"The March of Desperation"
The Belgian border camp lay shrouded in a pall of mist, the ground churned to mud by boots and hooves. Nova stood at the edge of the encampment, his breath visible in the predawn chill, when the palace guard staggered into view. The man's face was ash-gray, his uniform plastered to his body with sweat and grime. He collapsed at Nova's feet, his final words a rasping whisper: *"Assassins... castle... king held hostage."* Then he stilled, eyes frozen wide, veins burst from six hours of relentless sprinting.
Nova knelt, fingers brushing the guard's bloodstained sleeve—**the king's blood**, dried to a crackling brown. His mind raced. **12,000 men** under his command, camped at the edge of Belgium's fog-drenched forests. To the north, his brother Louis held the Danish front with **25,000 troops**. Otto, the usurper, commanded **57,000**—a leviathan force, swollen daily by fresh recruits. *37,000 against 57,000*. Suicide.
"Sound the retreat," Nova barked, rising. "We ride north to Louis. *Now.*"
His generals protested. "The Belgians are scattered! Their farms ripe for—"
"Without Prussia, we're carrion," Nova snapped, mounting his stallion. "Move."
They rode hard, the landscape blurring into a smear of skeletal trees and frost-bitten fields. Nova's men marched in grim silence, their breath fogging the air, muskets slung over shoulders still raw from Belgium's skirmishes. The journey took half a day—brutal, unbroken. Horses foamed at the mouth; men stumbled, driven by the whip-crack urgency in Nova's orders.
By dusk, they reached Louis's northern camp, a sprawling maze of tents and trenches dug into frozen earth. The stench of gunpowder and unwashed bodies hung thick. Danish siege engines loomed in the distance, silent but ominous.
Louis stood in his command tent, a bear of a man with a beard matted by blood and ale. Maps lay strewn across a table, pinned by daggers. Nova threw the bloodstained message onto the parchment.
"Otto holds the castle. Father's a hostage."
Louis's fist slammed down, upturning an inkwell. "We attack at dawn! Crush that upstart's skull!"
Nova gripped his brother's arm. "**37,000 against 57,000?** We need Prussia. Father gifted their king gold from Damascus, silks from Aleppo—*he owes us*."
Louis spat. "Prussia's king licks French boots now. We fight *here*, with steel, not beggar's pleas!"
Nova's jaw tightened. "Father's treasures bought that snake's loyalty once. They'll buy it again." He gestured to a scribe. "Draft a letter. Remind Prussia of the opium hoard, the temple relics. Every debt."
Louis sneered. "You trust words on parchment?"
"I trust survival," Nova said, his voice ice. "We wait. Three days. If no aid comes... we burn Denmark to ash and march home."
Louis turned away, knuckles white on his sword hilt. Outside, the wind howled—a dirge for kingdoms built on sand.
The northern camp stirred under a leaden sky, the air sharp with the bite of frost and the sour tang of fear. Nova's men collapsed where they stood, their breath steaming in the cold, faces gaunt from the forced march. Louis's soldiers eyed them with a mix of disdain and pity—fresh meat for Otto's grinder.
Louis's command tent stood at the heart of the camp, its canvas walls stained with soot and rain. Inside, a brazier glowed faintly, casting flickering shadows over maps scarred by dagger marks and spilled wine. Nova stood rigid, his gloves still crusted with the dead messenger's blood.
"Prussia's reply arrives today," Nova said, his voice cutting through the stale air. "Three days. That's all I ask."
Louis paced, his boots crunching shards of a shattered inkwell. "Three days gives Otto time to fortify. To *laugh* at us."
At midday, a rider thundered into camp, his horse lathered and wild-eyed. The man bore no colors, but the wax seal on his missive—a coiled serpent—marked him as Prussia's pawn. Nova tore it open, his eyes scanning the spidery script.
*"His Majesty regrets obligations cannot be honored at this time. Circumstances... in flux."*
Louis's laughter was a bark. "Flux. A pretty word for betrayal."
Nova crushed the letter. "The relics. The gold. He *owes* us."
"He owes nothing," Louis spat. "You gambled on ghosts."
****
Nightfall brought no respite. Nova stood at the camp's edge, staring into the dark where Danish sentries burned watchfires. Louis joined him, his breath reeking of ale.
"Dawn," Louis growled. "We strike the Danes first. Burn their engines. Then march south to gut Otto."
*****
"Hang the queen!" shouted one man from the crowd, his voice raw and furious.
"Cut off her head!" yelled another, his anger palpable in the thick, tense air.
"Send her to the gallows, that self-centered woman!" random voices roared, their shouts rising like a storm over the sea of faces.
King Otto raised his arm, and a heavy silence fell, his authority so absolute that the people stood ready to die at his command, their loyalty a chilling testament to his manipulation.
"Ladies and gentlemen! The queen is also God's chosen; nobody has the right to kill her," Otto declared, his voice steady but strained as he tried to calm the seething crowd.
"She killed the king!" one voice bellowed, cutting through the silence. "To hell with her!" added another, the words dripping with venom.
Otto felt a flicker of fear; he couldn't afford to be seen as weak or unjust. He wanted to appease the crowd. "Take her away," he commanded one of the men, gesturing towards the dungeons with a trembling hand.
"Otto, you promised!" she yelled as she was dragged off, her voice echoing with betrayal. Otto wrestled with his conscience but maintained a facade of calm. As the queen was led away, Friedrich followed closely, the memory of her touch from the previous night burning in his mind. He was determined to taste that forbidden sweetness again, certain her desperation would make her yield.
The crowd erupted in cheers and jeers, their voices a cacophony of triumph and rage as she disappeared into the castle. Inside, Friedrich gripped the guard's shoulder and murmured softly, "I'll take it from here, soldier."
"Affirmative, sergeant, all yours," the man replied, turning back towards the crowd with a nod.
"If it isn't the assassin himself," she sighed, her voice laced with a low, seductive edge. "Didn't get enough of the royal touch, I see," she added before he tightened his grip on her robe.
He opened the door to the basement and shoved her inside roughly, following close behind and slamming the door shut as they descended the flight of stairs. At the landing before the second flight, she twisted out of his grip with a shrug of her shoulders. He reached for her, but she was faster, her hand already on the flintlock at his waist, threatening to draw it.
"Well, aren't you the slowest assassin I ever saw?" she purred, her tone dangerously seductive.
"Look again, Madame!" he grinned, revealing his dagger, its blade glinting dangerously close to her neck, ready to slice through her flesh without hesitation. "It longs for royal blood!" he said, sheathing it with a flourish. He grabbed her hands, pinning them behind her back, and pushed her forward down the second flight of stairs.
"That's no way to handle a lady," she began, her voice a mix of defiance and desire, "although..." she took a deep breath, "I like it rough," she confessed, locking eyes with him. His gaze burned with lust, a mutual understanding shimmering between them, yet they circled each other like predators.
He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her close so she had to look up at him, their bodies nearly touching. He leaned in for a kiss but stopped, the danger too palpable, the scent of her fear and perfume intoxicating yet treacherous.
Shaking off his hesitation, he turned her around and pushed her forward. "You play hard to get, assassin, but you're not fooling me. I know what you want, and I have it," she taunted as they descended.
"Shut up, sultry woman!" he snapped, his voice stern. "You don't know what I want!"
"I'm definitely sultry. What I possess can buy and sell kingdoms. Once you have a taste, you'll never want anything else," she countered, her words dripping with promise.
"You clearly don't know what you want, woman, do you?" he shot back.
"I know exactly what I want. Don't be such a child," she retorted.
"Look forward, felon; you almost had me killed!" he growled, his anger flaring.
"Hey, I was only trying to survive. You would've done the same," she defended, her voice softening.
At the dungeon door, he shoved her against the wall, pinning her hands above her head. He stared into her starry eyes, the scent of her hair mingling with the damp, musty air. "You won't control my lust as you please!" he hissed. Then, opening the door, he pushed her inside, following quickly and slamming it shut. He pressed her against the cold stone wall, kissing her neck, his fingers trembling as they fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. The fabric yielded, slipping off her shoulders, and his hands found her breasts, fondling them with a fervor that was both desperate and ravenous, like a man starved.
As his hands slid to her lower back, lifting her skirt, she snatched the flintlock from his waist and leapt back, pointing it at him. "Don't move, dear. I know how to use it!" she smiled, backing towards the exit. He reached for his dagger, but she anticipated the move, her voice sharp. "Stop!" she demanded the keys from his pocket and fled, locking the door behind her. Her footsteps faded up the stairs, and he cursed his lust, realizing this was the second time she'd used it against him, the echo of his desire lingering like a ghost in the dim, damp dungeon.