Two years...
Two years since the rite at Solisia Church, since he'd stood naked in that pool of frigid water and died as a child. Two years of shuttling back and forth between Götthain and Lanser, between feltwort fields and libraries, between Alena and his family.
Two years. And now, at fifteen, the kingdom came to collect its debt.
The letter had arrived three days ago, carried by a royal courier on a lathered horse. Thick parchment, crimson seal—the color of royal blood, the color of war. Baron Friedrich had received it with steady hands, but his jaw had tightened in that way Albert had come to recognize.
Conscription. Wartime mobilization. Exactly what we feared.
Albert had read the letter in his father's study, beneath the same candlelight that had illuminated black steel negotiations and love letters from Alena. The wording was formal, bureaucratic, cold—identical to the contracts he'd signed in his previous life.
By His Majesty's decree, Albert vin Götterbaum, heir to the territory of Götthain, is hereby ordered to report to the Eastern Border Garrison Commander within three weeks, bringing forces as stipulated...
"A hundred levy peasants," Friedrich muttered, rereading the document. "Ten men-at-arms. One household knight. And one squire." He fixed his gaze on Albert. "That's half our fighting strength."
"We don't have a choice."
Friedrich exhaled, weariness etching deeper lines into his face. "No. No, we don't."
***
The journey from Lanser back to Götthain typically required ten days. Albert compressed it into eight, pushing his horse harder than advisable, snatching only a few hours of sleep each night.
Alena accompanied him to the first border, refusing to part ways earlier. Astride her sturdy gray mare, she rode beside Albert in a silence heavy with unspoken words.
"You'll write to me, won't you?" she asked on the third night, in a nearly empty inn.
"If I have the chance."
"And if you don't?"
Albert stared into the hearth fire. "Then you'll know I'm dead."
Alena didn't weep. She only nodded, then drew a small dagger from her belt—a Götterbaum Black Steel blade with frozen-wave patterns rippling across its surface. She placed it on the table between them.
"This is yours," she said. "I want you to take it."
"Alena—"
"I know Borin will give you a sword later. I know you have armor. But this—" she touched the hilt, "—this is from me. So you'll remember there's someone here waiting for you."
Albert picked up the dagger. Light. Balanced. Keen. Just like Alena herself.
"Thank you."
The dagger Borin had given him previously had already been passed to Alena... and now she was giving him another. Was this some kind of bond between them? He couldn't say.
They parted at the crossroads the next morning. Alena heading back to Lanser, to the viper's nest awaiting her. Albert continuing toward Götthain, toward the war waiting for him.
***
Two days before reaching Götthain, Albert stopped at a small town.
Not a large settlement. Just a cluster of wooden and stone houses along the main road, with a bustling weekly market, a few respectable inns, and low town walls. But this town possessed one thing Albert needed: a merchant dealing in honey and wine.
His shop was small, dark, and redolent with the smell of fermentation. Earthenware jars lined wooden shelves, each bearing handwritten labels nearly illegible. Behind the counter, an old man in a threadbare robe was scribbling something with a quill.
"Good afternoon, My Lord," he greeted without looking up. "Seeking something for a celebration?"
"Not a celebration." Albert stopped before the counter, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. "Honey. Wine. But not for ordinary consumption."
The old man raised his head. His eyes—gray, sharp—narrowed. "For what purpose?"
Albert produced a coin purse from his robe pocket. Set it on the counter with a reassuring clink. "For war."
Silence. Then the old man smiled, revealing gap-toothed gums. "Ah. My Lord is one of those bound for the eastern frontier." He rose, shuffled to the shelves behind him, and began selecting jars.
"Yes."
"Been to a battlefield before?"
Albert didn't answer. He simply stared at the old man with eyes that—he hoped—didn't reveal too much.
The old man nodded slowly, then resumed his selection. "Wild honey from the northern forests. Thick, concentrated. A single spoonful can sustain you through a full day of hard campaigning." He lifted a large jar, placed it on the counter. "And this wine—black wine from the south. Aged three years. Low alcohol content, but its effects... peculiar. It makes you feel as though you're dreaming, yet you remain lucid."
"How much?"
"For how many?"
Albert calculated. "One hundred fifteen."
The old man counted on gnarled fingers. "Honey, ten small jars. Wine, fifteen bottles."
"How much?"
The old man named his price. Albert produced additional coins. The transaction concluded in silence.
As Albert tied the jars to his saddle, the old man called from his doorway, "May the Goddess's blessings accompany you, My Lord."
Albert turned. "Thank you."
"My pleasure." The old man smiled.
***
Götthain welcomed him with drizzling rain and thin mist.
The castle stood atop its hill as always, gray stone wet and glistening. At the gate, Lady Elara waited in damp robes, hair beginning to silver at the temples. She was no longer young, Albert realized. This war would age them all.
If he observed closely, her belly was slightly rounded. Yes, his mother was pregnant—perhaps fearing their sole heir might fall on the front lines, Baron Friedrich had decided to produce another child to continue the family lineage...
"Mother."
"Albert." She embraced him tightly, for a long time. No words. None needed.
Baron Friedrich awaited him in the study, surrounded by maps and documents. His face was leaner than Albert remembered, the lines around his eyes deeper.
"You've read the letter," Friedrich said without preamble.
"Yes."
"You know what it means."
"Yes."
Friedrich gestured to the chair before his desk. Albert sat. For a moment, they simply sat in silence, listening to the rain outside and the fire crackling in the hearth.
"Father," Albert said finally. "There's something you need to know. Something I'm bringing."
Friedrich raised an eyebrow.
Albert pulled a wooden chest from his bag. Not large—only the size of two thick books. He opened the lid.
Inside, neatly arranged in rows, lay a thousand cigars.
Not ordinary cigars. These were feltwort—fermented feltwort leaves, dried, rolled with dried rose petals and honey. Two years' labor. The southern slope fields, harvest after harvest, experiment after experiment, until he'd finally discovered the right blend. Smoke that was mild, not intoxicating, but sufficient to quiet the screaming nerves that had plagued him all this while.
Friedrich stared at the chest for a long time. Then he laughed. Not a happy laugh, but a bitter one—the laugh of a man who had seen too much and could no longer be surprised by anything.
"You're bringing something rather peculiar to a battlefield..."
"Yes."
"For what purpose? To sell?"
"For myself." Albert met his father's gaze. "So I don't go insane."
Friedrich stopped laughing. He studied his son—this strange son, who had spoken like an old man since childhood, who had created black steel from scrap, who had impressed an Earl, who now sat before him with a thousand strange objects in a chest.
"How bad?" Friedrich asked quietly.
Albert understood the question. Not about the war. About himself.
"Bad enough," he replied. "But this helps."
Friedrich nodded. Didn't inquire further. If it brought his son comfort, so be it.
"Take it," he said finally. "One more piece of baggage? No matter."
***
Departure preparations consumed three days.
The first day, Albert visited Borin's forge.
The blacksmith was already waiting before his hearth, fire blazing bright despite the drizzle outside. On the anvil, wrapped in oilcloth, lay a sword.
"For you, My Lord," Borin said. No preamble.
Albert unwrapped it.
The sword was beautiful. Not beautiful in a decorative sense—no intricate carvings, no gemstones on the hilt. But the blade... the blade was Götterbaum Black Steel in its purest form. Frozen-wave patterns flowed from base to tip, catching firelight and reflecting it in shades of gray. The hilt was black oak, wrapped in leather stitched with precision. Perfectly balanced in his hand.
This was a sword he could use for decades, given how carefully its size and weight had been calibrated. Borin was truly exceptional.
"Have you named it?" Borin asked.
Albert turned the sword in his grip. Light. Sharp. Lethal.
"Wurzel," he said. "Root. In keeping with the family motif."
Borin nodded, satisfied. "Appropriate."
The second day, Albert went to the armory.
His armor was ready—a brigandine, not full plate. Small iron plates sewn between layers of thick fabric, more flexible, lighter, better suited to a body still growing.
He knew how prohibitively expensive properly fitted full plate could be. Now, with his fifteen-year-old frame still subject to change, the brigandine was the most sensible choice.
He donned it. Heavy. But not too heavy. He could move, run, mount a horse. Sufficient.
Beside the brigandine, a simple armet helm—unadorned, no visor, just iron molded to the shape of a head. And leather gauntlets with iron plates across the knuckles.
"Fits," he murmured to his reflection in the tarnished metal mirror.
The third day, he met his troops.
A hundred levy peasants gathered in the castle courtyard. Levies—farmers, carpenters, village smiths, young men who'd barely learned to hold a spear. Their faces were a mixture of fear, confusion, and forced resolve. They didn't want war. But they would go because their lord was going, because their lands needed protection, and most importantly, because they had no choice.
Beside them, ten men-at-arms. Semi-professional soldiers in brigandines and armet helms, armed with short swords and round shields. They stood in loose formation, whispering among themselves, occasionally chuckling. They'd fought before. They knew what was coming.
Before them, a knight in full plate armor.
Sir Varin. Brown hair, cold blue eyes, a face carved from granite. He was silent, speaking to no one, only checking his equipment with slow, deliberate movements. One of the three household knights of Götthain.
And beside him, a woman.
Albert blinked. A woman?
She was young, perhaps twenty. Hair black as jet, cropped short to her chin—unconventional for a woman, but practical for combat. Her eyes were violet, a shade that commanded attention and made people look twice.
She wore full plate armor tailored to her frame, slimmer than Sir Varin's but equally sturdy. At her waist, a longsword. Across her back, a small shield.
From behind her, Sir Gregor emerged. The old man walked with his cane, limping as always, but his eyes were sharp.
"Young Lord," Gregor greeted. "Here she is." He gestured toward the young woman. "My granddaughter. The only family I have left."
The woman stepped forward. Her movements were graceful, yet watchful, like a cat.
"Luise," she said. Her voice was low, slightly raspy. "Sir Varin's squire. I'll be accompanying you."
Albert studied her. Those violet eyes stared back without fear.
"You've trained since childhood?"
"Since I could hold a wooden sword, My Lord."
"You've fought?"
"Not in a war, but against bandits. I've trained harder than anyone here."
Albert nodded. "Good. You'll stay with me."
Luise didn't smile. Didn't show relief or pride. She only nodded in return, curtly, then resumed her position beside Sir Varin.
She was remarkably cold...
Gregor clasped Albert's shoulder. The gesture was heavy, laden with meaning. "Look after her, Young Lord," he murmured. "She's all I have."
Albert met the old man's eyes. "I'll try."
The final night in Götthain was spent in the small dining room, just Albert and his parents.
The meal was simple—soup, bread, cheese. A little wine. Lady Elara spoke little. She only sat, occasionally touching Albert's hand, then withdrawing, as if afraid that prolonged contact might anger her son.
Baron Friedrich spoke at length about strategy, about the route, about signal codes in case of bad news. Albert listened with half an ear. He already knew all this. What he needed wasn't information, but presence.
"You'll be fine," Friedrich said finally, his voice hoarse. "You're always fine."
Albert didn't answer. Because he knew that wasn't true. He hadn't always been fine. In his previous life, he'd died in an explosion, alone in the rubble, with an unsent message to his parents on his phone.
Morning arrived shrouded in thick fog.
The troops assembled in the castle courtyard. One hundred fifteen souls—peasants with spears, men-at-arms in brigandines and swords, two knights in gleaming armor, and one violet-eyed squire. Horses nickered softly, their breath pluming in the cold air.
Astride his horse, Albert felt the weight of the wooden chest against his saddle. A thousand cigars. An absurd burden. But he wouldn't leave it behind—he'd go mad without that smoke.
Lady Elara stood at the gate, her robes damp with dew. She wasn't weeping. But her hand, clutching Albert's as he dismounted to bid farewell, trembled.
"Come home," she whispered. "Whatever happens, come home."
"Yes, Mother."
Baron Friedrich only clasped his hand. Firm. Long. Then released.
"Bring them home," he said, gesturing toward the troops. "Bring them all."
Albert nodded. He mounted his horse, surveyed his forces one last time. Those faces stared back—fearful, hopeful, resigned. They waited for him. Their lord. Their leader.
He drew a breath. Morning air pierced his lungs. Cold. Clean. Soon enough, that air would mingle with the stench of blood and iron.
"Move out!"
The column began marching. Hundreds of feet trod damp earth. Horses nickered. Metal equipment clanked. Behind them, Götthain Castle slowly vanished into the mist.
Albert didn't look back. He gazed ahead, at the road stretching eastward, toward the border, toward the battlefield.
At his hip, Wurzel hung quietly. Against his saddle, the wooden chest containing a thousand cigars swayed gently. And at his lower back, a small dagger with frozen-wave patterns—Alena's gift.