The morning sun cuts through the low-hanging river mist of Carravin, casting a cold, bronze sheen over the soaring stone spires and broad slate roofs of the Duchy of Thromium's capital. Below the high battlements, the city hums with a dense, frantic energy. Across the paved avenues and winding alleys, the heavy clatter of iron-shod boots reverberates off granite facades. In the scriptoriums near the central cathedral, ink-stained scribes work without pause, copying holy texts beneath tall lancet windows, while across the river, the acrid, heavy smoke of the artisan quarters rises in thick grey plumes into the clear sky.
Carravin—the second largest Palatine city in all of Heilop, surpassed only by the royal capital of Polihland—stretches out along the water, a sprawling maze of tanneries, ironsmiths, dye works, and flour mills. Here, on August 1, 1300, the steady pulse of labor has transformed into the cadence of war.
In the open cobblestone square of the Crispinan district—the ancient ward of bakers, brewers, millers, and cheesemakers—three hundred men stand arrayed in loose, uneven ranks. The air smells strongly of yeast, dark malt, and fresh sawdust from nearby barrel yards.
Aldo stands near the edge of the district fountain, his thumb lightly tracing the cold brass hammer of his flintlock musket. His dark eyes scan the three hundred conscripts and free soldiers standing before him. Assigned by Officer Watkins earlier that morning to secure the city's heart, Aldo eyes the company with a heavy, unspoken weight pulling at his shoulders. Three hundred men. A small battalion, dubbed the Ajax Battalion. Across the district line in Reginaldshire, where the smoke of silversmiths, armorers, and goldsmiths turns the sky dark, Comtois commands a second battalion of three hundred, the Sarpedon.
For three or four months in this strange world of Terre, Aldo had fought exclusively alongside Company 204, managing tactics at the tight, precise level of a single company. Now, looking at the broad sea of mismatched leather doublets, dented iron kettle hats, and long, unpolished wooden pikes, the scale of absolute responsibility presses firmly against his chest. Company 204 is not here. They have not been mobilized, or perhaps they wait elsewhere under secret orders. These men before him are mostly free soldiers and green conscripts—rough-handed men drawn from the bakeries and flour mills, their faces smudged with white flour and soot.
A sudden, sharp rustle of cloth draws Aldo's attention to the right.
Onaga Kei glides into the square, his long, dark hair tied loosely behind his neck, his delicate, feminine features flushed red from the morning chill. He catches his breath, his slender hands resting against his knees as his chest heaves beneath a light leather coat.
"Five blacksmith guilds... paid in full," Onaga gasps, his soft voice carrying lightly across the cobblestones as he looks up at Aldo. "Five thousand pikes... and full suits of iron armor... secured. Three herbalist guilds are already... boiling ten tons of medicinal paste... and cutting dozens of meters of clean linen cloth. And the fetch arrow guild... ten thousand iron-tipped arrows... and three hundred heavy crossbows... being loaded onto supply wagons right now."
Aldo gives a single, firm nod, his jaw tightening. "Good work, Onaga."
Across the square, the conscripts of Ajax raise their muskets, their actions ragged and uncoordinated. CRACK-CRACK-CRACK! A ragged volley of black powder smoke erupts from the ranks, filling the Crispinan district with a sulfurous cloud that obscures the timber-framed storefronts. Flocks of white pigeons burst from the eaves of a nearby bakery, their wings beating frantically against the air as they scatter toward the clouds.
When the target practice ends and the smoke clears, Aldo reaches into his heavy leather pouch, pulling out two iron-bound wooden boxes. He walks down the line, dropping two silver coins into the open, calloused palm of every soldier.
"Take two silver coins each," Aldo says, his voice flat, even, and calm. "Go to the taverns. Get bread, ale, and cheese. Keep your ears open and your gear dry."
The conscripts break ranks with low rumbles of gratitude, their heavy boots clattering against the stone as they stream toward the timbered taverns surrounding the market square. The smell of roasted pork, dark ale, and aged cheese begins to drift out from open tavern doors, blending with the sharp scent of spent gunpowder.
Aldo steps under the wooden awning of an armorer's shop to escape the growing sun.
BZZZZT.
A sharp, rhythmic vibration pulses against his hip. Aldo reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a polished silver communication orb. The smooth glass surface pulses with an intense, amber magical light. He taps the top ring of the casing.
"This is Officer Leo from Regiment codename Arthur," a dry, static-laced voice rasps from the orb, echoing softly against the shop's timber walls. "The Red Harvest has advanced to the Central Syr Valley of Thromium."
Aldo holds the orb close to his cheek, his gaze fixed on the crowded street where soldiers are hoisting wooden mugs of ale. "Understood. Ajax is maintaining security in Carravin with Sarpedon. No signs of anything here yet. That's all."
The amber light fades, the glass going dark and cold in his hand. Aldo slides the orb back into his pocket, resting his hand on the butt of his sidearm.
A young conscript sitting on a overturned flour barrel nearby, holding a thick wedge of yellow cheese and a wooden tankard, looks up with wide, anxious eyes. "Chief... do you think Regiment Arthur can stop the Red Harvest?"
Aldo leans his shoulder against the heavy oak doorframe, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. "Probably two days. Arthur has two thousand soldiers, but stopping the Red Harvest will be hard. They have at least eight thousand rebels, and their spies are everywhere in the valley. We'll have to march out to support them early tomorrow. Watkins gave me full command of Ajax."
Another conscript jumps up from the wooden bench, his jaw dropping as he nearly spills his ale over his leather breeches. "Chief! I heard that all captains are given full authority to control their troops so they can react quickly! Is that true?!"
Aldo's lips press into a thin line. He looks down at his boots, adjusting his leather belt. "Watkins' proposal. On Earth, we call this Prussian Mission-command. But this is the first time it's ever been applied here in Heilop. I'm afraid we don't know how effective it will be when the line breaks."
"I heard the Red Harvest is giving land to the poor farmers," a third conscript mutters quietly, staring down into the dark foam of his mug. "Taking the grand estates and dividing the wheat fields..."
From the dark corner of the armorer's porch, a low, dismissive click of a tongue cuts through the conversation.
Hano Kichiro sits casually on a wooden crate, his legs crossed, a heavy quill in his pale hand as he checks off crates of iron horseshoes on a logistics parchment. His skin is impossibly fair, his jet-black hair falling across his forehead, and his dark eyes hold a cold, vacant arrogance that looks entirely through the men around him. He doesn't bother looking up from his paper.
"Yeah, yeah, buddy, I've heard it all along," Hano says, his tone dripping with bored contempt. "Those Russians... what a complete mess they are. Do you honestly think they'll spare us if we surrender? In my experience, we should fight to the end."
Aldo turns his head slightly toward Hano, his brow furrowing. "Do you have a plan? They have magic. Real earth thaumaturgy, not just black powder."
Hano clicks his tongue again, blowing a stray speck of dust off his parchment with a soft, dismissive sigh. He looks up, his dark eyes meeting Aldo's with a chilling, absolute confidence. "Magic has never been abundant in Terre. I assure you I'll deal with them. Just focus on defeating Volkov. Let's repeat the miracles of Samel and Erikas."
Before Aldo can answer, the heavy, rhythmic thud of armored footsteps echoes from the main avenue. The crowded street parts instantly.
Duke Ferris enters the square.
Imposing, tall, and wearing an ornate breastplate of polished silver inlaid with gold floral filigree, the ruler of Thromium commands the space effortlessly. A heavy velvet cape of dark crimson trails behind him, brushing the cobblestones. His sharp, noble face is set in a rigid frown, his hand resting casually on the pommel of a broadsword studded with sapphires.
"I intend to hire another five thousand mercenaries to defeat those vermin," Duke Ferris announces loudly, his deep voice carrying over the chatter of the taverns, his chest swelling beneath his gilded plate.
Aldo shifts his weight, looking the Duke directly in the eyes without bowing. He ponders for a brief moment, his fingers resting on his flintlock belt. "Your Grace... the defeats at Pomer, Fluane, and Pormarensis included the premature surrender of the mercenaries. They broke and ran the moment the red banners appeared. I suggest you urgently mobilize and train local strong men instead; that would be better."
Duke Ferris's eyebrows draw together, his jaw tightening with noble pride. "Thaddeus of Djavia in western Heilop advised me to use mercenaries," Ferris emphasizes, stepping closer, his voice rising in authority. "I believe their advantages are undeniable. They are heavily armed, highly professional, and often very experienced in open warfare!"
Aldo does not flinch. He steps forward, his voice calm, steady, and sharp. "Allow me to quote a famous person I have read, Machiavelli." Aldo draws a small iron stylus from his pocket, tracing invisible words in the air between them. "He wrote, and I quote: Mercenaries are 'disunited, ambitious, undisciplined, and disloyal; valiant among friends, among enemies cowardly; they have no fear of God, no loyalty to men.'"
Ferris's frown deepens into a harsh scowl, his fingers tightening on his sword hilt.
Aldo, without a single second of hesitation, presses forward. "At best, if they are led by a fool, they merely ruin you; if their commander is even remotely worth his salt, he invariably tries to gain power for himself, either by harassing you or by interfering in your plans in some other way."
Ferris lets out a heavy breath, his gaze darkening as he looks over the ragged conscripts drinking ale in the square. "Just as they bow down before unholy men," Ferris grumbles under his breath. He looks squarely at Aldo, his eyes narrowing. "Why do you think peasants with hoes and shoemakers with hammers are more suitable for fighting my wars?"
Hano sets his quill down on the crate, leaning his chin against his palm, his vacant eyes staring up at the Duke with a thin, mocking tilt of his head. "Even if farmers and shoemakers made less proficient soldiers, Machiavelli believed, they were still likely to defend their patria more faithfully and respect the rule of law more assiduously – and that was surely what really mattered."
Aldo pulls his flintlock from its leather holster with a smooth, metallic click. He pours a pre-measured horn of black powder down the barrel, drops a lead ball inside, and draws the iron ramrod.
"I'm perfectly motivated to protect Carravin," Aldo says, his voice ice-cold as he drives the ramrod home with two sharp, rhythmic thuds: CLANG. CLANG."As long as Lord Coin Duke keeps pouring in weapons, food, and medicine."
He snaps the ramrod back into its housing and cocks the hammer back with a heavy, mechanical CLICK.
Duke Ferris stands frozen, his eyes wide, completely stunned by the blunt, unyielding display of military pragmatism.
A conscript sitting on a cider barrel raises his wooden mug into the air, yelling out, "More horses, more horses!"
Aldo nods once toward the Duke, his face unreadable. "More horses."
Ferris presses his lips together, suppressing a sudden, dry laugh that escapes his throat as a low huff. He shakes his head, looking at Aldo with a mixture of disbelief and amused exasperation. "What else do you need? A kiss from my cousin, Meave Wintersong?"
Aldo startles slightly, his shoulders jumping as he quickly holsters his musket. "No! I don't need that right now! It would be wonderful if you could sponsor me some anti-magic scrolls, or personally cast a magic-disabling spell on me!"
Duke Ferris lets out a theatrical groan, sweeping his crimson cape around his shoulders with a dramatic snap of silk. He turns on his heel to leave the square. "Nonsense!"
From behind a row of supply barrels, Onaga Kei steps into the path, his dark eyes looking up at the Duke with soft, earnest innocence. "Your Grace, you should leave that ego at home."
Ferris grumbles under his breath, his heavy boots clattering against the stone as he strides away. "I know. I know! I know!"
The sun climbs higher, baking the sweeping plains outside Carravin's grand northern gates.
A fierce, biting wind sweeps across the open fields, blowing violently against the noses, ears, and hair of Aldo, Onaga, Hano, Duke Ferris, and the mounted conscripts. The tall, white-maned warhorses gallop at full speed like iron-tipped arrows down the paved expanse of Triad Road. The smooth, engineered stone highway cuts through the green landscape like a silver ribbon, stretching toward the horizon.
Duke Ferris sits high in his gold-embossed saddle, his red cape billowing wildly behind him in the gale like a striking war banner. He turns his head back toward the riders, his face beaming with aristocratic vanity. "The road I built! You see how convenient it is?!"
Onaga, leaning low over his horse's neck, his hair whipping wildly across his face, shouts back with genuine, wholehearted praise. "It's incredible, Your Grace! Smooth as glass!"
Ferris's heart overflows with sudden, ecstatic happiness. A bright, golden aura erupts around his raised gauntlet as he channels a spell of kinetic acceleration. "BEHOLD!"
A surge of shimmering blue magic strikes the hooves of the lead horses. The stallions let out high-pitched whinnies, their speed doubling instantly as their hooves blur across the paved road, kicking up sparks against the hard stone.
"WHOA!" Aldo yells, his knuckles turning white as he grips his horse's leather reins with all his strength, his body leaning dangerously low to avoid being thrown backward into the dirt.
Behind him, Onaga screams in terror, abandoning his reins entirely to wrap his arms and legs around Hano's waist like a terrified koala bear, his face buried deep into the back of Hano's leather tunic.
Hano, his face pale and his hair blowing straight back in the wind, struggles to hold his own reins while Onaga's grip squeezes the breath from his ribs. "YOUR GRACE!" Hano roars over the deafening rush of the wind. "WE STILL HAVE AJAX BEHIND US! CAST A SPELL ON THEM TOO!"
Duke Ferris, hearing only the roar of the wind in his ears, cup a gloved hand to his ear and shouts back over his shoulder. "SORRY! AT MOST I CAN HELP THEM GO A LITTLE FASTER!"
Hano winces, his teeth clenched as he tries to steer the surging horse. "SEND US THERE ALREADY!"
Ferris shakes his head dramatically, his golden hair whipping across his eyes. "NO! THAT SPELL IS TOO EXPENSIVE!" He re-adjusts his grip on the golden reins, leaning into the wind. "THE PLAN IS FOR US TO GO TO FLORA IN THE SOUTHERN GARDEN BELT! I MUST MEET MY BELOVED PRISCILLA LOWE THERE!"
Riding alongside the Duke, the heavily armored knight escort, Count Vince, narrows his eyes beneath his steel visor. He leans over his saddle, his voice booming like a iron trumpet over the galloping hooves. "Your Grace! We must exterminate the godless red horde before you may see her!"
Duke Ferris lets out a long, agonizing groan of romantic despair, his aristocratic voice completely drowned out by the roaring wind, the thunder of hooves, and the endless, sweeping expanse of the open road ahead.
The high wooden wheels of the heavy supply wagons groan under the immense weight of iron pikes, oak mantlets, and barrels of salted meat as the Ajax Battalion marches steadily down the paved ribbon of Triad Road. The steady, rhythmic thud of six hundred iron-shod boots creates a low, rumbling pulse that vibrates through the damp soil bordering the engineered highway.
Aldo rides near the front of the column, his horse walking at a measured, deliberate pace. The biting wind from the northern hills continues to sweep across the open plain, rustling the tall, yellowing wild grass that stretches out toward the horizon like an endless sea. Beside him, Hano sits comfortably in his saddle, his eyes half-closed, casually tossing a small brass coin into the air and catching it with a soft clink against his pale palm.
"The wind is picking up," Aldo mutters, his eyes scanning the low ridge to the east. A thick bank of grey, rain-heavy clouds hangs over the distant jagged peaks of the Syr Mountains, casting long, dark shadows across the valley floor.
Onaga rides slightly behind them, his face pale, his hands still clutching the leather pommel of his saddle with a tight, nervous grip after the spell wore off. He adjusts his woolen scarf, pulling it higher to cover his cold nose. "Aldo... if Regiment Arthur is already engaging the Red Harvest in the valley, shouldn't we be seeing smoke on the horizon by now?"
Hano catches the brass coin in his fist, snapping his hand shut with a sudden, sharp movement. He doesn't look at Onaga. "Spies move faster than smoke, kid. If Volkov's vanguard is as organized as the reports say, they aren't burning every village they pass. They're taking the granaries, hanging the local tax collectors, and enlisting the tenant farmers before the Duke's commanders even realize the front line has moved."
Aldo's brow furrows. He reaches into his coat, his fingers lightly brushing the smooth, cold glass of the communication orb resting in his pocket. It remains dark and silent.
[Two thousand men under Regiment Arthur,] Aldo thinks, his chest tightening as he stares at the distant grey clouds hanging over the ridge. [Two thousand men holding a five-mile gap against eight thousand rebels armed with collective earth magic and burning with revolutionary zeal. If Arthur's center breaks before we reach the valley junction, Ajax will be marching straight into a double encirclement.]
A flock of dark crows bursts from a lonely, withered oak tree near the edge of the road, their harsh, raspy caws echoing sharply through the windy silence as they circle low over the moving column.
Down the line, the conscripts of the Ajax Battalion march in quiet, tense discipline. The ale and cheese from the Crispinan district tavern have long since worn off, replaced by the heavy, cold reality of the road. Their new iron breastplates, forged in the heat of Reginaldshire's anvils only hours before, clatter rhythmically against their leather doublets with every step: CLINK-CLANK, CLINK-CLANK. The long, five-meter pikes resting on their shoulders form a dense, wooden forest above the marching ranks, the fresh steel points catching the pale, filtered sunlight.
"Keep the ranks tight!" a sergeant yells from the middle of the column, his voice rough and gravelly. "Watch your spacing! If your pike tip touches the man ahead of you, you're marching too close!"
Duke Ferris, riding fifty paces ahead beside Count Vince, suddenly checks his horse's reins. The great stallion rears back slightly, its hooves coming down with a heavy thud against the paved stone. Ferris turns his saddle, his crimson cape sweeping around his shoulders as he points a gauntleted finger toward a narrow dirt track that branches off Triad Road toward the southern hills.
"This is where our paths split for the moment, Captain," Ferris shouts over the wind, his voice losing its grand, romantic theater, replaced by the sharp, decisive tone of a feudal lord commanding his realm. "Vince and I will take the southern spur through the Garden Belt to reach Flora. I must secure the southern garrisons and ensure the bathhouse revenue remains uninterrupted."
Aldo pulls his horse to a halt, looking up at the imposing noble. "And what of Regiment Arthur, Your Grace? If Volkov breaks through the Syr Valley, Carravin will be isolated within three days."
Duke Ferris's eyes darken slightly, his jaw setting into a hard line beneath his silver helmet. "Arthur has two thousand of my finest heavy infantry, supported by thirty Guild warmages. They will hold the gap until my men arrive from Djavia. Your task, Aldo, is to reinforce Arthur's left flank at the Syr junction. Do not let the rebels turn his line."
He pauses, leaning forward in his golden saddle, his piercing blue eyes fixing onto Aldo with an uncharacteristic, serious intensity.
"I am entrusting six hundred men of Carravin to your command," Ferris says, his voice low and firm. "They are bakers, smiths, and millers. Bring them back, Captain."
Aldo looks at the noble for a long moment, then raises his gloved hand in a crisp, sharp military salute. "They will stand, Your Grace."
Ferris nods once, turning his stallion toward the southern track. "Vince! With me!"
With a thunderous clatter of hooves, Duke Ferris, Count Vince, and their small escort of twelve elite knights gallop down the narrow dirt trail, their red capes fluttering against the green backdrop of the southern hills until they disappear into the dense, weeping willow groves bordering the Garden Belt.
Aldo lowers his hand, turning his horse back to face the Ajax Battalion.
"Hano, Onaga," Aldo commands, his voice dropping into a quiet, cold register. "Double the scout rotation ahead. Put twenty musketeers on the high ground along the eastern ridge. If anyone sees a red banner or an earth mound rising from the grass, I want to know before the horses hear it."
Hano gives a lazy, one-handed salute, a cruel, faint smile curling at the corner of his lips as he turns his mount toward the ridge. "Consider it done, Chief. Let's see if these famous red farmers can stand up to black powder."
Onaga adjusts his scarf once more, his delicate face hardening with quiet resolve as he reaches down to check the leather strap of his cross-belt. "I'll take the left flank scouts, Master Aldo."
As the two horsemen trot off toward the edges of the marching column, Aldo looks up at the darkening sky above Triad Road. The wind carries a cold, damp spray of mist from the mountains, smelling faintly of wet slate, wild pine, and distant black powder smoke. The road ahead stretches straight into the mouth of the Syr Valley—a narrow, treacherous corridor where the fate of the Duchy of Thromium will soon be decided in blood, steel, and fire.
Aldo lifts his reins, nudging his horse forward into a steady walk. Behind him, six hundred boots continue their relentless, thunderous cadence against the stone, marching straight into the gathering storm.