Tiberius nearly jumped for joy.
Champagne time, baby!
He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the grin off his face. Jules and Vito were still in the tent, so he forced his expression into something appropriately grim.
Gastor… you glorious, short-sighted idiot… your entire family just became my personal guardian angels. Seven Gods, how do I even thank you?
All his earlier worry and frustration vanished like morning mist.
Frontline charges? Smashing head-first into Volantene war elephants and super-heavy cataphracts? To hell with that. He had never expected the Lightning Company to accomplish anything meaningful in that kind of meat grinder anyway. Surviving with half the men still breathing would have been a miracle.
His real goal had always been the same: keep this army — the one he had poured blood and sweat into building, the one tied to the Rogare family's future — alive. Keep Lysaro safe. Keep Uncle Jules and the White Company veterans breathing.
And now, thanks to Gastor Ferrero, every single person he wanted to protect had been neatly moved to the safe, quiet second line, far from the slaughter.
Tiberius had been losing sleep worrying whether Jules and the White Company would get thrown into the worst of the fighting. That fear was now officially dead.
Everyone's squatting in the rear together now. Hahahaha!
No war elephants, no crashing into dense spear walls. Just patrol the corridor, stand guard, and maybe chase off the occasional small raiding party.
Good times are coming.
Of course, none of this showed on his face. He looked at the still-fuming Lysaro and Vito, arranged his expression into one of shared outrage and solidarity, and spoke in a low, steady voice.
"They don't want us to win glory because they're jealous of what we can do. Lysaro, it's not just jealousy — they're afraid of your father's influence!"
He gave Lysaro's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then let his voice harden with determination.
"But battlefield opportunities aren't only at the very front. Since they've put us here, we'll hold this ground better than anyone. We'll show every last one of them that even on the Flank Corridor, the White Company and Lightning Company are still a force to be reckoned with."
"Well said." Jules's usually stone-like face showed a flicker of approval. "Exactly. We will prove the White Company can carry out any mission they give us."
But in his heart, Jules was already growing suspicious.
Something's off. Why is this little bastard suddenly cheering us up… and trying to tell a story?
Every time Tiberius started spinning one of his little tales, someone always ended up regretting it.
---
On a low hill that overlooked part of the camp, Tiberius and Jules stood side by side, watching the chaotic scene below.
Tyroshi battle groups were unmistakable — six hundred men each, decked out in garish, colorful armor, laughing and shouting as they polished overly ornate weapons like they were heading to a parade instead of war.
Myr's core fighting strength was its centurions and chiliarchs. Right now those officers stood tall, chests puffed out, soaking up flattery from their men while openly discussing how many slaves and how much gold they'd claim after victory. The air was thick with the giddy, almost festival-like arrogance of men who already thought they'd won.
And Lys… well, Lys was the odd one out. The city had no standing army at all. Its citizen militia only defended the home islands. For real fighting, Lys relied entirely on hired mercenaries and hastily armed slave legions.
So naturally, the Lysene forces were the most motley of all.
From where Tiberius stood, he saw men from every corner of the known world: Qohorik axemen, Unsullied, Ghiscari heavy infantry, even a few Westerosi hedge knights.
But the majority were freshly recruited slave soldiers with almost no armor, and swaggering sellswords whose faces shone with the blind confidence of men who had never truly seen war.
Tiberius's brows drew together tightly as he watched them.
"Uncle," he asked, voice cautious, "why does the entire army of the Three Daughters look so… relaxed? It's like they think this is an armed parade. Anyone watching would assume Volantis has already surrendered, begged us to take their wives and daughters as slaves, and offered to hand over everything west of the Rhoyne."
His mind flashed back to an old saying from his previous world.
Pride comes before a fall.
The expressions on these soldiers' faces were textbook examples.
Jules stood with his arms folded across his broad chest. His weathered bronze face showed little emotion, but his sharp eyes missed nothing of the reckless excitement below.
He let out a soft, almost inaudible snort at Tiberius's question.
"Why? Because they've been blinded by gold and the promise of slaves, boy." Jules's voice was low and steady, carrying the cold realism only an old veteran could manage. "The Three Daughters went all-in this time. And the bards have been singing that Volantis is a paper tiger, fat and ripe for the taking. These men…" He gestured at the noisy crowds below.
"…only see the plunder, the glory, the easy victory. They've forgotten to check whether their own bones are strong enough to survive Volantene iron and elephant feet."
He turned to look at Tiberius, eyes deep and serious. "So remember this, Tiberius — no matter what happens, a commander must never lose his head. But showing arrogance is even worse. Your soldiers will mirror your mood. When you panic, they break and run. When you grow arrogant, they grow careless. Never forget that."
"As for why they're so cocky…" Jules's tone turned bitter. "It all comes from that so-called 'great victory' in the 96 AC Border War."
His voice carried a rare trace of anger. "The official story only tells you the Three Daughters won, that we drove Volantis back across the river. They never mention the cost."
"Tiberius, let me tell you what that cost really was. Entire mercenary companies — some larger and older than the White Company — vanished forever into the sands and blood of the Disputed Lands. Tyrosh lost thirteen full battle groups of six hundred veteran soldiers each. Thirteen! The Archon was poisoned in his own palace by his own governors afterward. Myr lost over forty centurions — a full quarter of their officer corps. Their army was gutted."
He paused, letting the numbers sink in.
"But in the songs and official proclamations, Volantis suddenly became a weak, toothless lion. As if we only need to march over there, bang our shields, wave our swords, and shout a bit, and they'll all piss themselves and run."
"It's only been three years. Three years! Yet I already don't recognize half the banners down there."
Finally, Jules delivered his verdict on the poor fools below:
"A bunch of green boys who've swallowed pretty victory stories and heroic ballads. They came here chasing dreams of wealth and glory, thinking they're the heroes of some epic. They think they'll return covered in honor…"
He shook his head.
"I just hope they don't all end up as corpses on the Disputed Lands, picked clean by wild dogs and vultures."
Jules didn't finish the thought, but the unspoken warning hung heavy in the air.
If the frontline collapsed, this "safe" rear position would instantly become the most dangerous death trap of all.
"I understand, Uncle." Tiberius's voice grew solemn. "We'll hold the Flank Corridor. But… we should also prepare for the worst."
---