Chapter 144 – The People's Festival of Eisenwald
That night, the skies of Eisenwald glittered with countless stars. A full moon hung bright and heavy, bathing the newly completed Eisenwald Citadel in silver light. The fortress rose on the hill like a crown of stone, its towers gleaming as if to challenge heaven itself.
Beneath it, the town pulsed with life. Torches lined every street, and red banners bearing the wolf sigil of Eisenwald fluttered from every rooftop. The air was rich with the aroma of roasted meats, fresh bread, sweet wine, and smoke from firewood.
"This night is for everyone," Fenrir had declared earlier that day. "There will be no nobles or peasants, no divide between soldier and farmer. Tonight, all eat at the same table."
And so, in the vast plaza at the citadel's base, thousands gathered. Soldiers, merchants, artisans, farmers, women, and children—the entire spectrum of society stood shoulder to shoulder, laughter mingling with music and firelight.
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Music roared from drums, lutes, and pipes. At the center of the plaza, a massive bonfire crackled, sending sparks high into the sky.
Dozens of long tables stretched across the square, laden with roasted boars, steaming pots of stew, baskets of fruit, cheese, honey, and barrels of ale and wine. Children squealed as fireworks—crafted by Calder and his engineers—burst overhead in streaks of red and gold, painting wolves and swords in the night sky.
The once-strict soldiers of Eisenwald laughed freely, some dancing with townsfolk, others arm-wrestling with merchants. Scouts sparred playfully with teenagers eager to imitate their stealth. Even Lyra, usually cold and reserved, allowed herself a faint smile as she watched children play at being shadows, wrapping black cloths around their faces.
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In one corner, Arno Kruger sat with a massive mug of beer in hand, his colossal frame dwarfing the wooden bench. Curious children flocked to him. One boy tugged his sleeve and asked innocently, "Uncle Arno, can your shield stop a dragon?"
Arno laughed heartily. "If the dragon is as small as you, then yes!" The crowd burst out laughing, and the boy turned red, hiding behind his mother.
Nearby, Mirae Farlheim stood surrounded by eager young girls and boys, showing them how to hold a bow. "Steady your shoulders. Breathe with your chest. Arrows follow your eyes, not your strength," she instructed. Her voice was patient, her movements graceful. Many girls in the crowd looked at her with awe, realizing that they too could carve their place on the battlefield.
Varek, now captain of the Cavalry Crossbow division, told stories to village youths dreaming of horses and glory. His words were rough, but his conviction shone. "I was nothing once—a mercenary with no name. But here, under the Crimson Wolf, even the nameless can strike like lightning."
Calder, ever the craftsman, had set up a small demonstration of a mini-crossbow. Children squealed as bolts of wood clattered against empty jugs. Calder smiled warmly. "Weapons aren't only for war. Sometimes, they give us courage just knowing they exist."
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Then, three drumbeats echoed across the plaza. The music quieted. The laughter faded. From the balcony of the citadel, Fenrir Eisenwald appeared. His crimson cloak billowed in the firelight, his presence commanding absolute silence.
Tens of thousands of eyes turned upward.
Fenrir raised his hand, and his voice boomed like thunder.
"Eisenwald!"
The crowd roared the name back at him.
"Two years ago," Fenrir began, his voice steady, "this land was nothing but swamp. A place mocked, abandoned, left to rot. We were called weak. We were called expendable. But look at us now!" He gestured toward the citadel rising behind him. "We stand in a fortress that rivals any in the Empire. We command an army that even the high lords in the capital fear to speak of. And most of all—" his eyes swept the crowd, "—we have a people united as one!"
Cheers erupted. The sound was deafening, rolling like waves crashing against stone.
Fenrir's tone shifted, deeper, solemn. "But tonight is not only for celebration. It is also for remembrance. Many of our brothers and sisters fell to give us this future. Their blood is the stone of this citadel, their sacrifice the fire that lights our hearths. To their families, we gave land and gold. Not as gifts—" he struck the air with his hand, "—but as duty. For their sacrifice bought us all that we see today."
The square grew still. Some bowed their heads; others wept quietly. The silence lasted only a heartbeat before Fenrir raised his sword high, its edge glinting red in the firelight.
"But remember this!" he shouted. "They did not die in vain! Their names live on in every stone, every banner, every voice shouting Eisenwald tonight! By their blood, we rose from swamp to fortress. And by their memory, I swear—we will never be broken!"
The crowd exploded in jubilation. Soldiers slammed their swords against shields. Farmers raised mugs of ale. Children waved small banners frantically. The roar shook the plaza like an earthquake.
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From that moment, the festival reached its peak. Musicians struck faster rhythms, people danced in circles around the bonfire, and jugglers tossed flaming torches into the air.
Kegs of ale emptied, laughter spilled into the streets, and the smell of roasted venison filled every corner. Even nobles from visiting provinces, usually stiff with pride, found themselves dancing with peasants. Tonight, the Crimson Wolf had erased all borders of class and birth.
Above, the final firework soared into the night. It burst into a shimmering red wolf that howled silently across the stars. The crowd gasped, then erupted into thunderous cheers.
At Fenrir's side, Kael Morgenstern leaned close, his voice low but firm. "My lord, this night will be remembered for generations."
Fenrir's crimson eyes swept the joyous sea of faces below. His reply was quiet, but resolute. "That is the point, Kael. They are not merely my people. They are my family."
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But far away, across the borders of Luminaria, word of Eisenwald's festival spread. To some lords, it was cause for envy. To others, it was a warning.
In the north, banners of black and silver rose once more. In the south, whispers of nomadic hordes uniting beneath a charismatic leader stirred. In the east, a foreign empire tightened its grip on its armies.
Fenrir stared at the horizon from the balcony, eyes narrowing.
"Tonight belongs to my people," he murmured, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "But tomorrow… tomorrow belongs to the storm."
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