Chapter 83 – The Order to Retreat
Silence After the Roar
Night had fallen over the Eisenwald camp, but victory songs did not linger. Instead, the air was heavy with groans of the wounded, muffled sobs for lost comrades, and the hurried steps of healers rushing between tents with bandages and water.
Fenrir sat on a rough wooden chair inside a makeshift infirmary. His body was swathed in bandages, pale beneath the torchlight, yet his eyes burned through the haze of pain. Hours earlier he had achieved the unthinkable: he struck down Count Valgaard in single combat. Yet even that triumph now felt like ashes in his mouth.
"Baron," Viktor entered, his heavy steps echoing with fatigue. "The Marquis summons all commanders. We must attend."
Fenrir rose, gripping the chair for balance. His side burned with every breath, but he did not falter. He knew the truth awaited him in that tent: the reality of the war.
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The great pavilion of Marquis Helbrecht loomed in the night like a dark mountain. Torches lined the entrance, shadows of guards flickering against the canvas walls.
Inside, the air was suffocating. Around a massive war table, nobles and generals gathered, their faces worn and grim. Blood still stained their armor, dust clung to their cloaks.
At the head stood Marquis Helbrecht himself. His cloak was torn, his left arm still streaked with dried blood. The map before him was marred with charcoal marks and fresh blotches of red ink.
"All are present," Helbrecht said, his voice low and heavy. "We will begin."
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A weary general stepped forward, voice hoarse.
"My lord Marquis… the left wing has been annihilated. Two of our generals have fallen. Over five thousand men are dead or missing. The survivors are scattered. The enemy banners now stand planted in our soil."
The tent fell into a suffocating silence.
"Our right flank holds," the general continued, glancing at Fenrir, "thanks to Baron Eisenwald. Count Valgaard lies dead, and his men broken. But…" He lowered his head. "That victory cannot outweigh the destruction elsewhere."
Fenrir's fist clenched so tightly that blood seeped through his bandages.
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Helbrecht raised a hand, silencing the murmurs beginning to stir. His gaze swept over them all, steel and sorrow mingled in his eyes.
"We cannot continue this war," he declared. His voice was steady, unyielding.
"We have bled too much. The enemy's center remains untouched, their numbers intact. If we press on, we risk the complete destruction of our army. Therefore…" He drew in a long breath. "At dawn, we retreat. That is my command."
The tent erupted.
"What?!" a Viscount shouted, veins bulging on his neck. "After all this blood, after the young baron's victory, we simply run?"
"Better retreat than bury the rest of us here," a Count countered, his face dark with grief. "The battle is lost. Further fighting means only annihilation."
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Fenrir stepped forward, his voice raw but fierce.
"Marquis… Eisenwald can still fight. My men are disciplined. We can hold the line."
Several heads turned, startled by the audacity of a baron so young to speak against a Marquis.
Helbrecht's gaze locked onto Fenrir's. For a long moment, silence reigned. Then he spoke.
"Baron Eisenwald. Your courage has been proven, your deeds today will be remembered. But this is not about one unit. This is about an army. I will not sacrifice what remains of my forces for pride."
Fenrir's jaw tightened, fury and frustration twisting within him. I can still fight! We can still fight! But deep down, he knew the truth. His voice was a whisper against the tide of command.
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Returning to his place, Fenrir's heart thundered in his chest. For the first time, the weight of hierarchy crushed him utterly. A baron could slay a Count, yet still have no power to alter the fate of a campaign.
So this is the truth of the empire, he thought bitterly. Personal triumph is a pebble in the river of war. The current is dictated by those at the top.
But even as bitterness filled him, another ember flared. One day, I will not be bound by another man's order. One day, I will be the one who commands retreat—or advance.
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Helbrecht slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cups and markers.
"Tomorrow, the retreat begins. Order must be kept. Any soldier who breaks rank or flees on their own will be executed on the spot."
The room fell silent. Nobles and generals bowed their heads, some in anger, some in shame, others in grim acceptance.
Fenrir lowered his gaze, but his eyes glowed like embers beneath the shadow. This defeat is bitter. But I will not forget. From this ruin, the Crimson Wolf will rise stronger.
That night, the decision was sealed: the forces of Luminaria would retreat at dawn.
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