Chapter 112 – Shadows of the Second Dawn
The night crept slowly across the battlefield. Cold winds swept the open plains, and the half-hidden moon glowed faintly behind thin clouds. Fires burned in countless clusters, scattered across the vast field like stars fallen to earth. Smoke curled into the sky, carrying the heavy scent of blood, sweat, and steel.
The first day of battle had ended. Eisenwald had held. More than that—they had won. But Fenrir knew too well: today's triumph was only a prelude. The true weight of war would come with the dawn.
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In the heart of the enemy camp, a massive command tent loomed, banners swaying in the wind. The black wolf of Falkenhain, the red eagle of Altenburg, and the green dragon of Drachenfels fluttered side by side.
Inside, three barons sat around a round table. Their faces were harsh, shadows from the torches deepening their wrinkles.
Baron Falkenhain, eldest and strongest among them, broke the silence. His eyes were like blades. "On the first day, we were humiliated. Not by a Marquis. Not by a Count. But by a boy… a baron of the swamps."
Altenburg slammed his fist onto the table. "You saw it! His infantry held. His archers struck our cavalry down. Every move we made was anticipated, as if he was reading the battlefield like an open book."
Drachenfels growled. "Bah. They only scraped a narrow win. Tomorrow we crush them with full strength."
But Falkenhain shook his head slowly, his voice low and heavy. "You are blind, Drachenfels. That boy is no ordinary baron. I saw him with my own eyes—standing at the front, sword in hand. And more than that… he wields aura."
Both Altenburg and Drachenfels stiffened. Aura—the line that separated ordinary warriors from legends.
Falkenhain leaned forward, his scarred lips curling into a cold grin. "Tomorrow, I will test him myself. If he truly dares to rise, I will break him beneath my blade."
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On the opposite side, the Eisenwald camp was far humbler. Their tents were plain, their fires smaller. But discipline ran deep, and focus filled every corner.
Inside his command tent, Fenrir sat at the head of the table. Maps lay sprawled before him, marked with the scars of the day's clash. His commanders surrounded him, each waiting for his word.
Darius Holt was the first to speak. "The infantry line held, but just barely. If they push harder tomorrow, our men will shatter without a new plan."
Fenrir's eyes studied the map in silence before replying, his voice calm yet sharp. "Then we do not meet their strength head-on. We rotate the lines. Every hundred paces, fresh ranks take the front while the tired fall back. They will think us weary, but they will bleed themselves against a wall that never falls."
Selene Aestra frowned, her fingers tracing the marks of archers on the parchment. "Arrows are running low. If I fire recklessly, by the third day we'll be blind."
"Then you fire only at their cavalry," Fenrir said firmly. "Break their horses, and their charges crumble before they reach us."
Roland Ironarm grunted. "The ballistae will fire only if they gather tight. Otherwise, every bolt is worth more saved than wasted."
Fenrir's lips curved faintly. "Good. This war is not brute force. It is calculation."
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For a heartbeat, his mind drifted back to the books and doctrines of his past world. The Art of War. Clausewitz. The Thirty-Six Stratagems.
War is not about destruction—it is about leaving the enemy unable to fight.
He opened his eyes. "Tomorrow we fight a war of attrition. We let them scream, we let them push, but we do not break. We drain them—slowly, surely—until their spirit rots away."
Darius snorted, a grin tugging at his scarred lips. "Madness. But damn it, I like it."
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Garrik Stormhoof slammed the butt of his spear on the ground. "If they throw their weight at the center, let me and Kael strike from the flanks. Once they loosen their grip, we'll drive into the breach."
Kael Morgenstern stepped forward, his tone even, eyes gleaming. "My lord, the Crimson Knights need no chains. We are not a line—we are your blade. Unleash us where the enemy least expects it, and we will carve their heart out."
Fenrir nodded once. "That is why you are here, Kael. You and the Crimson Knights will be my hand of judgment. You will strike when the moment comes."
Lyra Nightshade spoke softly, her voice no louder than a whisper, yet every ear heard it. "I can probe their camp before dawn. Learn where their next hammer blow will fall. But my scouts may not return."
Fenrir's gaze hardened. "Take the risk. A hundred lives tomorrow may hang on one scrap of knowledge tonight."
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Outside the tent, Eisenwald's soldiers gathered around their fires. Some bound wounds. Some sharpened blades. Others simply stared into the flames, the weight of tomorrow heavy in their hearts.
Whispers rose in the darkness.
"Our lord… he's not like other nobles. He leads from the front."
"I saw his eyes today. Like a wolf's. Hungry, unyielding."
"Tomorrow will be worse. Can we hold?"
"We can. As long as he stands, so do we."
Fear and faith mingled in equal measure.
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When the council dispersed, Fenrir stepped outside. The night air bit at his skin, but his mind was still sharp as a blade. Kael approached, his footsteps steady.
"My lord," Kael said quietly, his tone respectful yet heavy. "Tomorrow will not only test your army. It will test your name. Falkenhain's eyes are on you."
Fenrir turned, firelight glinting in his eyes. "Then let him look. What he sees tomorrow, he will never forget."
Kael's lips curved faintly. "The Crimson Knights are ready. Tomorrow, the battlefield will know who we serve."
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Morning crept upon the plains. The horizon turned gray, then pale gold. Dew clung to blades of grass, glistening in the weak light.
Fenrir stood at the front of his lines. 10,500 soldiers of Eisenwald stood ready—infantry with shields locked, archers with bows taut, cavalry mounted, artillery poised, Crimson Knights silent but deadly.
Across the field, banners of the three barons rose like a storm. 15,000 men, their drums thundered, their lines stretched to the horizon.
The second day of war had arrived.
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