Archbishop Volkmar the Grim—or "the Resolute," or even "the Ruthless," depending on who you asked—didn't much care what title people used. As he awoke from the aftermath of the battle, his mind was heavy with exhaustion.
He struggled to recall how the battle had started, how it had progressed, and even how it had concluded. All he remembered was that after the Chaos army was finally routed, he had personally inspected and restored the ancient seals. The seals were now intact once again.
But the cost had been enormous. Slowly, Volkmar raised a trembling hand to his face, where Chaos-tainted weaponry had left burned and scarred flesh. Even the mere brush of his fingers sent a jolt of searing pain through him. The fiery, nerve-searing sensation coursed through his body, setting every wound he bore alight as though on fire. The Grand Theogonist cursed Charlemagne under his breath and tried to sit up.
Hearing the sound of his groaning, someone quickly entered the room. It was Cardinal Wymar von Gregoritch. His once-pristine white robe, trimmed with gold, was now torn and stained with dirt and blood. Underneath the robes, the metal armor he wore was similarly battered and scarred. Limping heavily on one leg, the Cardinal approached him. "Your Holiness?"
"Where are we?" Volkmar's voice was cold and sharp, his trademark unrelenting tone cutting through the air even as the act of speaking visibly aggravated his wounds.
"We are approximately fifteen kilometers from Talabheim," Cardinal Wymar replied in a weary voice. "The owner of this manor has generously allowed us to shelter here for the night. We have gathered what remains of our forces and clergy... but our numbers... are few."
"Why are you in charge? Where is Puxilok?" Volkmar asked icily, though the question made his head throb with frustration. He almost regretted asking, knowing the answer would likely worsen his mood. Puxilok, the red-robed cardinal, had been among the fallen. Volkmar had witnessed his death with his own eyes.
Still, Volkmar made no effort to correct his own rhetorical misstep. In his mind, he was infallible, incapable of error. As always, his cold, unyielding gaze demanded an explanation.
"Cardinal Puxilok was killed in battle," Wymar reported solemnly.
"And Preitel and Konz? What about Marco Gadek?" Volkmar's head throbbed harder. He remembered something about Preitel and Konz leading a reckless charge to their deaths but demanded clarification nonetheless.
"They are all dead," Wymar answered grimly. "Preitel and Konz were slain in their ill-fated assault. Marco Gadek was struck down by sorcery and then finished off by a Chaos warrior's axe. We couldn't recover his body, but several soldiers swear they saw him fall."
A red-robed cardinal slain, six out of twelve cardinals dead, and many others missing. Volkmar had no interest in hearing more about the fallen.
"What about Alfred? Alfred Damian Vayne?" Volkmar finally asked the one question he cared about.
The air in the room grew heavy. Wymar hesitated, his lips parting but no sound emerging. Under Volkmar's stern gaze, the Cardinal gulped and finally spoke. "Your Holiness, you... you saw it yourself, did you not?"
Volkmar's mind felt like a whirlpool of chaos. He vaguely recalled a scene from the final moments of the battle. Amidst the nightmarish battlefield, with Chaos forces in full retreat after the death of Grak'sor Fire-Axe, Alfred had been locked in a desperate struggle against a Chaos Spawn. Just as the monstrous creature had prepared to devour him, Alfred had managed to draw his pistol and fire into its maw, halting the attack. But a Chaos warrior had struck him from behind with a dual-headed axe, cutting through his armor and sending him tumbling into the river.
"We searched along the river for a while," Wymar offered hesitantly, "but we found no trace of his body. If Your Holiness believes he is still alive, we could—"
"Enough!" Volkmar's furious roar shook the beams of the manor, sending a cascade of dust to the floor. "If this is Alfred's fate, then let him embrace the honor of dying in battle! His sacrifice was necessary! For three millennia, humanity has endured this way! To die in battle is glory! We will not waste resources searching for him! I have lost enough already!"
"...As you command," Wymar stammered, his ears ringing from the outburst. The Cardinal bowed his head. "Your Holiness, the troops are awaiting your next orders. They are also concerned for your well-being. We brought a physician, who has prepared ointments for your wounds—"
"I do not need it!" Volkmar snarled, shoving Wymar's hand away with surprising force. His wrath burned hotter than lightning. "Faith is the only balm I need against my injuries! By Charlemagne's will, I know the state of my own body!"
Storming out of the manor, Volkmar stepped into the camp where the remnants of the Sigmarite army were stationed. The night sky above was as black as ink, and a bone-chilling wind swept down from the north. Though the snow had melted, the ground was frozen as hard as steel. The dense, foreboding forest surrounding them seemed to open its gaping maw, a predator waiting to swallow the remnants of the army.
Rows of linen-wrapped corpses lay outside the manor, neatly arranged. Inside, wounded men shuffled about, their bodies battered and broken. Many had lost limbs. Others limped on crutches or leaned on comrades for support. Still more lay on stretchers or the cold ground, covered with linen after succumbing to their injuries.
Out of an initial force of over 11,000, fewer than 1,000 soldiers remained. Of these, only about 500 were fit for combat. Around 400 were lightly injured, while over 200 were severely wounded.
That was all that was left.
But Volkmar did not despair. The dead had fulfilled their purpose, and the living would rebuild. For every fallen cardinal or knight, successors would be chosen. The army would be reconstituted, for the war against Chaos would never end. Today, at least, they had been the victors.
"Clean the banners and hold your heads high!" Volkmar's voice boomed across the camp, harsh and unyielding. "Do not wallow in defeat! We are the victors of this war!"
"We will return to Charlemagne's city as conquerors!"
"Yes, Your Holiness!" The soldiers shouted back, though their voices lacked the vigor of true enthusiasm.
While Volkmar addressed the troops, a man quietly slipped out of the manor's back entrance. Dressed in the garb of a physician, he carried a box of unused ointments under his arm.
"You think you're the victors?"
The figure smirked, his sharp fangs glinting under the starlight.
"How laughable."
The "physician" was none other than Mannfred von Carstein.
Naturally, the vast Chaos army that had descended upon Talabec was Mannfred's doing. It was he who had lured the warband from the Chaos Wastes, using them to test Volkmar's strategies and tactics.
Through this battle, Mannfred had learned much about the Grand Theogonist. Volkmar's command style was bold, decisive, and fearless. He prioritized his objectives above all else, displaying a ruthless willingness to sacrifice his troops for victory. While this made him a formidable strategist, it also revealed his weaknesses: a lack of control over his zealous forces and a tendency to overcommit without leaving reserves.
Now that Mannfred had discerned Volkmar's patterns, he knew it wouldn't be difficult to outmaneuver him in the future. The vampire lord's grin widened, though his thoughts quickly darkened as he recalled his uneasy alliance with Arkhan the Black.
In Mannfred's eyes, Arkhan was a fool—a mindless pawn obsessed with serving Nagash.
Though they shared the same undead nature, Mannfred believed he was different. He was not like Arkhan, nor like the martial-obsessed Blood Dragon founder Abhorash, nor like the decadent Neferata, nor like the feral Strigoi, nor like the magic-obsessed Necrarchs.
Mannfred was unique. He was a noble and visionary traitor, a refined and ethical opportunist. In his eyes, he was destined to succeed where his predecessors had failed.
"Rest easy, my forebear, Vlad von Carstein," Mannfred whispered to the night. "I, Mannfred von Carstein, will fulfill your dream of conquering Altdorf. I will crown myself the Eternal Emperor in the Imperial Palace of Altdorf!"
Casting aside his disguise, Mannfred began plotting his next move. Though his alliance with Arkhan was tenuous, for now, it served his purposes. His mind turned to the vital relics needed to resurrect Nagash, especially the Staff of Nagash, still locked away in La Maisontaal Abbey.
He clenched his fists in frustration. "The staff... how will I retrieve it without risking everything?"
For now, Mannfred decided to focus on the most important sacrifice for Nagash's return.
Meanwhile, as the battered Sigmarite forces made their way back to Talabheim, King Ryan of Bretonnia remained deeply concerned about the aftermath of the battle. With no sign of Alfred's body, the knight-king officially listed his childhood friend as "missing in action."
Ryan could do little but urge the Empire to continue searching for Alfred—alive or dead. At the same time, he struggled to deal with Alfred's wife, Ingrid. The Norsewoman, upon learning of her husband's disappearance, had taken to loudly protesting outside the royal court with her child in tow, refusing to leave and shouting obscenities.
This left Ryan in a difficult position. He couldn't simply drive her away, nor could he imprison her. All he could do was try to reassure her and send her back to her quarters to await news.
Understandably, Ryan had been in a foul mood recently. His wife, Sulia, found his frustrations both amusing and endearing. She sent their two daughters, Cecelia and Sylvie, to keep him company, knowing their presence would lift his spirits.
One afternoon in March, after finishing his duties, Ryan leaned back in his chair, letting the sunlight bathe him as he sipped a cup of hot coffee.
"Ah, I wish I had a villa by the Black Sea," Ryan mused aloud to Sulia, who sat nearby. "With a heated swimming pool and a picnic garden... we could invite friends over for vodka and cigars. Life would be perfect!"
"Black Sea?" Sulia raised an eyebrow. "Do we even have a place called the Black Sea? And isn't our vineyard estate already enough?"
She quickly realized Ryan was talking nonsense again and chuckled. "This is about Ingrid, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Ryan sighed. "I just don't know what to do with her."
"Things will get better," Sulia reassured him. "Didn't Talleyrand go to investigate further?"
Just as she spoke, Talleyrand's voice rang out from the doorway. "Your Majesty, urgent news! Archbishop Alfred is alive!"
"What?!" Ryan leapt from his chair. "Tell me everything, Talleyrand!"
The high elf diplomat hobbled into the room on his cane, holding an opened letter. "Your Majesty, Alfred survived the battle. He was swept downstream, grievously wounded but alive. He managed to rejoin the Sigmarite forces as they marched back to Talabheim."
"Grand Theogonist Volkmar has highly praised Alfred's courage and determination. He has announced Alfred's immediate promotion to Cardinal!"
"Cardinal?!"
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