Caelus's heart beat like a war drum, each thud faster than the last, as he watched the sea of royal soldiers before him. Ten thousand troops aligned with precision, yellow coats with orange trim glinting in the dim dawn light, immaculate white trousers and brown boots already worn from the march. On their yellow shakos, they all bore the same insignia – a golden wheat branch – a symbol of abundance for some, of servitude for others.
Caelus drew a deep breath, feeling the cold air rasp against his throat. He looked at those hardened faces, at the lines of muskets pointed skywards at the almost reverential discipline with which they awaited orders. And yet, everything in him screamed that they were on the wrong side. How many years had they all endured under the yoke of Rafael Calentiflor?, Caelus thought to himself, his heart still in a frenzy within him, How many times had they seen their villages extorted, their harvests taken by the king's collectors, all to appease a corrupt government and a spoiled son who spends more time with drink and women of ill repute?
A commotion rose among the ranks, possibly signalling the beginning of the arduous task of slaughter that was soon to come. They learned nothing…, Caelus continued to think, his jaw tightening. Nothing… not even after all they had suffered… Do they not remember the stories of the elders: the great empire of Solterra, once vast and arrogant, stretching beyond the horizon… now reduced to ashes, fragments, and longing. How many of them will have heard, as children, tales of Solterran punishments, forced marches, public executions? Surely their grandparents will have spoken of them in grave tones by the fire, and their great-grandparents will have lived those stories on their own skin… yet there they were, once again ready to raise arms for another tyrant.
The wind swept through the ranks, making the yellow coats ripple like a field of wheat on the eve of harvest. Caelus felt a shiver – not of fear, but of sorrow, for he knew that, once the fighting began, many of those men and women would die for a king who would never remember their names or sacrifices. Worse still, they would die fighting against those who wished to free them.
They are blind, he murmured to himself, tightening his fist around the sword's hilt. But perhaps history will open their eyes… even if it comes too late for some.
Caelus turned to Bia. She remained at his side, still as an ancient tree, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the enemy lines fluttered in the wind. Her mere presence quieted his spirit, as though the very earth beneath their feet breathed in unison with them both. He felt his heart slow, not from the absence of fear, but because the confidence she inspired in him was profound. Caelus could not explain it – not in words, not even in thought – but within him pulsed the certainty that, as long as Bia was there, no bullet would pierce the air to strike him, nor would any blade find his body. It was as though an ancient, invisible force hovered about him.
From the top of the hill, where the wind was harsher and the light more unforgiving, Isabela Pisodorato, Edouard Lefevre, and Horace Kingsley observed the plain with seasoned eyes. From that elevated position, they dominated the battlefield like three stone sentinels. The view was vast, almost infinite: they could see the movements of every regiment, the formation of the lines, the hesitations and advances, the signals raised by the standard-bearers.
There was a clear advantage there – a rare gift, Lefevre would say – in the size of the revolutionary army. With fewer soldiers spread across the plain, each order travelled faster, each messenger needed to cover less ground, and with that hill serving as a throne, they could coordinate the flanks like masters of a bloody stage play.
If the right flank gave way, they could reinforce it within minutes. If the left was pressed, a single signal would suffice to move an entire company. The three commanders knew they were far from having overwhelming numbers, but they had the ground, and, sometimes, the ground was worth as much as an entire army.
The left flank would always be the most thankless. Caelus knew that well. There, the land sloped treacherously, broken by exposed roots and damp depressions created by late-summer rains. It was not the firm, elevated ground that protected Isabela's and Kingsley's troops, nor the reinforced position beside the artillery, but it was in that imperfect place that Caelus and his regiment had been placed.
During the night, as the pale moon rose and fell behind veils of cloud, they had raised fortifications: uneven wooden barriers, hastily piled earth sacks, shallow trenches. They were by no means the finest defences ever made – far from it – but, on that cold dawn, they would have to do. Many battles had been won with less… and others lost with far more.
Caelus moved across the muddy ground. The soldiers straightened as they saw him approach. Some still had their hands dirty from the night before, others gripped their muskets nervously. All waited for him.
He stopped before them, took a deep breath, and let silence settle. Then, he raised his voice:
– My compatriots… – he began, and the murmuring in the line ceased immediately. – It is here. It is precisely here, on this forgotten and cursed patch of land, that our revolution will take the leap no one believes possible. It is not on the hill, nor by the cannons, nor in the stories others will tell. It is here. With us.
Some hardened faces softened. Others frowned, attentive.
– We are the end of the line – Caelus continued, his voice gaining weight. – Here, on this flank, there is no possible retreat. If we abandon this ground, the yellow coats will turn our flank and crush everything and everyone behind us. Our families. Our friends. Those who believe in us. And those who are yet to come.
A cold gust swept through the ranks, but no one faltered.
– So I tell you this: as long as I breathe, I will not take a single step back. I will be here with you. At the front. Guiding you. Sharing every bullet and every bolt of this storm. If anyone wishes to break this line… they will have to pass through me first.
Silence lingered, as though it were an almost sacred moment. But then, as though an invisible fire had ignited in the flank's core, the soldiers raised their muskets, their swords, their clenched fists, and shouted his name. Once, then again, and again. Until even the wind seemed to bend to the force of that acclamation:
– Caelus! Caelus! CAELUS!
The sound reverberated along the slope, echoing through the trees and the small, improvised fortifications. Caelus's cuirass – the piece he had inherited from his father, marked by time and by battles that now belonged only to memory – seemed to shine with a light of its own. A warm, almost supernatural glow, as though the blood of his ancestors pulsed there with him.
The first shot of revolutionary artillery tore through the air like the roar of a slumbering god. The thunder spread through the valleys, echoing against the slopes, and, a second later, the ground shook beneath Caelus's feet. The cannons – heavy bronze pieces, greened by use – recoiled violently after the shot, spewing thick smoke and sparks. The artillerymen ran to serve them again, their calloused hands working with an almost ritual precision: clean, load, secure, aim, fire.
The spherical bullets raised columns of earth and blood as they struck Rafael Calentiflor's army. Caelus saw one of the yellow formations crumble like stalks cut by a cruel wind: soldiers thrown backwards, limbs flying, coats stained dark red. One of the shots caught a group of Calentian officers consulting maps – the impact tore their lives away in an instant, leaving only a smoking hole where their command post had been.
But the response came quickly. The king's artillery, lined up at a distance like a wall of steel, awoke in fury. The first projectiles flew over the plain in long arcs, screaming through the sky. Caelus felt his stomach tighten as the hill behind him exploded with a deafening impact: earth, wooden splinters and stones fell upon Isabela's regiments like a rain of death. A second shot hit one of the revolutionary pieces, shattering the wheel and also the artilleryman closest to it. The screams mingled with smoke, with the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning flesh.
The air was now a fog of ash, smoke, and contained panic. Caelus, however, kept his eyes on the coloured flags fluttering atop the hill – the signalling corps. Red on white. Blue in cross. A pattern he had not yet learned to decipher.
– What do they say? – asked Caelus, approaching the interpreter.
The young man, his hands still trembling, translated:
– Sir… the Calentian infantry is on the march. In force.
Caelus exhaled tensely. He had expected it, but hearing it like this… it was like feeling ice creep through his bones.
– How many bullets does each soldier have? – he asked his officers.
– Thirty, commander – one replied, wiping sweat and dust from his face. – More or less. Some have twenty-seven, twenty-eight… but thirty is the average.
Thirty shots. Thirty opportunities before the battle turned into close combat… or a massacre.
Caelus raised his voice, firm as tempered steel:
– Listen to me carefully! – the soldiers turned to him, eyes wide, hands steady on their muskets. – Make every shot count as if it were the last you have. Do not waste powder on blind shots. Aim, breathe, and only then pull the trigger. We have no ammunition to waste, nor time for regrets.
The wind brought another howl of iron: an enemy projectile passed over their heads, tearing through the sky.
– Take cover in the defences! – Caelus added, pointing to the small, improvised fortifications. – Duck between shots! The king wants to crush us… but he has yet to see what it means to resist to the end! – and his soldiers obeyed, each preparing their weapon, posture, and courage, while, in the distance, a vast mass of yellow coats advanced, organised and relentless.
The royal infantry came like a stubborn tide, driven by generals who would never set foot in this mud. Caelus raised his arm and a silence fell over the line of his regiment.
– Fire!
The first shot was a wall of light and smoke. The muskets spat flames and the discharge echoed like thunder across the hills. A hail of bullets swept the Calentian vanguard: many fell like straw dolls, some with their chests ripped open, others with legs torn off, others still simply dissolving into a scarlet cloud.
But they kept coming. The revolutionaries reloaded with skilled hands, each movement repeated so many times it seemed ritualistic. Caelus heard the rhythmic sound of ramrods striking, powder being poured, manoeuvres practised over and over without ceasing in Pisum.
– Align… Fire!
This time, the bullets struck the centre of the enemy formation. The impact opened a corridor of bodies, a dark human groove through the yellow coats. The wheat standard fell to the ground with its bearer, the wood broken, the king's symbol stained with earth and blood.
But still, they kept coming. The survivors pressed the ranks, advancing over the dead as if crossing a field of ruined crops. A Calentian captain shouted orders, sword raised, face smeared with smoke. He was hit seconds later – a bullet caught him in the neck, and he fell clutching his own throat, gushing hot blood as he tried to continue commanding.
The third approach was the fiercest. The Calentians shouted, now running towards Caelus's lines. The distance shrank, step by step, breath by breath.
– Ready! – shouted Caelus. – Wait… not yet…
He could see their eyes. Desperation, blind obedience, fury fed by fear. He could hear their boots crushing the mud, metal clanging, the bayonets creaking as they braced for the final clash.
– Now! FIRE!
The first Calentian line fell entirely, swept by a blow so violent that some flew backward, others fell forward dragging companions. Those behind tripped over the warm corpses, slipped in fresh blood, and faltered – a chaotic mass of flesh and gunpowder, lines broken, discipline shattered.
Some still tried to regroup. They even attempted a fourth advance, but now they moved slowly, dragged along, hesitant. They were no longer soldiers, but shadows of what they had been.
Caelus's regiment held firm, muskets raised once more, mud and smoke clinging to their faces. Each shot landed, each bullet ripping away more of the enemy's will. They suffered very few casualties, largely thanks to the fortifications they had built the night before, for, without them, they would have been exposed to enemy fire during the advance.
The smoke began to thin enough for Caelus to see further. He took the monocle, cleaned the lens with the tip of his gunpowder-stained glove, and lifted it to his eyes. Through the black mist and flashes of artillery, an image took shape: a sea of yellow flags with a green vine rising on the horizon – the Cavalry of the Rising Sun.
They had already tried to break the centre, and before that, to strike the right flank, where Kingsley's batteries and veterans had repelled them, but now, reorganised, mounted on their warhorses, they were coming for the left flank.
The lances gleamed in the sun like rows of teeth of a giant beast. The yellow coats had spoken – now it was the elite's turn to show the king that honour could still be bought with blood.
Caelus lowered the monocle with a sharp movement.
– Cavalry! – he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos of the field like an axe. – The Cavalry of the Rising Sun is coming!
The sergeants repeated the order, and the word 'cavalry' spread through the ranks like a whisper of death. Many in the regiment went pale, some gripped their musket stocks so tightly their knuckles whitened.
Caelus, trying to appear calm and maintain his composure, raised his arm.
– Form squares! SQUARES! NOW!
The regiment moved like a living body, each soldier knowing the dance even as fear burned in their stomachs. The formation shifted in seconds: lines stretched, curved, folded upon themselves until they closed into a large defensive square, compact and threatening while officers and sergeants shouted orders.
– First row, kneel! Bayonets forward!
– Second row, stand! Bayonets raised!
– Third row, prepare to fire!
The movement was swift, but not rushed. The first rank drove their bayonets into the air like a wall of steel. The second raised theirs, creating a second layer of metallic teeth pointed at the necks of the approaching horses. The third and fourth ranks lifted their muskets, ready to fire over the heads of their comrades.
The ground vibrated with the nearing hooves – a dull tremor that intensified, like the forewarning of an earthquake.
At the centre of the square, surrounded by his regiment's standard and his closest officers, Caelus breathed the heavy air of smoke, sweat, and fear. The standard-bearer held the flag with both hands, the fabric torn and stained with soot, yet still raised, still alive. All around him, the compact ranks of bayonets rose like a crown of thorns around that small island of command.
Suddenly, Caelus saw Dorian Valmor. He was there, at the front line of the charge, golden cuirass shining like a profane sun, white cape billowing behind him. He galloped with the arrogance of one who believes the world belongs to him, Isabela Pisodorato's sword raised high, shouting for glory and blood.
Caelus felt something break inside him: not fear, not hesitation, but a thirst for vengeance, ancient and burning, a cold hatred that rose from his gut to his chest like liquid fire.
Without thinking, he shoved aside two soldiers of the first rank, slipping to the front of the square despite the muffled protests of his men.
– Commander! You cannot…
– Return to your positions! – snarled Caelus, his voice hard as steel. – He is mine.
A few steps away, a soldier lay on the ground, the musket fallen beside his still-warm body. Caelus crouched, grabbed it, and checked with swift fingers that it was still loaded. He returned inside the square and raised the weapon, imitating his soldiers around him, who were preparing to fire and repel the charge.
The ground shook. The cavalry was coming, closer and closer.
Hooves. Lances. Screams.
A thunder of flesh and metal.
Caelus aimed at the chest of a horseman approaching at full speed. He took a deep breath. Fired.
The bullet passed him by, scraping the cuirass without even slowing him.
– Shit – Caelus growled, already reloading.
A second shot struck a horse, but only grazed it, making the animal rear for a brief moment before continuing its advance.
Caelus did not see whether his third shot found a target, as the projectile's path was lost amid the chaos of smoke, dust, and movement.
Horsemen flashed before his eyes like human arrows, like bolts of metal and muscle. Caelus fired once more – this time hitting a man in the shoulder, causing him to topple backwards off the saddle. But it was not Valmor.
– Come on, Valmor… – murmured Caelus, more to himself than to those around him, the musket still firm in his hands. – I will reclaim what belongs to my mother.
Caelus barely felt the cold biting at the field – he was far too absorbed, his eyes fixed on Dorian Valmor, who approached at a gallop like an inevitable fate. Caelus tightened his grip on the bayonet with numbed fingers, breathed in the air thick with gunpowder and mud, and stepped forward, a wide, determined step.
Dorian's horse reared, neighing, as bayonets and muskets clattered at the shock of the movement. Caelus saw the opening – an unprotected flank, the raw flesh beneath the saddle straps. Without thinking, without hesitating, he extended his arm and tried to pierce the animal, forcing all his strength and desperation into a single thrust. The horse's scream mingled with the distant roar of artillery, and for a brief moment, Caelus felt he held the world at the tip of his bayonet.
But Caelus did not see – could not see – the exhausted horseman a few metres behind Dorian, his hands trembling as he reloaded his flintlock pistol. He did not see the shaky, poorly aimed shot that escaped too soon. The bullet sliced through the frozen air, spiralling wildly, and struck Caelus's chest with such absurd precision it almost felt like an irony of the gods.
The impact stole his breath. Pain spread through his body, robbing him of strength, of balance, of the very will to remain standing. The world tilted and Caelus fell onto his back in the cold mud, the musket slipping from his hand as if it no longer belonged to him.
The grey sky moved above him, slow, indifferent.
And he could hear – distant yet unmistakable – Bia's cry.
– CAELUS! – the despair in her voice tore through his chest with more force than the bullet.
He wanted to answer. He wanted to stand, reach out to her, tell her he was all right. Tell her this was not yet his end. But any sound that left his mouth faded in a fragile breath, like the last spark of a candle in the wind, and the darkness came for him without mercy.