The road leading to Ferrumia had turned into a black river of people. In the distance, the column seemed endless – ten thousand, perhaps fifteen thousand Ferralian soldiers, no one could say for certain. The mass moved slowly towards Dragospire, like a wounded beast refusing to fall. The dust raised by thousands of boots mingled with the morning mist, forming a dull curtain where silhouettes blended together, tall and hunched, like shadows ripped from the ground.
From afar, one could see the exhaustion before seeing the faces. The ranks no longer marched with their former precision; there were irregular gaps, steps out of sync, shoulders slumped under the weight of packs and weapons. Some soldiers walked with their heads down, as if afraid to meet their own thoughts and daring to lift their gaze. Others stared at the empty horizon with dead eyes, like those who had already seen too many cities burn and too many comrades left behind.
Yet still, the uniforms remained. Black as coal, black as mourning – the Ferralian coats continued to command respect, even worn by use and dried blood. The fabric was frayed at the elbows, torn along some flanks, stained with mud and gunpowder, yet it retained its sombre colour, absorbing the light like an omen. The metal buttons, once polished, were dull; the straps creaked with each step; the bayonets hung, opaque but sharp enough to remind any villager that this army, however tired, still knew how to kill.
The black flags advanced, folded by the weak wind, some torn, others reduced to proud rags, but none fallen. This was where the true threat lay: Ferrumia did not march with enthusiasm – it marched with stubbornness. It was not confidence that kept them upright, but the habit of war, discipline ingrained in their bones, and the fear of what would happen if they stopped.
By the side of the main road, Lucien Darcos held three thousand rebels buried in the earth like worms waiting for rain. The trenches were shallow, barely dug with blunt shovels and bloodied hands; they were not meant to last, only to kill. The low stone and wood walls, hastily erected, broke the line of the ground at irregular angles, offering little protection against artillery, but enough to stop an initial wave of infantry. Darcos's soldiers crouched in silence, faces covered in dried mud, muskets resting on unstable edges, fingers stiff from cold and tension.
Further back, where the terrain sloped gently into a grey valley, were the Winter Wolves. Two thousand mercenary cavalry, hidden in reserve, motionless like a predator lying in the snow. Elizaveta kept them on a short rein, their pale cloaks covered with dust and leaves, helmets muffled with cloth to avoid reflecting light, horses held still by firm hands and low murmurs. There were no banners, no trumpets, only the contained breathing of men, women, and animals, and the certainty that when they struck, they would do so like a cold blade between the enemy's ribs – fast, unexpected, and lethal.
Above them all, on the wooded slope of a forgotten hill, were Dante and five hundred other rebels hidden among trunks and thick foliage, wrapped in the damp smell of moss and ancient earth. They had carried crude urns, dark cloth bags, and wooden boxes – the last ashes of Minierossa's dead, kept as relics and as weapons. They were neither gunpowder nor steel, but a memory of hatred reduced to dust.
Dante watched the valley in silence, his face hard as cold iron. The plan required neither bravery nor glory, only patience. If all went well, the Ferralian army could be defeated without a battle worthy of the name.
Lucien would be the bait. It was up to him and those under his command to lure the Ferralians into the trap and hold out as long as possible, even when the ground shook beneath enemy boots and the gunpowder smoke made the air unbreathable. Only when the Ferralians were locked in combat, distracted by the muskets' fire, the clash of bayonets, and the chaos of the front line, would the signal be given, the urns opened, and the ashes of the dead released to the wind as a final act of war.
At the signal, the rebels would cover their mouths and noses with thick cloths, fabrics that had been prepared in advance. They would breathe with difficulty, yes, but they would breathe. The Ferralians would be offered no such protection. The ashes would get in their eyes, stick to their throats, burn their lungs like a cursed dust. It was not an honourable weapon, but war seldom was.
And if everything failed – if the wind changed, if the enemy advanced too quickly, if panic spread on the wrong side – then the final card would be played. Elizaveta would send her Wolves in a brutal charge, emerging from reserve with the sole purpose of killing swiftly and without mercy. At the same time, Dante would open fire from the top of the hill, and his five hundred rebels would turn the slope into a line of death.
The Ferralian advance, methodical as expected, brought them dangerously close to Lucien's positions. Dante clenched his jaw, not yet, it was still too early, and raised his hand, signalling the five hundred around him to wait for his cue, urns pressed against their chests like portable graves.
The wind shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, blowing from the hill into the valley, and the moment felt right to Dante, who lowered his hand.
– Now!
Lids fell to release the ashes of the dead, and a grey dust rose into the air like a profane mist. The wind caught it with voracity and hurled it at the Ferralian ranks. In seconds, the soldiers in black began to choke, rub their eyes, stumble over one another. Some fell to their knees, others collapsed face-first into the ground, arms trembling, bodies suffocating in horrified silence. Some tried to flee, breaking formation, but few succeeded. The compact mass turned into a confusion of muffled screams and falling bodies.
From above, the victory seemed easy. Too easy.
Dante felt a strange chill in his stomach, a discomfort unrelated to the wind and ashes. The battle seemed won in moments, with minimal losses among the rebels. There had been no proper charge, only men and women falling like dead leaves.
We've won too quickly, Dante thought.
With a tense gesture, Dante removed his monocle and wiped it on his sleeve before inspecting the battlefield again, now with renewed attention. Among the scattered corpses and the survivors writhing on the ground, he spotted Lucien, standing amid the dead, his cloak stained with ash and blood, surrounded by a small, equally motionless escort.
But suddenly, Lucien lifted his gaze and met Dante's from the top of the hill. He began flailing his arms in desperation, making broad, frantic gestures, not of victory, but of warning.
A grey gas was forming around Dante, low and silent, creeping between the tree trunks, curling around boots, and slowly rising up legs, torsos, and faces. No one noticed immediately, their eyes were fixed on the valley, assessing the victory they believed assured. When the smell arrived – metallic, bitter, impossible to ignore – it was already too late.
Dante brought his hand to his throat, suddenly dry, his lungs burning as if rubbed with hot ash. This is the Grey Protocol, Dante remembered. Lucien's words, written in an old letter, returned to his mind like a cursed echo. An extreme plan, a last resort of Ferralia. Dante felt panic rising through his chest. He tore a cloth from his waist and tried to cover his mouth and nose, breathing as little as possible, but his body had already betrayed him.
The coughing came first – dry, violent – followed by a hot, metallic taste on his tongue. Dante spat onto the leaf-strewn ground and saw the dark red mix with the grey of the mist. Around him, the rebels began to double over, hands on their knees, some collapsing to the earth, others vomiting and choking in silence. The horror spread faster than any scream.
Iago was there, just a few steps away. His face, hardened by combat, was now contorted in pain. He was coughing too, the cloth poorly in place, his eyes glazed. When their gazes met, there were no words; only the belated understanding that they had been caught in the enemy's snare.
Dante forced himself to lift his eyes, even as the world wavered around him, and through the grey mist and the pain hammering his chest, he saw movement in the valley. Lines. Columns. The heavy, unmistakable rhythm of an army on the march. The Ferralians were advancing once more.
The sight seemed absurd, impossible. Moments ago they had been destroyed, swallowed by the ashes, broken by panic, scattered across the ground like lifeless dolls. Dante blinked, convinced that the gas was playing one final cruelty on him. But no. The black silhouettes held firm, organised, advancing with the cold discipline that Ferralia had instilled since childhood.
– No… – he murmured, his voice reduced to a hoarse thread.
But he understood, or at least chose to understand, that this was not the same army. It had to be another, possibly the reserve. Fresh soldiers, kept out of the trap, waiting for the right moment to advance. The thought brought him a strange sense of relief – if there was another army, then the plan had not failed entirely; it had merely been insufficient.
Blood rose again in his throat, but Dante swallowed with effort. He straightened as much as his body would allow and raised his arm, still trembling.
– Bayonets… – he said, the word torn by coughs. – Fix… the bayonets.
Around him, the rebels obeyed more out of instinct than force. Trembling hands fitted blades to the muzzles of muskets. The steel made a dry, definitive sound, like a verdict. Many could barely stand; others bled from nose and mouth; some no longer moved. Still, they lined up, because it was all that remained to them.
Dante drew a difficult breath and pointed to the valley.
– Down the hill – he ordered, coughing with every breath, but raising his sword. – Now.
The five hundred began descending the hill, first slowly, then faster, turning pain into motion, despair into momentum.
They moved between trees and stones, emerging from the grey mist like spectres torn from a mass grave. Pale faces, red eyes, mouths open in hoarse screams that sounded more like laments than battle cries. The blood mingled with ash, running over the skin like profane symbols. Some rebels no longer shouted – they simply advanced in silence, bayonets pointed, faces empty.
When the Ferralians saw them, the new black line wavered. Some soldiers lowered their muskets, others took a step back. What came from the hill did not seem like an army, but a curse. Many Ferralians made the sign of the gods, muttering hurried prayers. A whisper spread – undead, avengers, sent by the gods of death to punish Ferralia for its sins.
Some tried to fire, but their hands shook too much. Others dropped their weapons and fled without even looking back. Entire ranks broke, people pushing people, officers shouting orders that no one heard. Terror ran faster than any cavalry charge.
Dante and his men passed through the first line almost unopposed. Where they expected resistance, they found panic. Where they expected steel, they found turned backs. The rebels fell, yes – some collapsed mid-run, overcome by the gas or by the final exertion – but those who reached the enemy lines fought with the fury of those who had nothing left to lose.
Victory came without chants. Dante stood in the middle of the valley, sword still raised, when he realised that the silence settling was not that of an enemy surrender – it was death collecting its due. The Ferralians had fled. The black flags lay abandoned. The charge had been a success and the battle won. But those who had followed him were beginning to fall.
One by one, the rebels doubled over themselves, like marionettes whose strings had been cut. Some fell to their knees before collapsing face-first into the earth. Others tried to speak, to call for someone, but could only spit thick, dark blood that ran from the corners of their mouths and down their chins. The grey gas still lingered within them, slowly burning what remained of their lungs.
Dante took a few steps forward, dazed, his heart too heavy for his chest, and it was then that he saw Iago.
His lieutenant lay on his side, propped on an elbow, his whole body trembling. The cloth he had used to cover his face was soaked red. Iago struggled to breathe, each inhalation a visible effort, each exhalation accompanied by a wet, horrible sound, like air passing through hot water.
Dante knelt beside him, and Iago opened his eyes, glazed, already half-blind with pain. He tried to smile, but could not.
– Dante… – he managed to say between violent fits of coughing.
Blood poured from his mouth in gushes, staining the ground and his already unrecognisable uniform. His chest heaved in spasms, as if something was tearing him from within. He brought his hand to his own chest, fingers digging into the fabric, as if he could tear the pain away by force.
– Air… – he whispered, almost voiceless. – It… it won't… enter…
Dante held his head, powerless, feeling Iago's body tremble ever more weakly. Each breath was shorter than the last. Iago's eyes filled with tears – not of fear, but of pure, raw, intolerable suffering.
His coughing returned, now more violent. His body arched one last time, and a final spurt of blood escaped his lips, hot against Dante's hand. After that, the sound ceased, his chest stopped rising, and Iago's fingers loosened slowly, as if releasing something invisible.
Dante pulled Iago to him, wrapping him in a trembling, desperate embrace, as if his warmth could return by holding him tightly enough.
– I'm sorry… – he murmured, voice almost inaudible. – Sorry for everything.
The words came broken, drowned in a dry sob that no longer had tears. He pressed his forehead to Iago's, feeling the cold settle where life had once been.
– Thank you – he continued. – For never leaving me. For being with me… since Minierossa. From the beginning. Five years… always by my side.
Dante stayed there for a few moments, cradling Iago's body as if it were still possible to protect him, as if the war had not already claimed what it came for. Then, strength finally left him. His arm slackened, and the world tilted.
His last breath escaped his lips without pain, almost with relief. And in that final instant, he was no longer there. He was in Minierossa.
He saw the streets blackened with soot, heard the distant sound of the furnaces, smelled the hot iron. Mária was there, standing firm as always, looking at him with that mixture of hardness and care, as if she could endure any pain for him. Iago laughed, alive, whole, with that laugh that had never been enough to dispel the fatigue of five years of war. Elias argued strategies with youthful fervour, for a moment ignoring the weight of his years pressing down on him. Dante felt every gesture, every small moment of humanity the war had nearly stolen from him.
His final thought was a sigh: no victory was worth the cost, no glory could erase the guilt, only the desire to have done, to have saved more, to have protected those that he loved.