Chapter 85 – Return to Eisenwald
Steps Home
Three days of retreat had broken the spirit of many. Helbrecht's banners fluttered weakly as the remnants of his host finally reached safety. Of the tens of thousands who had marched, only a portion returned with order intact. Many units had lost their banners, their leaders, and their honor.
But Eisenwald was different. Though reduced from 3,150 to little over 2,100, they marched home in formation. Shields still raised, spears still steady, and the black-and-red wolf banner still flew defiantly.
At the head rode Fenrir. His face was pale, his wounds still raw, but his gaze was sharp as steel. He knew this war had ended in bitter defeat. Yet from that bitterness, a name had been carved into history—a name that now echoed far beyond his marshland home.
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When Eisenwald's column crossed back into their marshlands, they found people waiting. Villagers stood along the muddy roads with lanterns in hand, women brought water, and children waved torn pieces of cloth like flags.
"They've returned… Eisenwald has returned!"
Tears broke across the crowd. Sons ran to fathers who had survived, wives clutched husbands still alive. Some families wailed in grief at names never to return, yet even amidst the mourning, there was pride.
For though Eisenwald's men had bled and died, they returned not in disgrace but in honor.
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At the manor gates stood Elena, her once golden hair now streaked with silver. Her hands trembled as Fenrir dismounted, his armor dented, blood still staining the bandages beneath.
"Fenrir…"
She grasped his hand, then pulled him into her arms, heedless of the grime and pain.
"You came back… my son, you truly came back."
Fenrir closed his eyes, leaning into her warmth for a fleeting moment. But when he pulled away, his eyes blazed with the fire of resolve.
"Mother… I swear. I will not stop until Eisenwald stands as an equal among the greatest powers of this world."
Elena cupped his face, tears sliding down her cheeks. "You are so much like your father… but with eyes fiercer still."
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Meanwhile, the story of Eisenwald spread faster than the returning march. Merchants, scouts, and messengers carried the tale from city to city:
"A young baron slew Count Valgaard in single combat!"
"They call him the Crimson Wolf of Eisenwald!"
"Even in retreat, his army marched with discipline unlike the rest!"
From taverns to noble halls, the name Fenrir Eisenwald spread like wildfire. Some were astonished, some envious, others alarmed. A baron who once governed a forgotten swamp had stepped onto the stage of empire.
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Days later, in the manor's great hall, Fenrir sat with his commanders—Viktor, Selene, Garrik, Lyra, and Roland. Their bodies bore wounds, but their eyes remained fierce.
"We lost many," Viktor said gravely. "But we returned with honor. That's more than most can claim."
Selene added, "The villagers whisper your name, Fenrir. Crimson Wolf. It spreads with each passing day."
Fenrir traced a rough map onto the wooden table with charcoal. "A name isn't enough. We saw how small we are compared to the might of tens of thousands. If we want to survive, we must build bigger—our army, our trade, our land."
Lyra smirked faintly. "And to grow bigger, Baron… we'll need more enemies."
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Fenrir ordered the construction of a monument at the edge of the village. A massive stone was raised, and on it were carved the names of every Eisenwald soldier who had fallen in the war.
During the ceremony, the entire populace gathered. Fenrir stood before them, sword unsheathed, a faint crimson aura burning despite his weariness.
"Their names will not be forgotten. Because of their blood, we still stand. Because of them, Eisenwald lives. And with their memory, I swear—one day, Eisenwald will no longer be the smallest among nobles. One day, we will be the fangs that pierce the world's heart."
The crowd wept and roared in unison, some crying "Crimson Wolf! Crimson Wolf!" as they bowed to their young lord.
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That night, Fenrir stood alone atop the manor's small watchtower. The marsh winds howled, the moon casting pale light across the land once stained with blood.
His gaze stretched far: north, east, west—toward foes and rivals alike.
"This war was only the beginning. I am not finished."
His hand tightened on the hilt of his blade, crimson eyes reflecting the moon.
"The Crimson Wolf's hunt has only begun."
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