They ran. Or more accurately, the enemy ran and the Helvetia forces pursued.
Thousands of Leandria soldiers who hours ago had advanced in tight formations now scattered like dry leaves before a storm. Spears, shields, war banners—all abandoned in their wake. The only thing that mattered was survival.
Albert spurred his white horse at the front of the line.
His body had reached its limit. Every muscle, every joint, every bone felt like it was being pulled apart. The wound in his side—he couldn't even remember when he'd received it—seeped fresh blood that soaked through his brigandine. His breath came in short, heavy white puffs, lungs burning like fire.
But he kept advancing. Moving until he could move no more.
Behind him, the Götthain forces followed. Faces he recognized—Kurt with his arm wrapped in dirty cloth, Lukas who'd nearly fled yesterday now running with wild eyes, men-at-arms with dented armor glinting in the sunlight—all of them stared at him with something new in their eyes.
Not just respect. Not just fear. This was something deeper. Something that had no name in any language. Like watching a human transform into something else entirely, unsure whether to worship or flee.
"THEY'RE RUNNING!" someone shouted from the front ranks. "PURSUE! DON'T GIVE THEM TIME TO BREATHE!"
Albert heard the shout as if from the bottom of a well. Distant, muffled, unimportant. What mattered was the enemy ahead. What mattered was the next movement.
An exhausted Leandria soldier stopped in front of him, spinning around with axe raised. His eyes were wild, desperate—he knew he would die, but perhaps he could take one enemy with him.
Albert didn't give him the chance. The white horse swept past him. Wurzel struck from the side, catching his neck, severing head from body. The soldier fell without a sound.
Twenty meters ahead, a small cluster of enemies tried to form a defensive line. Perhaps ten men. Albert guided his horse toward them.
"MY LORD!" Luise's shout came from behind. "LET OTHER UNITS HANDLE THEM!"
Albert didn't hear. Something had happened to his hearing.
He'd already crashed into the center of the group. Wurzel slashed right—one fell. A pivot, slash left—two fell. The white horse kicked; a soldier's chest crumpled, and he flew backward, never to rise again.
Three others tried to run. Albert chased the nearest, slashing across his back. He sprawled face-first into the dirt.
The remaining two reached the underbrush, disappearing into the trees.
Albert stopped, gasping for breath. His chest heaved like a dying pump. Around him, corpses littered the grass, wet with blood and morning dew.
He should have collapsed long ago, but adrenaline and that insane drive to keep moving until movement became impossible kept him upright.
"MY LORD!"
Luise appeared beside him, face flushed, sweat streaming from beneath her helmet. Behind her, the Götthain forces began gathering, forming a semicircle around him. Those faces... Albert caught a glimpse. Awe. Fear. Disbelief.
But he had no time for that. Ahead, hundreds of enemies still fled. Still opportunities to eliminate more.
He pulled the reins, ready to advance again. But Luise reached out, gripping his horse's reins.
"ENOUGH!"
Her voice was sharp, cutting through the noise. For the first time, Albert heard that tone from her—not a request, but a command.
"We've won here. Other units can handle the remnants."
Albert stared at her. Those purple eyes—usually watchful, usually cold—now blazed with something he couldn't identify. Anger? Fear? Concern? He didn't know.
"I can still fight," he said. His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
"I know." Luise didn't release the reins. "But you can also die if you keep this up. And these troops need their Lord alive, not dead."
Albert wanted to argue. Wanted to say that even if he died—he'd drag as many enemy soldiers with him as possible.
But the words wouldn't come. Because dying here, in this world, might hurt more than a drone explosion.
His body chose that moment to remind him he was human. Pain. Sudden, overwhelming, from everywhere. The wound in his side. The wound in his shoulder. Bruises covering every inch. Dizziness that made the world spin. His vision began to blur.
"MY LORD!"
Luise's voice sounded distant. Albert felt his body tilt, falling from the horse. Or maybe he'd already fallen. He couldn't tell.
Hands caught him before he hit the ground. Rough, urgent, but warm.
"HELP ME!" Luise shouted. "FIND A SAFE PLACE! QUICKLY!"
Then darkness.
***
The world returned gradually.
First, sound. Fire crackling, voices whispering, footsteps on earth. Occasional groans from a distance—perhaps the recovery tents, perhaps the wounded.
Second, smell. Wood smoke, bitter herbs—Gerit must have been working—and beneath it all, the scent of iron and blood that had seeped into his clothes, into his skin, as if it would never wash away.
Third, pain. Not the sharp pain of a fresh cut, but a dull, pervasive ache, as if his entire body had been beaten with hammers.
Albert opened his eyes.
A tent ceiling. Dirty brown canvas, illuminated by the dim light of a lantern beside him. His body lay on thick blankets—not a bed, but at least not on the ground.
He tried to move. Mistake. Pain radiated from his side through his entire body, making him wince.
"Don't move yet." That voice. Luise.
Albert turned his head—slowly, very slowly. Luise sat in a chair beside him, her armor removed, wearing only a tunic. Her black hair was disheveled, dark circles under her eyes. In her hand, a metal cup emitted thin steam.
"You passed out," she said. "Four hours... Gerit said you lost a lot of blood and your body... he said it was 'depleted'." She shrugged. "I didn't understand. What matters is you're alive."
Albert stared at her. Wanted to ask so many things. How many had died? Where were the troops positioned? Had the enemy truly retreated? But his mouth was too dry to speak.
Luise seemed to read his thoughts. She offered the cup. "Drink first. Water, not medicine."
Albert took it with trembling hands. The water was cool, fresh, flowing down his throat. He drank until it was empty, then finally asked, "The troops?"
Luise smiled faintly. A smile he rarely saw. "Intact. Three lightly wounded, the rest exhausted but mobile. Kurt led them to camp nearby, alongside Eisental's forces. Lord Harald himself ordered us to rest."
"The enemy?"
"Total retreat. Their commander died by your hand, the left flank collapsed, the center crumbled. They've retreated across the river. For now, we've won."
Albert closed his eyes. For now. Those words carried weight. This war wasn't over, only paused. Tomorrow or the next day, they would come again...
"Sir Varin?"
"Still alive. His fever's down. Gerit says he'll survive, but needs weeks to recover."
Albert nodded slowly. Relief, small relief.
Silence settled between them. The sound of campfires outside drifted in clearly—wood crackling, sparks popping, and occasionally soldiers laughing softly. Strange laughter after battle. The laughter of those still alive.
Albert felt drowsiness creeping back. His eyes grew heavy. His body—for the first time since... since when?—began to surrender.
"Sleep," Luise said. "I'll keep watch."
"You need rest too."
"Later." She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. "Now sleep."
Albert wanted to argue. But his body was beyond negotiation.
Eyes closed. Breathing slowed. The world faded.
Luise watched him.
Albert slept. For the first time, she saw her lord without a mask, without tension on his face, without those hollow eyes staring at something no one else could see, without that faint smile that never reached his eyes.
Just a young man. Perhaps younger than she'd thought—fifteen years, but his sleeping face... twelve? Thirteen? She didn't know. What was clear was that while sleeping, he looked like a normal human.
Not the demon who'd slaughtered thirty men alone. Not the engine of war who'd chased enemies with open wounds. Not the figure who made Leandrian soldiers flee in terror at the mere sight of his shadow.
Just an exhausted boy.
Luise exhaled deeply. Her hand reached for a blanket hanging on the back of her chair—a spare blanket, thick, slightly dirty—and carefully covered Albert's body. Her movements were slow, almost gentle.
Her hand paused briefly on his shoulder. Warm...
"You're truly an idiot," she whispered. "Going alone into the enemy's midst, then killing their commander. Almost dying." She shook her head. "What are you trying to prove?"
No answer. Only Albert's slow, steady breathing.
Luise sat back in her chair, drawing a long breath. Outside, the soldiers' voices faded. Perhaps they were sleeping too. Perhaps tomorrow there'd be another battle. Or the next day. Or next week.
But tonight, in this tent, there was only her and her sleeping lord.
She remembered the first time she'd seen Albert at Götthain. A noble boy with eyes too old for his age. Her grandfather, Gregor, had said, "Watch over him. He's strange, but he's good." Luise had only nodded then, accepting the task as usual.
She hadn't expected "strange" to mean this.
She hadn't expected "good" to mean willing to die for the people he led.
And she hadn't expected to sit here, in a dirty tent in the middle of a battlefield, watching her lord sleep, and feeling something she couldn't explain...
Perhaps... curiosity. And perhaps, a little concern. A small desire for this foolish child to stay alive.
Luise shook her head, smiling to herself. "See what you've done to me," she whispered. "I've gone soft."
She rested her head against the chair back, closing her eyes. Not sleeping—she remained alert, as always. But at least she could rest a little.
Beside her, Albert continued sleeping. His breathing was slow. His face was calm.