Hilda never imagined death would come for her so soon.
The eastern gate of Vallenwood stood twenty feet high, constructed from oak plated with iron. It probably weighed tens of tons. And tonight, amidst the chaos of a burning city, that gate was their only way out.
"FASTER!" she shouted, but her voice drowned in the roar of flames and screams.
Beside her, Lena—the youngest archer in her team, barely eighteen—ran while dragging her leg. An arrow was embedded in her calf, the shaft broken off, but the head still buried deep inside. Every step left a trail of blood on the stone pavement.
"LEAVE ME!" Lena screamed, her face deathly pale.
"SHUT UP AND RUN!"
Hilda yanked the girl's arm, practically dragging her along. Behind them, twenty Leandria soldiers gave chase. Maybe more. Hilda didn't have time to count.
Fifteen minutes ago, their plan had been running perfectly.
They'd crept across the rooftops near the eastern gate, observing the guard rotations for two hours. Twenty guards at the gate, rotating every four hours. Two in the watchtowers, the rest patrolling the walls.
Hilda had chosen the moment of shift change—that chaotic interval when the old guards descended, the new ones ascended, and everyone was busy with their own affairs.
They'd descended from the rooftops like shadows. The two guards behind the gate died without a sound—throats slashed, crumpling into a pile of hay. Hilda herself had climbed the tower, knife clenched between her teeth, fingers gripping the cold stone.
The soldier in the tower had been yawning when Hilda reached the top. He'd caught a glimpse of a shadow, opened his mouth to shout, but Hilda's blade was already sliding under his chin, piercing through the palate, stabbing into his brain. His body collapsed without a sound.
The gate's lifting mechanism—an intricate system of wheels and chains—was housed in a small room at the tower's base. Hilda descended the stone stairs and found the main lever. Iron, as thick as a man's arm, secured with a locking pin.
She pulled the pin. The chains began to move, wheels grinding with an ear-splitting screech.
And that's when everything went to hell.
A Leandria soldier—maybe from a patrol, maybe one who'd spotted something—appeared in the doorway. His eyes went wide seeing Hilda next to the lever, seeing the chains moving, seeing the two dead guards below.
He screamed.
Not a panicked shriek. A warning cry, loud and long. Hilda hurled her knife—it struck his neck, but not deep enough; the soldier still managed half a gurgling shout before collapsing.
But it was too late. From outside, the sound of running footsteps.
"CUT THEM OFF! DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!"
Hilda grabbed an arrow from her quiver, nocked it, and loosed. One soldier dropped. Another. But they kept coming.
"LENA! GET OUT! NOW!"
Lena and two other archers were already outside, firing at soldiers rushing from the barracks near the gate. Three fell. But they were too many.
The gate began to open—slowly, groaning, a sliver of moonlight appearing through the gap. But behind them, twenty soldiers had already formed a semicircle.
"RUN! I'LL HOLD THEM!" one of the archers shouted—Gerda, a thirty-year-old woman with a scar on her cheek.
"GERDA, NO!"
But Gerda was already charging at the soldiers, swinging her bow like a sword, her last arrow jammed into the first soldier's throat. Two others stabbed her from the sides. She fell without a sound.
Hilda had no time to stop. She dragged Lena toward the widening gap in the gate. Behind them, the other two archers held the enemy at bay—one died instantly, an arrow through the chest. The other fought on, retreating while firing, but was caught, cut down by a flurry of sword strokes.
Lena screamed—not a battle cry, but a scream of agony. An arrow had lodged in her calf. She fell, Hilda refusing to let go.
"LEAVE ME!"
"SHUT UP!"
They made it outside the gate. Ahead, open fields, the forest in the distance. Behind, twenty soldiers gave chase, shouting, torches blazing.
Hilda half-dragged Lena, running with every ounce of strength. The arrow in the girl's calf stabbed with every step, but Lena bit her lip, trying not to scream again.
A hundred meters.
The Leandria soldiers started loosing arrows. Two zipped past Hilda's head, one stuck in the ground ahead of them. They kept running.
Three hundred meters. The forest was close now.
And from within the forest, shadows emerged.
Hilda almost stopped—fearing it was another enemy force, an encirclement from the front. But amidst the shadows, she spotted him.
Those cold green eyes.
It was Albert.
"My Lord—" Hilda gasped for breath, "—Lena... arrow... behind us... they're—"
Albert simply nodded. Behind him, Luise and the other six soldiers were already moving, forming a semicircle at the forest's edge.
"Get Lena to the rear," Albert ordered Hilda. "We'll handle this."
Hilda wanted to protest. Wanted to say there were twenty of them, and Albert only had seven. But she'd already seen something in Albert's eyes. Not fear, not hesitation. Just... that dead fish stare.
She dragged Lena deeper into the forest, finding a safe spot behind a large tree. Behind her, the clash of steel began.
***
Twenty against seven. The odds were anything but even.
Within seconds, the first two Leandria soldiers had fallen. Albert moved like a serpent—dodging swings, slipping inside reach, thrusting into armor gaps. Luise fought at his side, her sword dancing, every slash finding a throat or an arm.
The other six soldiers fought with the ferocity born of two years on the battlefield. They were no longer ordinary soldiers; they were executioners.
Two minutes later, ten corpses littered the ground.
The remaining Leandria soldiers began to hesitate. They watched their comrades die in seconds, watched that black sword cut without mercy, watched their enemy commander's empty eyes.
"It's the Black Sword Demon! Fall back!" one of them shouted.
They retreated. Not a rout—an orderly withdrawal, maintaining formation, still threatening. But falling back, step by step.
Albert didn't pursue. He stood among the corpses, breath slightly ragged, blood spattered across his face. In his hand, Wurzel still dripped red.
"Luise, count the wounded."
"None dead. One minor injury." Luise pointed at a man-at-arms with a shallow cut on his arm. "Still able to walk."
"Get them into the forest. Quickly."
They moved, vanishing among the trees. Behind them, Vallenwood continued to burn. The fire had spread to houses near the warehouses, painting the sky above the city in shades of orange.
***
Hilda sat beneath a tree, Lena cradled in her lap. The arrow was still embedded in the girl's calf, the shaft already cut, but the head remained inside.
"Do you know how to remove it?" Hilda asked Albert, who had just appeared.
Albert knelt beside Lena. The girl's face was pale, her eyes glassy, but she remained conscious.
"Lena, listen." Albert's voice was flat, but calm. "This is going to hurt. But you need to stay still, don't move. Understand?"
Lena nodded, her lips trembling.
Albert produced a small knife—not Wurzel, but the dagger Alena had given him. Nearby, Luise prepared cloth and water from a leather flask.
"Hold her," Albert ordered Hilda.
Hilda gripped Lena's shoulders, pressing her to the ground. Lena began to whimper, already afraid even before anything happened.
Albert cut the skin around the arrow. His movements were quick, precise. Blood flowed, Lena screamed. Luise pressed cloth to the wound, stemming the bleeding.
"Pull," Albert whispered.
He extracted the arrowhead. Lena screamed—a long, desperate cry, like a wounded animal. But Hilda held her fast, refusing to let the girl move.
After ten seconds, Lena's screams subsided into sobs.
Luise pressed the cloth harder, binding the wound swiftly. Gerit had taught her well.
"Done," Albert said. He stood, the bloody dagger in his hand. "Carry her. We need to keep moving."
Hilda looked at him. Albert's face—smeared with blood, but his eyes empty. No emotion. Like he'd just butchered a chicken, not saved a life.
Whether he had no emotions left or had already exhausted them earlier, Hilda couldn't tell. Her lord was too abnormal.
"Thank you, My Lord," she whispered.
Albert didn't respond. He'd already turned, signaling his troops to move.
***
After reuniting with Sir Varin, they walked through the night.
Hilda and the men-at-arms took turns carrying Lena. The girl drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes shivering, sometimes murmuring about something—her mother, perhaps, or home.
Behind them, Vallenwood continued to burn. Its orange glow was still visible even after two hours of marching. Black smoke rose high, billowing into the night sky.
Hilda couldn't stop thinking about Gerda.
Gerda, the woman with the scarred cheek, who had laughed when the officers' tent burned two years ago. Gerda, who always said, "This war will kill us all sooner or later, so enjoy it while you can."
Gerda, who had charged alone at twenty soldiers, buying them time to escape.
"I'll drink to you," Hilda whispered. "If I survive to the end."
As dawn began to break, they reached a small hill to the south. Albert signaled a halt.
"We rest here for an hour. Then we move again."
They collapsed onto the ground, exhausted. Some fell asleep immediately, leaning against trees. Hilda sat beside Lena, checking her wound. The bandage was still intact, no more bleeding. She might survive.
Albert sat on a large rock, lighting a feltwort. Smoke curled upward, mingling with the morning mist.
Luise sat beside him, as always.
"Hilda's team lost three," she said.
"Yes."
"Gerda, Elke, and Marta."
"Hmm."
Silence. Luise stared at Vallenwood in the distance—the city still belched smoke, but the flames had begun to dim.
"Do you think it was worth it?"
Albert turned. "What?"
"Three lives to burn some grain."
Albert drew on his feltwort. Smoke drifted out slowly.
"I don't know. We lost even more lives because of this mission..."
"You don't know?"
"I don't know what's worth it and what isn't." His voice was flat.
Luise fell silent.
Albert stubbed out his feltwort. "Gerda, Elke, Marta—they died because of my decision. I chose them for this mission, so I bear all the sins of all of you. That's my responsibility as a commander."
"You chose them, but they agreed."
"That doesn't change anything."