."
Otto gave a small grunt, his expression unreadable. He did not press further, for which Adrian was grateful.
The forest thickened around them as they continued, the towering trees casting long shadows across the road. The air grew damp, filled with the scent of earth and decay. It was here, in these winding paths, that ambushes were most likely to occur.
The scouts moved ahead, their presence barely noticeable among the dense foliage. Every sound—every snapping twig, every rustling leaf—sent a ripple of tension through the column. The men were alert, weapons at the ready, eyes scanning the shadows.
Klaus rode ahead, his voice carrying back toward the ranks. "Keep formation! Stay sharp!"
Adrian felt the weight of unseen eyes watching them. It was an instinct he had learned to trust. He glanced at Otto, whose hand rested on the pommel of his sword, his face unreadable but tense.
A cry rang out from the front of the column.
"Movement! To the left!"
Swords scraped from scabbards. Bows creaked as arrows were nocked. The tension broke like a dam, spilling into a frantic readiness.
But nothing came. The trees remained still, the road ahead unchanged. Only the whispering wind remained.
Adrian exhaled slowly. A test, perhaps. A probe from an unseen enemy. Whoever lurked in the darkness wanted them to know they were being watched.
"Move forward," he ordered. "We don't stop until we clear the woods."
The column pressed on, the weight of the unknown settling upon them like a lead cloak.
By dusk, the forest thinned, revealing another stretch of farmland. But what should have been a peaceful sight was instead one of chaos.
Smoke rose in black plumes from the horizon, twisting into the darkening sky. The distant wail of screams cut through the evening air. A village, no larger than Hohenwald, lay ahead—burning.
The soldiers murmured among themselves, but Adrian raised a hand to silence them. His mind raced. This was not mere raiding—it was a message.
Klaus rode up beside him. "Orders, my lord?"
Adrian took in the sight, the flickering orange flames, the dark figures moving among them. There was no time for hesitation.
"We move," he said, his voice firm. "Prepare for engagement."
The march to war had begun.
The acrid stench of burning wood and charred flesh choked the air as Adrian urged his horse forward, his boots thudding rhythmically against the earth beneath him. His breath came in shallow, strained bursts, the fumes curling into his lungs, making his chest tighten. Above him, the smoke billowed high into the sky, thickening as it swirled like dark tendrils of a creeping nightmare. The once serene valley below, now suffocated by flame and chaos, seemed to writhe in pain. The village ahead, nestled against the base of a hill, was already half consumed by the inferno, its humble cottages crackling as they collapsed in on themselves. The fire reflected in the swollen, angry sky—an omen of death.
There was movement among the flames. Shadows darted and twisted between the burning structures, figures skittering about in a frenzy. Some were fleeing, their faces contorted in fear, while others gave chase, weapons drawn. The sounds of the village's destruction echoed through the night: the guttural screams of women and children, the guttural cries of the injured, of those whose lives would be snuffed out before dawn.
Adrian's grip tightened around the reins, the leather biting into his palm, as he fought to keep his focus. His soldiers, disciplined and well-formed behind him, murmured in confusion and dread. This wasn't a field of battle they had trained for, where the clash of swords and the sweat of combat were familiar. This was carnage—raw, unrelenting, and unholy.
Klaus pulled up beside him, his horse snorting in the smoke-filled air. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the village, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
"Looks like a raiding party," Klaus said, his voice gruff, but laced with experience. "Could be mercenaries. Could be bandits."
Otto, riding just behind them, spat on the ground, the sound of it sharp against the stillness that hung over the valley. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Or someone sent them."
Adrian inhaled slowly, the air thick with the stench of death and fire, his thoughts grinding into focus. He had spent years studying warfare, reading treaties and maps, poring over strategies and tactics from the great minds of history. He understood the movements of armies, the ebb and flow of battle. But this—this was a far cry from the controlled chaos of a pitched fight. This was savage, senseless brutality, the lives of the innocent caught in the madness of it all. And yet, there was no room for weakness. No room for hesitation.
He straightened in his saddle, pushing the weight of his unease into the back of his mind. "We deal with what's in front of us, not what we think they are. They're already inside. That much is clear. The village is chaos, and they're looting and killing indiscriminately. That means we strike fast and hard."
He scanned the village again, his eyes sweeping over the burning buildings and the ragged figures that moved beneath them, weaving between the inferno. There was no organization to the chaos. No cohesion in the way they fought. And that gave Adrian an edge.
"Their morale is fragile," Adrian continued, his voice carrying the weight of command. "We move quickly and force them into disarray. We need to disrupt them before they can regroup."
His eyes met Klaus's, the unspoken understanding passing between them. Adrian turned to Otto, his gaze hardening. "You take a unit and circle around. Close off the escape route to the north. No one leaves this village alive."
Otto nodded grimly, his face a mask of determination. Without a word, he spurred his horse forward, the pounding hooves echoing through the smoke. Klaus's eyes lingered on Adrian for a moment, his lips curling into a fierce grin.
"Finally, some real action," he muttered, already turning his horse to ride off to carry out the orders.
Adrian turned to face his men. His soldiers, once eager in their drills, now stood uncertain. They had seen no real battle, no bloodshed outside of practice. But the time for hesitation had passed. This was the moment when theory and training would either prove them or break them.
"This is no drill," Adrian's voice rang out, steady and clear, cutting through the murmurs of uncertainty. "What you face are not soldiers—no ranks, no discipline. These are butchers. If we do not act swiftly, if we do not fight with precision and purpose, we will lose more than we can afford. Innocent lives will be lost. Fight with discipline. Strike hard. Strike fast. Do not let them rally. Move out!"
His words hung in the air for only a moment before his men let out a unified roar. They surged forward, the sound of their boots pounding on the earth filling the valley like the beating of a drum, as they followed their lord into the heart of the storm.
The clash came swiftly. The raiders, disorganized and feral in their assault, barely had time to react before Adrian's men met them. The force of their charge swept into the outskirts of the village like a flood of steel and iron. A group of raiders—dirty, unkempt, and poorly armed—turned at the sound of the oncoming attack, their eyes wide with shock and fear. They barely had time to register what was happening before the front line of Adrian's soldiers crashed into them, a wall of discipline and rage. Steel met flesh, and the sound of blades cutting through bone echoed in the night. The raiders, untrained and chaotic, stood no chance. Adrian's men moved as one, their strikes swift and precise.
The first man to fall screamed as the sword of one of Adrian's soldiers pierced his chest. A second collapsed as a blade split his skull, the blood splattering in the dim light like a grotesque painting.
Adrian barely had time to watch. His mind was already calculating, already adjusting, as his sword danced through the chaos. A raider lunged at him—a wild, uncoordinated swing, driven more by fear than any real skill. Adrian deflected the blow with ease, his blade flashing in the smoke-filled air. Before he could strike, Klaus's axe came down from the side with a sickening thud, burying itself deep into the man's chest. The raider crumpled to the ground with a wheezing gasp.
"Stay behind the line!" Klaus barked, his voice filled with a mix of command and irritation. He yanked his axe free and turned back into the fray, cutting down another raider who had dared to try and flank them.
Adrian gritted his teeth. He knew Klaus meant well, but he was no coward. He would not sit idly by while men died around him. He took a half-step back, moving behind his men, his sword at the ready. He was a leader, not just in name, but in action. And so, he moved where he was needed, directing his men, making sure they pressed the advantage.
The archers, positioned high on the ridge, loosed a volley of arrows, their shafts whistling through the smoke-filled air. Each one found its mark with deadly precision, cutting down more raiders before they could regroup. Adrian's heart pounded in his chest as the tide of battle began to shift in their favor. Otto's unit struck from the rear, their charge cutting off the raiders' only route of escape. The enemy, broken and disoriented, had no way to retreat.
The battle, though fierce, was over in mere minutes. The raiders had no more will to fight. They lay scattered in the mud, their bodies a grotesque testament to their desperation. But Adrian felt no triumph. Only a cold, sickening emptiness.
The village, still burning, was quiet now, save for the crackling of the fire and the low murmurs of Adrian's soldiers as they moved through the ruins. The wounded were tended to, the dead left where they fell. But the devastation was everywhere—bodies lay in the streets, some still clinging to life, others already gone. The homes, once filled with laughter and warmth, were now just hollow shells consumed by flame.
Adrian dismounted, his legs trembling with the weight of his responsibility. He felt heavier than he had ever felt in his life, the burden of command pressing down on him like a stone. The villagers—those who had survived—huddled together in the corners of the village, their eyes wide with fear and disbelief. Their homes had been reduced to ash, their families torn apart in a nightmarish frenzy. They stared at Adrian's soldiers, unsure whether they were saviors or the next threat to their fragile existence.
A woman—her dress torn, her face streaked with soot and blood—collapsed at Adrian's feet, her knees hitting the muddy earth with a thud. She reached out, her trembling hands clutching at his boots, her voice a broken whisper.
"Thank you… thank you, my lord…"
Adrian could not bring himself to look at her. He stared at the ground, his heart heavy in his chest. These people—these survivors—were not safe yet. This was no victory. It was a temporary respite, a fleeting moment of survival. The real fight, the one that would decide their future, had only just begun.
This wasn't triumph. This wasn't justice. This was survival.