(POV: Leonardo)
The rain had been falling since dawn, a cold, needling curtain that turned the rolling hills of Asturias into churned swamps of mud and blood.
The clang of steel and the snap of musket fire echoed across the valley, but Leonardo had no time to think about the weather or the ache in his arms. His voice cut through the din, sharp and commanding.
"¡Cerrad filas! ¡Por el Rey Carlos!"
The cry was taken up by his men, their shields locking, pikes angling forward as the rebel charge broke against them. To his right, Mateo was barking orders to the second line, his face streaked with rain and soot, his dark hair plastered to his brow.
"Push them back! Keep the formation tight!" Mateo roared, glancing toward Leonardo for the next move.
Leonardo waded through the mire, his boots sinking with every step. The air stank of black powder and wet earth. A musket ball zipped past his ear, and he didn't flinch—there was no room for fear here, not for him.
"Mateo! Wheel the left flank! Pin them against the ridge!"
Mateo nodded once and sprinted through the line to relay the order. Leonardo's gaze swept the field—chaos everywhere. The rebels, ragged but ferocious, pressed hard in the center. They knew the terrain, knew the gullies and hidden streams that could bog down a cavalry charge. But Leonardo had studied this land for weeks before marching north. He knew its traps as well as its strengths.
A horn blast cut through the storm, and the rebel standard—a jagged crimson banner—rose above the melee. At its base, a tall man in patched armor was cleaving his way through Leonardo's front ranks. Even through the sheets of rain, Leonardo recognized him.
"Bring me the leader alive," Leonardo called, shifting his grip on his long sword.
The order was more for show. He knew men like this didn't come quietly.
The rebel leader's blade caught the light as he stepped clear of the press, his eyes locking on Leonardo with unmistakable hatred. They closed the distance in a heartbeat.
Steel rang. Leonardo caught the first swing on his guard, pivoted, and drove forward with a calculated thrust that forced the man back. Mud splashed around their boots as they circled. The rebel's style was raw power, heavy blows meant to batter an opponent into submission. Leonardo's was precision—cuts to test, parries to tire, footwork to control the ground.
"You're far from Madrid, comandante," the man snarled between strikes, his Spanish thick with the northern accent.
"Close enough to bring you to heel," Leonardo answered, shoving him back with a shield bash.
They traded blows in a blur—sparks from steel, the grunt of exertion, the slick grip of rain on hilts. A roar from the lines told Leonardo his men were pressing forward, but he kept his focus on the duel. A single mistake here could cost not just his life, but the momentum of the battle.
The rebel lunged high; Leonardo sidestepped and caught his arm with a brutal riposte. The man stumbled, his weapon dipping, and Leonardo didn't hesitate. A low sweep of the sword sent the rebel's blade clattering into the mud.
"Yield," Leonardo ordered, the point of his weapon at the man's throat.
For a moment, the leader's chest heaved with defiance. Then he spat in the mud and dropped to his knees.
Leonardo signaled two soldiers to take him. "Keep him breathing. He'll talk before nightfall."
The moment the rebel was dragged away, Leonardo turned back to the field. The center was still holding, but the right flank was beginning to bow under pressure. He shoved past a line of pikemen, shouting over the storm.
"Hold the line! Advance two paces—together!"
The men moved as one, a wall of shields grinding forward. Rebel pikes snapped under the push, and the formation surged. Leonardo spotted an opening near the ridge. If he could cut off the retreat path, the battle would be over.
"Mateo!"
His second appeared, panting but grinning. "What now?"
"Take the cavalry around the east bank. Box them in before they reach the treeline. Use the gully—they won't see you coming."
Mateo's eyes lit with understanding. "On it."
Leonardo watched him mount up and vanish into the mist with thirty riders at his back. Moments later, the sound of hooves and a distant clash told him the trap had been sprung.
The rebels, realizing their escape was cut off, began to falter. Some threw down their weapons; others fought harder, desperation lending them strength. Leonardo pressed the advantage, moving among his men, lifting their morale with every shouted command.
A young soldier stumbled beside him, clutching a bleeding arm. Leonardo caught him before he fell.
"Back to the surgeon's tent. Go!"
The boy hesitated, eyes wide. "We've almost won—"
"That's an order," Leonardo barked, and the soldier obeyed.
Rain ran down his face, mixing with the grime and blood. Every muscle ached, but he pushed forward, cutting down two more rebels who broke through the line. The ground beneath his boots was a slick battlefield of bodies, weapons, and churned mud.
Then came the final push. Mateo's cavalry drove the last cluster of rebels straight into Leonardo's advancing line. The clash was brief and brutal. When it was done, the only sounds were the moans of the wounded and the patter of rain on steel.
Leonardo lifted his sword, voice carrying across the field. "Asturias is ours!"
The cheer that followed was ragged but fierce. His men knew what this meant—another province secured for King Carlos, another threat to the crown crushed.
He sheathed his blade, scanning the field one last time. They had won, but something in his gut told him this was only the beginning.
***
The cheering faded under the weight of the rain, replaced by the soft, sickening chorus of the wounded and dying. Leonardo strode across the sodden field, his boots pulling free from the mud with a wet suction each step. His men moved among the fallen, checking for signs of life, pulling comrades onto makeshift stretchers, stripping weapons from the hands of rebels who would never rise again.
"Clear the field. Search every body—alive or dead," Leonardo ordered, his tone carrying no room for hesitation. "The enemy's steel is not to be wasted, and neither is their knowledge."
Mateo approached, rain streaking his face, helm tucked under one arm. "Cavalry sweep is done. We've captured thirty more, plus their commander. Losses on our side are… heavy."
Leonardo met his gaze but said nothing for a long moment. He had long ago learned to keep grief from showing. His men drew strength from his composure. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "See that the dead are buried with honor. No one rots in the mud—not ours, not theirs."
A commotion near the ridge drew his attention. He made his way through the mire, past lines of prisoners forced to their knees in the muck. A soldier knelt beside one of their own—a young man with a gut wound, pale and trembling. Leonardo crouched, pressing a hand to the soldier's chest to steady him.
"Easy, hijo," he said, voice low. "You fought well."
The soldier's breath came in ragged gasps. "Commander… we won?"
Leonardo gave a single nod. "We did. Rest now."
The boy's eyes softened with relief, even as his strength failed. Leonardo stayed with him until the last shudder passed, then closed his eyes with two fingers.
A murmur rose behind him. Two guards dragged forward the rebel leader, now without armor, his hair plastered to his forehead. The man's lips curled into a grim smile.
He leaned close, speaking in a strange, lilting accent—Spanish, but touched by the cadence of a far-off shore. "La corona caerá antes de la próxima luna."
Leonardo's jaw tightened. "You speak of things you don't understand."
The man's eyes glinted. "I understand enough. Your king is a man. Men die."
Leonardo straightened, signaling the guards to take him away. But the words rooted in his mind like a burr, stubborn and irritating. He had faced threats before—rebels, assassins, plots whispered in the dark—but something in the man's tone unsettled him.
Mateo joined him again, glancing after the prisoner. "What did he say?"
"Nothing worth repeating," Leonardo replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
By late afternoon, the rain slowed to a mist. The dead had been moved to higher ground, the prisoners secured. Leonardo stood with Mateo at the edge of the field, looking toward the road that wound south.
"We ride for Madrid at first light," Leonardo said. "The King will want to hear of this victory himself."
Mateo gave a short nod. "And the warning?"
Leonardo mounted his horse, tightening the reins. "Warnings are for children and cowards. We have a kingdom to hold."
The ride was slow at first, the road a mess of mud and debris, but Leonardo's mind was already far ahead, in the grand halls of Madrid, where gold banners would flutter and King Carlos would greet him as hermano de armas. The thought should have brought him satisfaction. Instead, the echo of the rebel's words whispered through the rhythm of hoofbeats.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the hills in a deep crimson glow, Leonardo had convinced himself to dismiss it. Men said foolish things when staring down death.
And yet…
Far to the south, in the capital, Don Soria was already setting the first threads of a web that would reach across oceans. Leonardo had no idea that the rain-soaked victory of Asturias would be remembered not for its triumph, but for the shadow it cast over everything that followed.