The command tent felt stuffier than usual. Perhaps it was too many sweating bodies crammed into an enclosed space. Perhaps it was the maps hanging from the walls, seeming to press in from all sides—red and blue lines marking where thousands would live or die.
Albert sat at the end of the table, as always. The same position he'd occupied since that first meeting. But now, when his gaze swept across the room, he noticed a difference. Several officers nodded at him. Others—who once ignored him entirely—at least no longer looked away when their eyes met.
Lord Harald presided at the head of the table, his white beard slightly disheveled. Lady Mirelle sat beside him, her fingers tapping softly against the wood—a nervous habit Albert had observed in previous meetings. Earl William occupied a corner seat, his face hardened like stone. Ever since Rodric had been sent home, he rarely spoke. But his presence still loomed—heavy, calculating.
Commander Gerhard opened the meeting with his characteristic rasp.
"The enemy will arrive in two days. Maybe three, depending on the weather." He pointed at the map at the center of the table—red dots in the east, blue lines in the west. "Their positions have advanced since the last report. They're planning a counteroffensive, and they won't wait long."
The officers began to discuss. Voices overlapped—formation proposals, logistical objections, debates over archer placement. Albert listened with half an ear, his mind drifting elsewhere.
In his head, another voice echoed. An instructor's voice from a training barracks, long ago, in another life. "In open battle, advantage goes to whoever can concentrate firepower. Artillery, mortars, even rifles—it's all about weakening the enemy before contact."
But here, there was no artillery. Only arrows and siege engines like Mangonels that he didn't possess...
"The left flank needs reinforcement." That was Lady Mirelle's voice. "My archers can hold them for an hour, maybe more. But after that, if the infantry doesn't arrive, we'll be finished."
"Infantry can't move fast if the enemy archers keep harassing them." A Valeran officer—thick beard, small eyes—countered. "We need a direct assault to break their formation.
"A direct assault will kill half your men in the first hour."
"Better half dead than all dead from arrows!"
The discussion grew heated. Albert remained silent, his eyes following the debate like watching a tennis match. Head turning left, right, left again.
Inside his mind, that instructor's voice continued echoing. "Never advance before the enemy is sufficiently weakened. Know your effective ranges, know your unit's capabilities, and know the terrain."
Lord Harald raised his hand. The room gradually fell silent.
"We need a decision." His aged eyes—still sharp—swept across the room. "The left flank will be held by the combined forces. Dornenholz archers in front, Valeran and Götthain infantry behind. You must hold them long enough for the right flank to execute an encirclement."
Everyone nodded. Except Albert. He remained still, staring at the map.
Lord Harald looked at him. "Lord Götthain."
Albert raised his head.
"You've been quiet this entire time." Lord Harald's voice held no anger, only curiosity. "Do you have an opinion?"
Silence filled the tent. All eyes shifted to the end of the table, to the fifteen-year-old youth in the green Götthain cloak. A few officers frowned—what could this boy possibly say? Others—those who had already heard the stories—waited with visible curiosity.
Albert thought. Not like a noble accustomed to feudal strategy. But like someone who had witnessed battles on an entirely different scale. Not thousands, but hundreds of thousands. Not arrows and swords, but artillery and drones.
In his mind, images surfaced. The expanse of grassland in Grimwald Valley, viewed from atop a hill. Enemy ranks advancing like a blue tide. And behind them, long supply lines, slow-moving logistics wagons, vulnerable tent encampments.
"Strike at their supplies." That instructor's voice again. "Cut the logistics line, and even the strongest army will collapse within three days."
"Holding them on the left flank is important," Albert finally said, his voice flat. "But we should also harass them from behind."
Earl William snorted. "Harass them from behind? With what troops? Do you have a thousand reserves I don't know about?"
"A small force." Albert ignored the sarcastic tone. "Fifty men. Maybe sixty. Not to engage in battle, but to destroy their supply wagons."
Lady Mirelle frowned. "That's a significant risk. A small force can easily be surrounded if discovered."
"But the impact would be substantial." Albert pointed at the map—at a spot behind enemy lines where the Leandrian logistics route crossed a small stream. "Look here. They have to cross this bridge to bring food and equipment from their main camp to the front lines. Destroy this bridge, or burn the wagons on the far side, and their forward troops will starve within days."
Silence fell. Several officers began studying the map more seriously.
Lord Harald shifted position, looking at Albert. "You're certain this can be done?"
"It can." Albert met his gaze. "But not with ordinary troops. We need people who can move fast, stay quiet, and vanish after striking. Not front-line infantry."
"Such as?"
Like special forces, Albert thought. But he couldn't say that.
"Archers who can move through forests. Light men-at-arms without heavy armor. People who know how to avoid patrols." He pointed at Hilda, seated at another end of the table. "The Dornenholz archers—they're accustomed to moving through difficult terrain. I could select twenty of them, plus thirty sufficiently agile levies."
Hilda raised an eyebrow. Interested, not angry.
Lord Harald thought for a moment. Then he looked at Earl William. "Your opinion?"
Earl William growled. "This is risky. If that force gets captured, we lose people who should be fighting on the front lines."
"If that force succeeds, we reduce pressure on the front lines." Lady Mirelle now supported Albert. "Their supply lines are indeed a weak point. We've been too focused on battle formations all this time."
The debate continued. But Albert no longer cared much. He had stated his opinion. Now it was up to those older, more powerful, to decide.
Finally, Lord Harald nodded. "We'll try it, but not immediately. Wait until the first battle begins. When their attention is divided, then we'll dispatch that small force." He looked at Albert. "Will you lead it?"
Albert shook his head. "Not me. I need to be on the front lines with the main force. But I know the right person for this."
Behind him, Luise tensed slightly. But she said nothing.
"Who?"
"Hilda." Albert pointed at the woman. "She knows how to move through forests. And her archers can be trusted."
Hilda smiled thinly. "I'm honored, My Lord."
The meeting continued for another hour. But when Albert finally exited the tent, he felt the weight on his shoulders had lightened slightly. Not because his opinion had been accepted—he didn't particularly care about that. But because for the first time here, he had spoken, and people had listened.
Luise walked beside him. "I don't know what you were thinking in there, but it sounded like a good idea."
"Depends on the outcome."
Luise snorted. "It'll work."
***
Two days later, the enemy came.
Albert stood on the hillside slope, watching the blue tide advance below. The morning was cold, mist still hanging low in the valley. But to the east, lines of shadow began to form—rank after rank of Leandria soldiers, moving in steady rhythm.
He counted. Not precisely, but a rough estimate: twenty thousand, maybe more. And on the left flank, directly before his forces, about three thousand advanced in tight formation.
"Men-at-arms, positions!" he shouted.
Klaus led the front line—shields raised, spears leveled. Behind them, levies with longer pikes. On the flanks, Dornenholz archers began loosing arrows.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Waves of arrows streaked through the air, falling among enemy ranks. Several soldiers dropped, but the line kept advancing. They roared—war cries echoing through the valley.
Albert raised his hand. Signal: retreat slowly.
The force began moving. Men-at-arms stepped back pace by pace, maintaining formation. Archers kept firing from behind, slowing the enemy's advance.
But the enemy kept coming.
A hundred meters. Fifty.
"MEN-AT-ARMS, HOLD!"
Impact. The crash of shields and spears, screams and shouts. Albert watched Klaus fighting in the front line, his sword slashing, his body moving with decades of battle experience.
But enemy numbers were too many.
"ARCHERS, SHIFT LEFT!" Hilda shouted from the flank.
Dornenholz archers moved swiftly, positioning themselves on the slope, releasing volleys into the enemy's side. The effect was immediate—the enemy line wavered, some stopping, uncertain whether to advance or hold.
Albert seized the moment. "ADVANCE!"
The force pushed forward three steps, pressing the already disorganized enemy. Levy pikes thrust from behind the men-at-arms, adding to the casualties in the enemy's front rank.
But they didn't pursue. Albert raised his hand—retreat. The force fell back to their original position.
"ARCHERS, LOOSE!"
Another rain of arrows. The enemy, still trying to reorganize their lines, caught fire from the flank. Dozens fell.
One hour. Two hours.
Albert's force held. They didn't advance far, didn't retreat far. Just moved in the rhythm they had drilled—advancing a step when the enemy wavered, retreating a step when pressure grew too intense. Archers kept working from the flanks, reducing enemy numbers bit by bit.
In the midst of battle, Albert spotted something.
From within the enemy ranks, a group of soldiers advanced differently. They didn't jostle like the others. They moved in tight formation, shields raised in unison, spears positioned with precision. Their armor was better—gleaming iron, not leather or gambeson.
Maybe twenty men. Maybe thirty. In their center, a large man with long brown hair tied back, a neat beard, pale blue eyes.
He didn't shout like the others. Didn't brandish his weapon. Just walked forward calmly, surrounded by his guards, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Toward Albert.
Albert felt something in his chest. Not fear. Not adrenaline either. But an odd stillness—like when he used to watch drones hovering overhead in another life.
He's coming for me.
"RETREAT!" Albert shouted. "RETREAT SLOWLY! ARCHERS, COVER THEM!"
The force began moving back. Archers loosed volley after volley at that group. But arrows bounced off their shields or lodged in thick armor without wounding.
The group kept advancing. Not fast, but steadily. Like an incoming tide that couldn't be stopped.
Luise appeared beside Albert, sword drawn. "My Lord—"
"No." Albert raised his hand. "You stay here, lead the force. Don't follow me."
"What? NO!"
"That's an order."
Albert rode forward on his new white horse, leaving the ranks. Several men-at-arms saw him, shouted, but he paid no attention.
The group was close now. Twenty meters. Fifteen.
The large man in the center smiled. A hunter's smile, seeing prey approach.
"Albert vin Götterbaum," he greeted. His voice was deep, calm. "I am Sir Aldric. You're the one they call The Black Sword Demon?"
Albert didn't answer. His hand rested on Wurzel's hilt. His eyes counted—twenty-three men, tight formation, shields and spears. There was no way he could win in a direct confrontation.
But he didn't need to win. He just needed time.
Behind him, his force was retreating according to plan. Archers kept loosing arrows, harassing the group, preventing them from pursuing too quickly.
Albert smiled. A small smile, barely visible.
"I'm just an ordinary soldier," he said. "But if you want to meet a demon, feel free to chase."
He turned and rode away. Not out of fear—but a measured retreat, swift, using the terrain. Weaving between trees, vanishing behind undergrowth.
Aldric laughed. "After him! Don't let him escape!"
The group began moving faster. But Albert was already far ahead, darting through the trees, leaving a trail he deliberately created—clear enough to follow, difficult enough to traverse quickly.
Luise, watching from a distance, saw him go. Her hand clenched on her sword hilt.
"Again..." she hissed. But she held her position, leading the retreating force as ordered.
Within the forest, Albert kept moving on his horse. Behind him, the sounds of hoofbeats and shouts began to fade. But he knew they wouldn't stop.
Aldric wanted to capture him. And Albert would give them a hunt they'd never forget.