The Way of KnightChapter 22 – Shadows of Politics
Morning came, and the fog over the Eisenwald swamp began to thin. What it revealed was a sight that weighed heavily on every heart. Hundreds of mercenary corpses lay scattered, while dozens of young Eisenwald militiamen were stretched out lifeless across the blood-soaked mire.
Fenrir stood in the middle of the field, his body still wrapped in bandages, yet his gaze did not falter. He looked at each face of the fallen—some of them barely older than children.
"Our casualties?" he asked quietly.
A young officer, once nothing more than a hunter, lowered his head.
"Thirty-seven dead, twenty-one badly wounded, forty-three lightly wounded. Out of 180, only 120 can still stand."
Fenrir nodded. His chest tightened. Almost a third of our force gone…
But he knew showing weakness would crush the resolve of those who lived.
"Prepare a ceremony for the fallen," he ordered firmly. "They died not as peasants, but as Eisenwald soldiers."
The militia who heard this, though red-eyed with grief, straightened their backs with pride.
All day, the swamp became a place of ceaseless work.
One group dug graves at the swamp's edge, shovels sticking in the sodden earth. Another carried corpses wrapped in scraps of cloth, pulling them free of the mud. A third prepared herbal poultices for the wounded, aided by village women who came after hearing of victory.
Fenrir himself worked alongside them. He lifted bodies, covered faces with cloth, and poured water over the graves.
The militia watched, their faith deepening. Their commander did not only lead them in battle—he carried their burdens too.
That night, Fenrir gathered his officers in the tent.
"We won, but this is only the beginning," he said. "The enemy leaders are dead, but word of our victory will spread. And believe me—it will draw attention."
A scarred youth asked, "What do you mean, my lord?"
Fenrir pointed to the crude map of the swamp.
"The Empire of Luminaria is divided into small kingdoms under the Marquis. News of peasants defeating Klaus and Erhart will reach their ears. To some, we are a threat. To others, an opportunity."
The tent fell into silence. The reality struck hard—they were no longer just a poor baron's family at the edge of nowhere.
"Will they attack us?" another asked nervously.
Fenrir's eyes sharpened. "If they think we're weak—yes. If they think we're too strong—also yes. That is politics."
Fenrir shifted the topic to their most immediate concern: logistics.
"Victory means nothing if we starve. Our grain will last two weeks, no more."
An officer added grimly, "Weapons are broken too. Spears shattered, shields split. If another attack comes, we'll be hard-pressed."
Fenrir thought quickly. He could not disband the militia, yet he could not let them starve or stand defenseless.
"We'll use what we've gained. The mercenaries' weapons, their armor, even their horses—they are our spoils of war now."
For the first time, his officers smiled faintly. Eisenwald would finally have a real arsenal.
While Eisenwald struggled with wounds and graves, rumors spread like wildfire.
In towns, merchants whispered:
"They say Klaus, the Iron Fang, was killed by a boy of thirteen!"
"Not just that—peasants fought mercenaries and won!"
Nobles of nearby lands heard the same stories. Some felt threatened, others curious, a few already considering Eisenwald as a potential ally.
But most importantly: the news reached Marquis Helbrecht, the high noble who oversaw Eisenwald's land.
Within his great castle, Marquis Helbrecht read the report, lips curling faintly.
"A baron's child, leading peasants to kill Klaus?" He chuckled, though his eyes glinted coldly. "Interesting. A boy like that is either potential… or danger."
He turned to his advisor.
"Send envoys. I want to see this Fenrir Eisenwald with my own eyes."
Back in the swamp, Fenrir walked among his soldiers resting by the fires. Many watched him with awe, even fear, remembering how easily he had executed resisting mercenaries.
One whispered to another, "He's still just a child… but his eyes, his command… like a wolf."
Fenrir heard, but said nothing. He knew discipline had to be carved in blood. Mercy could come later, once they were strong.
That night, Fenrir sat alone upon a rock at the swamp's edge. The moonlight shimmered on waters still stained with blood.
This is the path I chose… the path of the knight. Every step forward will be paid in blood, wounds, and betrayal.
He clenched his fist, fire burning behind his eyes.
But I will not stop. From this swamp, I will rise. One day, I will be Emperor.
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