Chapter 82 – A Bitter Victory
Cheers Turn to Ashes
The cries of Eisenwald's soldiers split the smoky sky, voices breaking in triumph and disbelief. Tears ran down dirt-streaked faces; men clutched each other as though waking from a nightmare. They had witnessed the impossible: their young baron had slain a Count.
Fenrir stood at the center of the field, crimson with blood—his own and his enemy's. His sword was half-broken, its jagged edge buried in the ground to keep his shaking body upright.
"Baron Fenrir! The Crimson Wolf! The Crimson Wolf!"
The chant spread like wildfire, rising from hundreds of throats until the name thundered across the battlefield. For a fleeting moment, Eisenwald tasted glory.
Then came the pounding of hooves. A lone rider burst through the haze, cloak torn, body spattered with mud and blood. He slid from his horse and collapsed before Fenrir's officers.
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"Lord Fenrir…" the soldier gasped, each breath ragged. "The Marquis's… army… the left wing—" He coughed blood onto the dirt. "Broken. The infantry… crushed. Enemy cavalry… through the lines. Our generals… fallen."
The cheers died at once.
Fenrir's chest tightened. He staggered toward the man, voice raw. "Say it again. What happened?"
The messenger bowed his head, shoulders trembling. "The left wing has collapsed. Thousands dead. Survivors in full retreat. The enemy presses forward without resistance."
It felt as though the earth had dropped away beneath Fenrir's feet. He had slain Valgaard, the Wolf-Hunter of the North. Yet in the same breath, the larger war was being lost.
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Far from where Fenrir fought, Helbrecht's left flank drowned in chaos.
Enemy cavalry surged like a black tide, their steel hooves pounding through battered infantry lines. The once-steady shield wall shattered, men screaming as lances pierced them like straw.
"Hold! Stand your ground!" a general roared—moments before a spear drove through his chest and flung him aside like a doll.
Archers had loosed one volley before they were ridden down, their screams lost beneath the thunder of hooves.
In minutes, the banners of Helbrecht's house were torn down, trampled into the blood-soaked earth. The enemy's pennons rose instead, billowing high over the corpses.
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Fenrir's bloodied hands clenched his broken sword hilt until his palms split anew.
So this is war? You kill a Count with your own hands… yet the war slips away regardless.
Viktor knelt beside him, jaw tight. "Baron… though we triumphed here, victory on one flank is meaningless if the rest of the army breaks."
Selene's face was pale, her voice barely a whisper. "Our discipline means nothing if the entire line collapses."
Garrik smashed a fist into the dirt. "All that blood, all those lives—and it's wasted because the main host couldn't hold!"
Only Lyra's expression held calm, though her eyes were shadowed. "Not wasted. Valgaard's death will echo across the empire. The name Eisenwald has been etched into memory. That cannot be undone."
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Fenrir dragged a breath through his burning lungs, lifting his gaze to the smoke-choked sky.
This is the truth of war. You can win the greatest duel, carve your name into history—yet lose everything because the battle is larger than you. Victory can be stolen in a heartbeat.
The sting was worse than any wound in his flesh. Yet he swallowed it, because his men watched him still.
"Form ranks," he ordered, voice hoarse but steady. "Keep discipline. Whatever comes, we must be ready for the Marquis's command."
His officers bowed, grim-faced but resolute.
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That night, the great command tent of Marquis Helbrecht hung heavy with failure. The map spread across the war table was stained with blood.
Helbrecht stood over it, shoulders rigid, his face carved from stone. His eyes were red—not from exhaustion alone, but from fury barely chained.
"The left wing has collapsed," he said coldly. "Two generals dead. Three thousand men lost. The enemy flies their banners on our soil."
The tent was silent save for the hiss of the braziers. Officers exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak.
Fenrir stood at the edge, bandages wrapped hastily around his torso, his body swaying but his eyes alert. So this is the scale of command… to watch thousands die and speak of it in a single sentence.
Helbrecht bowed his head for a moment, then looked up. His voice cut the silence like a blade.
"Tomorrow, we must make a great decision."
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Fenrir's gut twisted. He already knew the meaning.
A great decision… means retreat.
The thought burned like acid. He wanted to shout, to defy it. No! I can still fight! Eisenwald can still fight!
But the truth was plain. His men were bloodied and weary, their numbers small compared to the storm pressing in.
The tent was hushed, the night wind sighing against the canvas walls. Fenrir gripped the hilt of his broken sword so hard his knuckles bled anew, his eyes glowing with defiance even as despair gnawed inside him.
The Crimson Wolf had triumphed—but the war itself was slipping away.
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