Albert sat in Vastenburg's war council chamber.
The room was vast, cold, and deliberately designed to intimidate. Exposed stone walls bore massive maps hanging from wooden rods. A long table of dark oak stretched down the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs with carved armrests—each chair representing a territory, a military force, a voice in the coming conflict.
Candles in wrought silver candelabra still flickered, though morning light had begun seeping through the narrow windows.
Albert occupied a seat near the table's end. Not a position of honor, but at least he had a chair. Some minor territorial lords hadn't even been invited—they'd receive their orders through messengers.
Sir Varin stood behind him. Luise hadn't been permitted entry—this chamber admitted only unit commanders and their single personal guards. She waited outside with the other guards in the cold, drafty corridor.
Across the table, the nobles began arriving.
First came Earl William vin Valeran—Rodric's father. The man was tall, powerfully built, with blond hair graying at the temples and cold, calculating blue eyes. He seated himself near the table's head, directly beside the Commander. His dark blue cloak bore gold embroidery—the Valeran eagle emblem. His expression remained taut but revealed no excess emotion. If he'd heard about Rodric, he concealed it masterfully.
Second came Lady Mirelle vin Dornenholz. A middle-aged woman with silver-streaked black hair and keen gray eyes. She sat with perfect posture, her green cloak arranged meticulously, gloved hands resting on the table. Albert had caught whispers about her—a widow whose husband fell in battle a decade ago, who ruled her territory with an iron fist.
Third came Lord Harald vin Eisental. An elderly man with a thick white beard and a face crisscrossed with scars. He was a genuine war veteran—not a political noble, but a knight elevated through merit and granted a title as reward. He sat differently from the others. No stiffness, no formality. He sat like someone accustomed to the ground, to tents, to battlefields.
Then the rest. Names and faces Albert catalogued in his memory. Every gesture filed away for future reference.
The Garrison Commander entered precisely as sunlight touched the window ledge. Everyone rose. He waved them back down impatiently.
"Begin," he said, his voice rasping and devoid of pleasantries.
The war council lasted three hours.
Three hours that, for Albert, blended boredom with valuable intelligence—interrupted by a total indifference to his existence.
The massive map was unfurled across the table. Red pins marked enemy positions—Leandria's forces, the neighboring kingdom that had violated their borders. Blue pins marked Helvetia's troops, scattered along the front lines. Black lines traced supply routes, potential attack corridors, defensive weak points.
The Commander discoursed at length about strategy. Earl Valeran interrupted with incisive questions, demonstrating his knowledge of the terrain. Lady Mirelle proposed an alternative approach—using light infantry to disrupt enemy supply lines rather than mounting direct assaults. Lord Harald supported her, his voice heavy with experience.
Albert sat in silence.
No one asked for his input. No one glanced his way. When their gazes passed over his seat, their eyes simply kept moving, as if he were decorative furniture rather than an equal participant. Frankly, it was somewhat insulting...
He was a boy from a minor territory. His force numbered only one hundred fifteen souls—a drop in this ocean of war. No one cared about his opinions. No one would listen even if he spoke.
That suited him fine.
Because while they debated left-flank formations and required archer counts, Albert listened, observed and learned. He needed to understand more about warfare in this era.
He learned that Earl Valeran harbored ambitions beyond mere victory. He wanted his forces positioned honorably, close to the command center, where triumphs would be most visible. He was building his reputation—perhaps angling for something greater.
He learned that Lady Mirelle was intelligent and pragmatic. Her light infantry proposal wasn't merely tactical—it was a method to reduce her own casualties. Dornenholz was renowned for its skilled archers; she wanted them employed properly, not butchered in foolish frontal assaults.
He learned that Lord Harald served as the room's adhesive. When arguments grew heated, he spoke in that low, weighty voice, and everyone fell silent. Not because he wielded political power, but because he possessed experience. He'd witnessed too many battles, too many deaths resulting from foolish decisions. His words carried mass.
And the Commander... the Commander was a politician in military uniform. He listened to everyone, nodded at appropriate moments, then decided according to his own unspoken agenda.
Three hours of discussion, and in the end, the agreed-upon plan differed barely at all from his original proposal.
Efficient? Perhaps. Or perhaps merely a method of maintaining control.
Albert didn't care. What he needed from this meeting wasn't influence over decisions—it was understanding of who made them.
***
The council ended precisely as noon bells tolled.
The nobles rose, some conversing among themselves, others departing immediately with their guards. Albert stood, saluted the Commander, and walked toward the door.
Sir Varin followed behind.
In the corridor, Luise waited with curious expression. "How was the council, My Lord?"
"Tedious," Albert replied. "But useful enough. I'll explain later."
They walked toward the barracks, crossing courtyards bustling with activity. Soldiers hurried past, horses were led away, equipment inspected. In three days, they'd move to their respective positions. The war would begin in earnest.
But before they reached the barracks, someone blocked their path.
Rodric. The youth stood in the middle of the road, face pale, eyes bloodshot. He walked with a slight limp—barely noticeable, but Albert caught it. Behind him, two Valeran guards stood with watchful expressions.
Rodric pointed at Albert with a trembling finger. "YOU!"
Albert stopped. His expression remained unchanged. "Lord Rodric. Is something the matter?"
"Don't pretend!" Rodric stepped forward, but the movement was hampered by pain. He winced, then shouted, "You know what you did to me! Behind the storage shed—"
Albert raised an eyebrow. His face registered perfect confusion. "That time? Forgive me, you mean after the feast? I returned immediately."
"You're pretending!"
"Forgive me, Lord Rodric." Albert regarded him with sincerely puzzled expression. "I don't understand. You yourself said you wanted to be alone, to drink your wine. I left; you stayed. What exactly happened?"
Rodric fell silent. His mouth opened, then closed. His face reddened.
His guards exchanged glances. Nearby soldiers began stopping, taking notice.
Rodric stared at Albert with pure hatred. But he couldn't speak the truth. Couldn't say, 'You crushed my groin so I'll never father children.' Not publicly. Not before these soldiers.
He could only hiss, "You know what you did!"
Albert remained calm. "I don't know, Lord Rodric. But if you feel something went wrong after I departed, perhaps you should ask yourself—what happened after I left?"
The question struck home. Rodric flinched as if slapped.
What happened after you left? A question he couldn't answer without admitting he didn't remember, that he'd been unconscious, that someone—perhaps someone else—had done this to him.
Or worse, that he didn't know who had done it.
Rodric trembled. His fists clenched. But he couldn't attack—not here, not with everyone watching, not with pain still lancing through his groin with every movement.
"Watch yourself," he hissed finally. "Watch yourself. One day, I'll make you regret this!"
He turned and limped away, his guards following.
Albert watched his retreating back. His face remained calm, composed, still displaying that perfect confusion.
But inside, something stirred. Dark and cold.
'Perhaps I should simply eliminate him if he oversteps his bounds.' The words surfaced in his mind unbidden, without warning, without resistance. Like a natural solution to a troublesome problem.
Like disposing of refuse.
Albert flinched. Not from fear—but because he recognized how logical the thought felt.
He clenched his fists, feeling nails dig into his palms. His mind, so clear and cold moments ago, suddenly churned with confusion.
When did I start thinking like this? When did killing become... the first option? Damn it! I actually felt how logical that thought was.
He drew a long breath, exhaled slowly. Cold air filled his lungs, clearing the black fog that had suddenly enveloped his thoughts.
"I'm not an executioner," he whispered. "I'm not."
Sir Varin, standing beside him, regarded him with confusion. "My Lord?"
Albert shook his head. "It's nothing."
They continued toward the barracks.
***
Luise said nothing the entire walk.
She simply followed behind Albert, as always—silent, watchful. But inside her head, something churned.
She'd heard everything.
Not the exchange with Rodric—that happened publicly, everyone could hear. But Albert's whisper afterward, as Rodric departed. Words barely audible, just enough for trained ears to catch.
"I'm not an executioner."
And his tone. Not angry, not afraid. But... bewildered. As if he'd just discovered something about himself, something he didn't like.
Luise studied her lord's back as they entered the barracks. That straight spine, relaxed shoulders, calm stride. Nothing unusual. Nothing revealing what had just transpired inside his head.
But Luise knew. She'd seen it.
Albert's smile as he'd left Rodric behind that shed. The same smile she'd witnessed when Albert emerged from behind the storage shed, alone, while Rodric remained absent. That smile that never reached his eyes.
The smile that said, "It's done."
And now, that smile replaced by confusion. By horror at himself...
Who are you really, Albert vin Götterbaum? Luise wondered. You speak of war, of strategy, of protecting your soldiers. But inside... inside you harbor something. Something you yourself dislike. And you've only just realized it.
Luise didn't know what to feel.
On one hand, she felt grateful. Rodric deserved it. He'd harassed that girl, insulted her, assumed he could do anything because his father was a great noble. Albert had taught him a lesson he'd never forget.
On the other hand... the way Albert had done it. Without anger, without warning. With a smile on his face. And then, the perfect pretense in public, as if nothing had happened.
That was frightening.
Not because it was cruel—war was cruel, life was cruel, Luise knew that. But because Albert had done it so... naturally. As if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Was that what "maintaining sanity" meant? Was that smoke what held him back from being like this all the time?
Luise didn't know. But one thing she knew for certain—she would never view her lord the same way again.
And when Albert sat at his desk in his quarters, produced a cigar, and lit it with flint and steel before applying his sulfur match, Luise simply stood at the threshold, watching.
"My Lord?" she called softly.
Albert turned. Smoke curled from his cigar, forming rings in the air. "Yes?"
"You alright?"
Albert regarded her for a moment. Then he smiled. A different smile from before—more... human.
"I don't know, Luise," he admitted honestly. "But I'll be alright. Probably."
He turned back to the window, gazing at the gray sky beyond. Smoke continued rising, slowly dissipating into the air.
Luise remained at the threshold, silent, waiting. Unsure what to say. Unsure what to feel.
Only certain that her lord, Albert vin Götterbaum, was the most complicated person she had ever encountered. And somehow, she didn't want to leave him.
Three days passed in a blur of pressing activity.
War preparations left no time for introspection. Equipment needed inspection. Soldiers required training. Supplies demanded calculation. Albert immersed himself in work, letting routine drown out the dark thoughts and disturbing memories that kept threatening to surface.
Each night, he sat in his quarters, lit a cigar, and let the smoke carry him away—if only for a few moments. Each night, he stared at the ceiling and asked himself questions.
No answers came. Only smoke.
Luise watched from a distance. She didn't approach, didn't question. Simply remained present, like a promise that she'd be there if needed.
Sir Varin busied himself with the troops, drilling the still-awkward levies, integrating them with the more experienced men-at-arms. Albert joined the training, ensuring he remained visible—a leader who didn't merely sit in council but sweated alongside his soldiers in the field.
The levies began viewing him as a commander they could trust. They watched him train with Wurzel, witnessed his speed and precision, and started believing.
Three days.
On the fourth morning, sunrise painted Vastenburg in bloody orange. The air was cold, bone-piercing, but every soldier had risen, had prepared.
Götthain's forces assembled in the barracks courtyard. One hundred fifteen souls, standing in formation far neater than when they'd arrived. Not perfect soldiers—far from it. But they'd seen combat now, tasted their first blood. They had changed.
Albert stood before them, Wurzel at his hip, his green cloak rippling gently in the morning breeze. Behind him stood Sir Varin and Luise.
"We move today," he announced, his voice clear in the cold air. "Our position is on the left flank, near the forest."
He studied them individually. Those faces—fearful, tense, but also determined.
"I won't lie to you. This war will be difficult. Some of us may not return." He paused briefly. "But I will do everything in my power to bring you back. That is my promise."
Silence. Then, from the ranks, an elderly levy—the same one who'd shouted at Dorian during the ambush—called out, "We trust you, My Lord!"
Others joined in. Not loud, not triumphant. But enough.
Albert nodded. "Move out!"
The column began marching, leaving the barracks behind, leaving Vastenburg behind, heading toward the waiting battlefield.
Behind them, atop the fortress walls, the Commander and several nobles observed. Earl Valeran was absent—probably with Rodric. Lady Mirelle watched Götthain's forces with curious expression. Lord Harald nodded slowly, to no one in particular.
They passed through the gates, leaving the fortress's safety behind, entering territory no longer secure. Götthain's forces marched forward, swallowed by morning mist, disappearing along the road toward the front lines.