Spring was coming.
Elias could feel it in the air of Cetinje—the snow thinning on the cobbled streets, the markets stirring with more noise than before, the nobles beginning to emerge from their hibernation to gossip and scheme beneath the gray skies.
And yet, for him, there was no joy in it.
A year in Montenegro's halls of power had taught him much.
He had played the part of clerk, advisor, financier—man of influence rather than man of war.
He had bribed and bartered, purchased slaves from markets only to set them to better purpose, whispered in ears when whispers could change the fate of families.
But none of it felt right.
The truth was simple: Elias was not born to be a courtier.
He was sent to the past to be a commander.
At first, necessity had forced him into this role—he had needed to survive, to conceal his strength, to build quietly.
Now, however, the Iron Hand numbered in the thousands, the bases were self-sustaining, and the system ensured his orders were carried out with precision even in his absence.
He had subordinates, specialists, summoned men and women who were bred for administration, construction, logistics.
So why not finally do what he had always wanted to do?
Why not take the reins himself, command properly, and once the war is over he would have freedom, freedom to do what he wanted in preparation for the next war?
~
The Departure
The decision was made quickly, as all of his decisions tended to be once he allowed himself clarity.
He penned a polite notice to the Baron, couching it in terms of "personal business" and "extended absence."
The man did not question him.
Why would he?
Elias had already proven invaluable, and in the murky hierarchy of Montenegrin politics, one more foreigner stepping aside to manage his estates was of no concern.
Sonya was another matter.
She had grown in the past few months.
Once a half-starved girl with sharp eyes and suspicion in her voice, she was now composed, organized, and sharp-minded enough to remind Elias of details he himself sometimes overlooked.
She had become indispensable, and though she would never admit it, she had come to rely on him as well.
When he told her of his plan, she merely nodded.
"You'll want me to come with you."
It wasn't a question, just a smug statement.
Elias smiled faintly.
"Yes. You've seen the city. You've learned its ways. Now it's time you saw the other half of this life."
Her only answer was to begin packing her few belongings.
~
The Journey Home
The road north was rough with thawing mud and swollen streams, but Elias felt lighter with every step the horse drawn carriage took.
They traveled under escort—half a dozen Iron Hand cavalrymen who appeared like shadows one dawn and never left their side, though not really proper cavalry they just appeared that way riding looted horses from the battlefield.
To any outsider they looked like ordinary Cossacks in heavy coats, but their discipline was wrong, their silence too practiced, their eyes too sharp.
Sonya noticed.
"They aren't… real soldiers, are they?"
she asked one night by the campfire, her breath white against the darkness.
Elias considered how much to reveal.
Then, gently:
"They are mine. That is enough."
She said nothing more, but he saw the way she studied them after that, as though piecing together a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted to finish.
By the time they reached the base—the true headquarters of the Iron Hand—the air was warm enough to smell the wet earth.
The walls loomed above them, a fortress of wood, stone, and strange materials no local mason could have identified.
Inside, the camp was alive: riflemen drilling in neat blocks, the recently liberated admin staff being schooled in process and proceedure by spies.
And when the men saw Elias, they straightened.
Some saluted sharply, others bowed their heads in silence.
To them, he was not simply a man.
He was the Supreme Commander.
~
Taking Command
It had been nearly a year since Elias last stood before his army in person.
Now, as he mounted the makeshift dais overlooking the parade ground, he saw nearly three thousand faces turned toward him—riflemen, cavalry, sappers, medics. All summoned, all forged in loyalty.
His voice carried through the chill spring air, steady and commanding.
"You have fought in my name. You have bled for the cause I have given you. The world sees you as shadows, rumors, the iron hand behind the Russian fist. But I see you for what you are: the future."
The men did not cheer. They never did. Instead, they bowed their heads as one, a gesture more unnerving than any roar of applause could have been.
Sonya stood just behind him, her eyes wide. She had known Elias was powerful, but seeing three thousand hardened soldiers bend to his will so effortlessly left her stunned.
After the assembly, Elias spent hours walking the camp, re-familiarizing himself with every unit. He spoke with the engineers about fortification designs, quizzed the officers on training rotations, inspected the weaponsmiths' stores.
The Iron Hand was strong, but strength was not enough. Elias wanted it sharpened into something greater—something inevitable.
Reflections
That night, in his quarters, Elias allowed himself a moment of quiet. Sonya worked at a small desk nearby, sorting the endless ledgers and reports that flowed through the system.
He stared into the fire, thinking.
For a year he had seen the nobility of Montenegro—squabbling, corrupt, short-sighted. For a year he had seen the peasants—broken, starving, selling their children to survive. And for a year he had watched the war drag on, Ottoman against Russian, with blood flowing endlessly and no end in sight.
It was not enough to survive here.
It was not enough to build an army.
If he wanted to shape the future, truly shape it, he would need to think beyond the horizon.
Industry. Education. Infrastructure. Not just soldiers, but a system that could not be broken by time or famine.
He thought of the system's distant promise: Era Advancement – Pre-WW1: 500,000 Credits Required.
It seemed an impossible number once. Now it was merely a milestone.
And with his own hands on the reins once more, Elias intended to reach it.
The First Order
His return to command could not go unmarked.
The next morning, he summoned the officers. Maps were spread, tokens placed. The siege of Calafat dragged on, with Russian forces cautious after their failed winter assault. The Iron Hand had withdrawn, intact but restless.
Elias leaned over the map, his finger tapping the Ottoman-held village.
"This war is fought by blunt hammers. We will be the knife. The next time the Russians call for our aid, we will not merely obey. We will dictate the terms of battle."
Marko Radovic, his scarred sergeant, bowed his head. "Your will, Commander."
Sonya watched from the side, her eyes narrowing as she realized the truth. Elias was not content to be a shadow. He would shape the war itself.
That night, standing at the edge of the camp, Elias looked out at the thousands of fires burning across the plain. Russian camps, Ottoman camps, all locked in their endless struggle.
But in his mind, he saw further.
He saw factories. Railroads. Education halls. A world remade not just by war, but by will.
His will.
And as the wind carried the smell of wet earth and gunpowder, Elias whispered to himself:
"It begins now."