That night, Albert dreamed.
He stood amidst ruins. Not ruins of stone—ruins of flesh.
Corpses lay scattered around him, piled like grain sacks, stacked waist-high. Some were still moving. A hand reached out from the heap, fingers grasping, groping at his boots.
He looked down. That face—Klaus. His eyes—which always crinkled when he laughed—were now empty. His mouth moved, but the sound that emerged wasn't Klaus's voice. It was heavy, deep, like the groans of dozens of people at once.
"Wake... wake... wake..."
Albert stepped back. His foot landed on something—soft, wet. He looked down again. A head—Gerold's head—lay between two other corpses. Those old eyes were open, staring at him. His lips—gap-toothed, just like when he smiled after catching a fish—moved.
"My Lord."
Behind him, other voices. Stefan. Lukas. Gerda. Elke. Marta. All the names he'd memorized, all the faces he'd buried in his memory, all stood around him, eyes hollow, mouths moving in unison.
"Wake... wake..."
"Waaake..."
"WAKE."
"WAKE. WAKE. WAKE."
The air shifted. The stench of rotting flesh gave way to another smell—a smell he knew. Gunpowder. Diesel. The smell of modern war.
He turned.
The ruins of flesh were gone. Now he stood in a field, dry grass, grey sky.
In the distance, a village burned. Wooden huts blazed, black smoke billowing toward the sky. Screams—not battle cries, but ordinary screams. A mother's scream, losing her child. A child's scream, losing its mother.
He ran. His legs were heavy, as if dragging a hundred-kilo weight. But he kept running, entering the burning village.
By the well, a group of soldiers. Not medieval soldiers—modern soldiers. Tactical uniforms, assault rifles, tilted berets. They surrounded a young woman. Tangled blonde hair, torn dress. She screamed.
Albert shouted. No sound came out. He tried again. Nothing.
The soldiers turned. Their faces—faces he knew. Dmytro. Ghost. Marko. They smiled at him—wrong smiles, smiles that shouldn't exist on dead men's faces.
"You see?" Dmytro asked. "This is what you do."
The woman kept screaming. Her voice pierced his ears. Albert tried to run, but his feet were stuck. The ground beneath him changed—soft, warm, red. His feet sank into a mud of blood.
"Look!"
Dmytro pointed. The woman was no longer there. In her place stood Leo. That new young man, kneeling on the ground, hands gripping a sword, his body drenched in blood. Not enemy blood. His own.
Leo stared at him. His eyes—brown, spirited, full of dreams—were now empty. His mouth moved.
"Second... lesson... Commander..."
His body collapsed. From behind him, the Leandria prisoner he'd ordered Leo to kill yesterday stood up, smiling. His neck gaped open, but he smiled.
"Thank you," he said. "Now I'm free."
The world spun. The burning village transformed—Vallenwood. But not the Vallenwood he inhabited. Another version, a hellish version. Corpses littered every corner. Blood flowed in the gutters like rainwater. From every window, faces stared at him—mothers with children, old men with axes, the little girl who chased cats.
They were all silent. Just staring.
Albert wanted to scream. Wanted to apologize. But his tongue was frozen. His body was frozen. He could only stand in the middle of a dead city, surrounded by thousands of eyes staring mercilessly.
Above, a humming sound.
He looked up. Grey sky, and there, hovering calmly—a drone. Black, small, four spinning propellers. Its cold camera lens stared down at him.
BOOM!
Albert jolted awake.
The world spun. He didn't know where he was. Dark... warm. The smell of wood and candles. His hands groped—wood, cloth, something hard—a desk.
His breath came in ragged gasps. His chest tightened, as if something sat on it. His heart pounded—too fast, too hard, like war drums.
His entire body was drenched. Not ordinary sweat—cold sweat, sticky, disgusting. His clothes clung to his skin. His hair was wet, plastered to his forehead.
His hands trembled.
He raised a hand before his face, trying to see in the darkness. His hands shook, kept shaking as if they couldn't stop.
He tried to control his breathing. But his breath refused to be controlled. His lungs were like fish on land—gasping, unable to get air.
Albert closed his eyes, counting. One. Two. Three.
Behind his eyelids, those faces remained. Klaus. Stefan. Lukas. Gerold. Gerda. That prisoner. Leo. Dmytro. Ghost. Marko. The woman in the burning village.
He didn't know how long passed before he finally opened his eyes.
He sat on the edge of the bed. His body swayed. His head spun. In the corner of the room, the candle had burned out—only a frozen puddle of wax remained in its silver holder. How long had he slept?
His hands still trembled.
He stood. His knees buckled, nearly collapsing. But he stood, grabbed his cloak from the chair back, wrapped it around his shoulders. First step—staggering. Second step—steadier. Third step—he reached the door.
Outside, the corridor was deserted. Wall candles were nearly spent, leaving only dim, dancing light. The smell of damp stone and faint smoke from a distant hearth.
He walked. His footsteps echoed on the stone corridor. Left. Right. Straight ahead. Until he reached the bathhouse—a small room with a stone tub, water stored in large barrels.
His sleep clothes—soaked through with sweat. He removed everything, naked in the cold air.
The water barrel was cold—deliberately unheated, because only cold water was provided at the front lines. He took a ladle, poured it over his head.
Cold. Piercing.
Water streamed through his hair, over his face, down his neck, across his chest. He poured again. And again. Until his body shivered, until his breathing began to steady, until his heart slowed slightly.
He stood under the cascade of cold water, eyes closed, letting the cold seep in, freezing the memories still dancing in his head.
***
Luise woke up.
Not because of a sound. Because of something else. Instinct. A premonition. Something was wrong.
She sat up in her bed—a small room adjacent to Albert's office. Her ears sharpened. A sound? Nothing, only crickets and wind.
But something felt different.
She rose, grabbed the short sword beside her bed, stepped to the door. Opened it slowly. The corridor was deserted. Candles nearly dead. No one.
But she smelled something. A smell—the smell of cold sweat, faint traces of something else.
She followed her instinct. To the bathhouse.
The door was slightly ajar. Candlelight from within—dim, but enough. She peered inside.
Albert stood under the flowing water. Water streamed down his body, but he didn't move. Just stood there, eyes closed, hands at his sides.
Luise stepped back. Not from embarrassment—she'd accidentally seen naked soldiers in the river countless times. But because of what she saw on Albert's face.
Not her Lord's usual cold, indifferent expression. Not the face of a young man with eyes too old. This was another face. The face of someone who had just seen hell and still carried its fire in his eyes.
She waited outside.
After a long while, the sound of water stopped. Footsteps. The door opened.
Albert emerged, cloak wrapped around his waist, wet hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes—those green eyes—met Luise's. And for a moment, Luise saw something else there.
For two years, Albert's eyes had always been cold. Like a frozen winter lake—calm, deep, impossible to guess what lay beneath. When he gave orders, those eyes didn't change. When he killed, they didn't change. When he received awards, when he saw his men's corpses, when he burned a city—always the same. Cold. Empty. Unreadable.
But now, those eyes were different.
Beneath that coldness, something else stirred. Something chaotic and wild. Like water beneath melting ice—but not ordinary water. Black water. Murky water. Water that, if touched, would drag you to the bottom.
And on the surface, among barely visible ripples, there were flashes. Not his usual intelligent flashes. Other flashes—the flashes of someone ready to attack anything that moved.
Excessive suspicion and fear without clear foundation.
"Luise." Albert's voice was hoarse, lower than usual. "What's wrong?"
"I... I felt something was wrong."
Albert looked at her. His eyes moved, scanning her face, her neck, her hands, the sword in her hand. Quick movements, like an eagle observing prey. Assessing. Measuring. Searching for threats.
Then, after a few seconds, the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
"Nothing's wrong." He walked past Luise, toward his room. "Go back to sleep."
Luise watched him go. She noticed the way he walked—usually always upright, certain. Now his steps were slightly different. More alert. More ready.
She returned to her room but didn't sleep. Just sat on the bed, sword in her lap, ears sharp.
***
Over the next two days, Luise observed.
First morning, during training. Albert stood before the troops, as usual. His face was flat. His orders were clear. But his eyes... his eyes moved constantly. Never still. Sweeping the ranks, assessing every soldier, searching for something.
A new levy—a young man from Grunfeld village—shifted slightly as Albert passed. A small, unintentional movement. Usually Albert wouldn't notice. But this time, he stopped. Stared at the boy for ten seconds without expression.
The boy turned pale. His body trembled.
Finally, Albert turned and continued his inspection. But the boy nearly fainted afterward.
That afternoon, Albert reviewed the guard schedule himself. That was usually Luise's task. He sat at his desk, reading names, muttering, crossing out, rewriting. His eyes were red—from lack of sleep.
"Why are you doing this?" Luise asked.
Albert didn't answer. Kept writing.
"Something's wrong with tonight's guard schedule."
"I want to make sure everything is safe."
"You've never done this before."
"There's a first time for everything."
Luise fell silent. But she saw Albert's hand—trembling slightly as he held the pen.
Second night, Albert didn't sleep.
Luise knew because she didn't sleep either. She heard footsteps in the corridor, back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes stopping long at the window, then continuing. Like a caged lion.
At three in the morning, the footsteps stopped outside Luise's door. Silence. Then a knock—soft, barely audible.
"Luise."
She rose, opened the door. Albert stood there, hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. His cloak was rumpled.
"Did you hear that?"
Luise frowned. "Hear what?"
"That." Albert pointed to the end of the corridor. "A sound... Like footsteps. But not synchronized with the patrol."
Luise listened. Nothing. Just wind.
"I don't hear anything, My Lord."
Albert looked at her. His eyes moved, searching for deception. Then he nodded.
"Maybe just the wind." But he didn't return to sleep. He stood in the corridor until dawn.
Third morning, Leo almost died.
The new kid was carrying water from the well. Albert passed by, and Leo ran toward him.
"Commander... Any tasks today?"
Albert turned so fast that Leo stepped back. The sword at Albert's waist was half-drawn—not to attack, but reflex. An automatic movement from someone always ready for battle.
Leo froze. His eyes went wide.
Albert stared at him.
After a moment, he sheathed his sword.
"Never," Albert's voice was low, trembling slightly, "suddenly run toward me again."
Leo nodded quickly. The water in his bucket spilled.
Albert turned and left. Luise, watching from a distance, sighed.
She approached Leo. The young man was still trembling.
"W—what's happening to him?" Leo whispered.
Luise didn't answer. She just stared at Albert's back as he disappeared through the barracks door.
"I don't know," she finally said. "But something is happening. And I don't like it."
***
Third night, Albert sat in his office.
No feltwort. No substitute. Just him, an empty desk, and thousands of voices in his head.
He closed his eyes. The faces came, as always.
Klaus. Stefan. Lukas. Gerold. Gerda. That prisoner. Leo—the dream version, dead with empty eyes. Dmytro. Ghost. Marko. The woman in the burning village.
They all spoke in unison. Their voices filled the room, filled his head, filled everything.
"Kill... kill... kill..."
Albert opened his eyes.
The room was empty. Only candles and shadows.
His hands trembled. Harder than yesterday.
"No..." he whispered. "I'm still here... I..."
He didn't know where that sentence was going.
Outside, Luise sat in the corridor, back against the wall, sword in her lap. She heard whispering from inside. Unclear, just murmurs.
She didn't enter. Just sat, waiting, guarding.
As she had promised. Until her Lord finished bearing these sins.
But tonight, for the first time, Luise doubted whether her Lord could endure.