Chapter 107 – The Crimson Wolf's March
The dawn over Eisenwald that day was unlike any other.
The marsh fog, usually silent save for birds and insects, was filled instead with the blare of war trumpets, the pounding of armored boots, and the shrill cries of warhorses.
From the castle towers, banners of black and crimson snapped in the morning wind—the crest of the Crimson Wolf, jaws bared in a defiant snarl.
Every villager had poured into the muddy streets, crowding the roadside to witness what had never been seen before: the march of 10,500 soldiers bound for war.
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7,000 Infantry led the procession, shields raised in a wall of iron, spears jutting skyward in perfect rhythm. At their head strode Darius Holt.
Darius was no common commander. He was a veteran of the Internal War of the Luminaria Empire, once a soldier under Marquis Helbrecht himself. His body bore the map of old scars, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. Many had thought he would fade into obscurity after that war, content to live out his years in peace.
But when Fenrir rose, Darius saw something he had never seen in countless nobles before—the iron will of a true leader. And so, he pledged himself anew.
Now his booming voice carried over the ranks:
"Close your shields! Tighten the line! Today, you march not as farmers, but as warriors of Eisenwald!"
The infantry answered with a thunderous crash of spear butts against the earth, echoing like distant thunder.
Behind them came 2,000 Archers, led by Selene Aestra. Long steel bows gleamed in the dawn light, quivers heavy with iron-tipped arrows. Selene's calm gaze swept over her troops, her steps light and precise.
Next thundered 1,000 Cavalry, led by Garrik Stormhoof. Warhorses snorted clouds of steam, hooves pounding the earth like drums of war. Garrik sat tall in the saddle, his horned helm gleaming, every inch a rider born for battle.
300 Scouts and Assassins slipped through the flanks under Lyra Nightshade, shadows in motion. They left no sound, only the faint ripple of cloaks through the mist.
200 Artillerymen followed, under the brawny hands of Roland Ironarm, dragging with them 30 ballistae and catapults, their wooden frames reinforced with Falkenrath steel.
And finally, in deliberate cadence, came the 150 Crimson Knights, commanded by Kael Morgenstern.
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They did not march like the infantry. Their steps were looser, yet their presence pressed upon the crowd like a storm front.
They did not ignite their auras—Fenrir had warned them:
> "Aura is no spectacle. Aura is a weapon. And weapons are drawn only to kill."
Even so, the sheer intensity of their stares made the watching villagers' breath catch. Their swords, wrapped in crimson cloth, glimmered with restrained menace.
Kael walked at their head, his massive blade strapped to his back. His eyes did not wander to the crowd—he was a man carved from iron—but his presence alone reassured the people, even as it unsettled them.
Whispers ran through the crowd:
> "That's Kael Morgenstern, the wandering knight who swore to our lord."
"Look at them… not mere soldiers. They're the hidden fangs of Eisenwald."
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At the very front rode Fenrir, astride a black steed. His black-and-crimson cloak snapped in the wind, his face a mask of cold resolve. Wherever he passed, the villagers erupted in cheers, some weeping openly, some crying out blessings.
An elderly woman raised trembling hands:
"My lord! Protect my sons!"
Children imitated howling wolves, their voices high and wild, echoing down the street.
Among the soldiers, whispers rippled. Some admitted their nerves, others their eagerness. But when their eyes fell on Fenrir, doubts burned away. He was no longer merely their baron—he was the Crimson Wolf, the heart of their defiance.
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Fenrir raised a hand, and the army halted in the great square. At once, the roar of the crowd died to silence.
"Soldiers of Eisenwald!" his voice boomed, carrying far. "They call us swamp filth. They call us wolves without fangs. But look around you—10,500 brothers and sisters standing as one! Today, we march to tear apart the arrogance of three barons!"
The answer was a roar that shook the air—howls of wolves, pounding of shields, the clamor of thousands.
Fenrir's gaze was like steel as he drove the words deeper:
"We are the Crimson Wolf. And wolves never yield!"
The soldiers slammed steel against shields, the sound a thunderous tide rolling through the square.
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The order came. The army advanced.
Mud splashed under tens of thousands of boots. Hooves clattered like war drums. The heavy groan of war engines rolled through the mist.
Infantry shields gleamed in rows. Archers kept their bows high. Cavalry moved like a flowing river of steel. Scouts slipped into the shadows at the flanks. Ballistae groaned forward on creaking wheels. And Crimson Knights stalked like predators beside their lord.
Fenrir looked over the tide of men and steel stretching out before him. 10,500 against 15,000. The numbers were grim. But he knew—discipline, strategy, and will could overturn numbers.
He whispered to himself:
"Once I was just the sickly son of a baron. Now, I lead the fangs of Eisenwald to challenge three territories. Crimson Wolf… today, you are truly born."
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