Albert shot upright.
His hand instantly flew to his waist—searching for the dagger that was always there. His breath came in ragged gasps, cold sweat soaking his back. In the corner of the tent, an oil lamp still burned dimly, casting dancing, shifting shadows across the canvas.
"Morning, My Lord." That voice... Luise.
She was tidying up the used bandages in the corner of the tent, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she folded the soiled cloths into a small sack. Her armor was already securely in place—only her helmet remained off—and her black hair was tied back neatly.
Albert stared at her for several long seconds, still half-lost in the remnants of his nightmare. Then, gradually, his breathing began to slow.
"Luise."
"Did I make too much noise?" she asked, without turning around. "Apologies, My Lord. I was trying to be quiet."
Albert let out a long, slow breath. His hand dropped from his waist. "No, it's not that..."
He sat up on his bedroll, feeling every single muscle in his body protest the movement. The wound on his side had been re-bandaged—clean wrappings, dry, no sign of fresh bleeding. Gerit must have worked on him while he was unconscious.
"How long was I out?"
"All night. The sun rose about half an hour ago." Luise finally glanced over. Her eyes swept across Albert's face briefly, then returned to her task. "Do you need water? Food? Gerit said you need to drink plenty."
Albert nodded, then forced himself to stand. His body swayed for a moment, but he managed to stay upright.
First, to clean up. Water was available in a large pitcher in the corner of the tent—cold, fresh. He splashed his face, neck, and hands. The water turned pink as it washed over the myriad small cuts and nicks covering his body. He rinsed again, until the pink faded.
In the tarnished mirror hanging from a tent pole, he caught his reflection. A pale face, dark circles etched beneath his eyes. But his eyes... his eyes were back to normal. Not like yesterday. Still, something lingered in their depths, a shadow that hadn't quite lifted.
"I need to send a report," he said, drying his face.
"Already done." Luise pointed to a small folding table near the tent entrance. On it lay a rolled-up piece of parchment covered in neat handwriting. "I wrote a summary last night. Just check it over."
Albert picked up the parchment and began to read.
Concise and professional. Luise had written it in the proper military report style—initial troop numbers, casualties, tactics employed, battle outcome. And at the very end, a sentence that made Albert frown:
"...The unit commander, Albert vin Götterbaum, personally slew the enemy's left-flank commander after breaking through his guard formation. This action caused the collapse of the enemy formation and allowed allied forces to advance without significant resistance."
"You wrote this?" Albert asked.
"Facts," Luise replied flatly. "I only wrote the facts."
Albert shook his head, then added a few notes in the margin—tactical details that might be useful for his superiors. Then he sealed it with wax and the impression of his signet ring—the Götterbaum tree emblem.
"This needs to be dispatched immediately."
"I've already prepared a courier."
***
The report reached the main command post two hours later.
Lord Harald vin Eisental received it in his large command tent—maps scattered across the table, several officers standing around him. He read through the report with raised eyebrows.
"That Young Lord," he murmured. "He actually did it."
An officer beside him—a captain with a thick beard—peered at the report. "The Leandria commander on the left flank? The one with the elite guards?"
"Yes." Lord Harald handed him the report. "See for yourself."
The captain read it, then let out a low whistle. "Alone? With only seventy men?"
"According to this report, he broke through the guard formation, killed the commander on horseback, and then returned to the defensive line. His unit didn't lose a single man in the subsequent fighting." Lord Harald offered a thin smile. "Somehow. Meanwhile, the enemy lost their commander and at least a hundred men on that flank."
The tent fell silent. The officers exchanged glances.
"From Götthain, you say?" one of them asked.
"Small territory. Baron Friedrich vin Götterbaum." Lord Harald settled into his chair, stretching his back. "I met his father once, years ago. A solid, honorable soldier. But this..." He tapped the report. "This is different from your average knight."
"What are they calling him?" the bearded captain asked. "Our soldiers have started using a name for him."
Lord Harald raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"The Black Sword Demon." The captain chuckled. "They like their dramatics. They say he fights without a sound, without expression. Just kills. The Leandria soldiers who survived that flank—the ones captured last night—they say he was like a demon. Appearing out of the chaos of the battlefield on a mad horse, killing thirty men single-handedly, then vanishing."
Lord Harald snorted. "The Black Sword Demon? Hmph. But let them call him that. Reputation is a weapon in itself." He thought for a moment, then picked up a pen. "I need to send a reply."
He wrote quickly—just a few short lines.
To Albert vin Götterbaum,
Report received. Your unit's performance exceeded expectations. The demoralizing effect on the enemy is more valuable than mere tactical victory.
Your force is now too depleted to remain on the front lines continuously. I am ordering you to take command of the remnants of the Valeran and Dornenholz units who have lost their commanders—approximately one hundred and fifty men in total. Integrate them with your own forces. You will remain on the front line, but with a more respectable number.
Next report in three days.
- Harald vin Eisental
He folded the letter and handed it to a waiting courier. "For Albert vin Götterbaum, the Götthain contingent's tent. Make haste."
***
Albert received the letter as the sun climbed higher in the sky.
He read it in front of his tent, Luise beside him. When he reached the part about "Black Sword Demon," he stopped cold.
"What is this? Is this some kind of joke?"
Luise read over his shoulder, then nearly laughed. "A nickname. Probably from our own soldiers, maybe from surviving enemies as well."
"The Black Sword Demon?" Albert shook his head in disbelief. "It sounds ridiculous..."
"But it's effective." Luise pointed at the letter. "Look, Lord Harald even mentions the effect on enemy morale—"
"Psychological warfare."
"Whatever it's called. The point is, the effect on enemy morale is valuable." Luise shrugged. "Anyway. The important thing is, you're getting reinforcements. A hundred and fifty men."
Albert reread the letter. Valeran. Dornenholz. Some units from those two families had lost their commanders in yesterday's battle. Their surviving soldiers were now leaderless.
"We need to go there," he said. "Assess their condition."
***
The encampment of the Valeran and Dornenholz forces lay on the northern side, near a small stream. Albert walked past countless rows of tents, and with every step, he was plunged deeper into the grim reality of medieval warfare.
The smell hit him first—a pungent, inescapable stench. Human waste was buried in shallow pits, but the odor still seeped everywhere. The sweat of thousands of soldiers who hadn't bathed in days. The stench of festering wounds from the recovery tents in the distance. The carcasses of horses not yet buried. All of it mingled into one overwhelming odor—the very smell of war.
The sound of coughing was everywhere—lung sickness from sleeping on damp ground. Men grumbling, arguing, laughing hysterically. In one tent, someone was crying—a hoarse, choking sound that abruptly cut off.
Albert observed it all with eyes trained to notice details.
Soldiers with open wounds sat on the ground, bandaging themselves with dirty cloth because there weren't enough medics to go around. Their faces were pale, their eyes dull. Some would be dead within days.
Others, the unwounded ones, sat in small groups. They gambled with dice using coins that were probably battle plunder. Their faces were tense—not with fear, but with boredom. The boredom of waiting for death.
Near the stream, a woman—perhaps a camp follower, perhaps a prostitute—washed clothes in the cold water. Small children ran nearby, too thin, too dirty. Children on a battlefield... they had no idea what tomorrow would bring.
Albert walked past them all. Some soldiers turned to look at him, saw the green Götthain cloak, then quickly looked away. Some whispered—"That's him." "The Black Sword Demon." "The one who killed the Leandria commander single-handedly." "The one who slaughtered dozens alone."
He paid them no mind. His eyes kept moving, searching for the soldiers he was meant to lead.
They were easy enough to find. Tents bearing the Valeran shield emblem and the Dornenholz raven emblem—but their banners flew at half-mast. A sign of mourning for their fallen commanders.
The soldiers around those tents were different from the others. They were quiet. No dice games, no laughter. Just sitting, staring into space, or talking in hushed murmurs within small groups.
It felt a bit like poaching soldiers from another noble's household, but since it was a direct order from a high commander in the midst of a campaign, it was perfectly legitimate.
Albert stopped in front of the main tent. A non-commissioned officer—a man-at-arms with a bandaged head wound—stood up and looked at him.
"You're Albert vin Götterbaum?" the man asked.
"Yes."
The officer nodded, then saluted. No hesitation, no judgment. Just a salute. "We've heard. Lord Harald sent word." He gestured around them. "These are the Valeran survivors. Sixty men—thirty men-at-arms, thirty levies. The Dornenholz lot are over there—ninety archers."
Albert studied them. The Valeran men-at-arms—good equipment, iron armor, experienced faces. But in their eyes, something was missing. The fire, the spirit.
"Your commanding lord?"
"Lord Rodric vin Valeran." The officer's brow furrowed slightly. "He... didn't participate in the battle. Some health issues. His father—Earl William—ordered him home." His voice was flat, but Albert caught the undertone. Disrespect. Relief.
Rodric... so he was gone, and probably wouldn't be coming back. Albert filed that information away.
"The Dornenholz forces?" he asked.
The officer pointed south. "Over there. Their commanding lady—Lady Mirelle—survived, but the main force she sent to the front lines was decimated. The survivors are now leaderless."
Albert nodded and walked toward the Dornenholz tents.
The archers were different. Calmer, more disciplined. They sat in orderly groups, checking their bows and arrows over and over. The ritual of people who knew their lives depended on those tools.
A woman—in her thirties, with short-cropped brown hair—stood as Albert approached. Her eyes were grey, sharp.
"You're Albert?"
Albert nodded.
"I'm Hilda, My Lord." The woman shook his hand—a firm grip, brief. "I've been leading temporarily. Before you came."
"And now?"
"I'll follow your orders. I'm fairly confident in my tactical and strategic judgment." Hilda met his gaze directly. "But I want you to know: my people are the best, not just common soldiers. If you lead them into a suicide mission, I will protest."
Albert stared back. Those grey eyes held no fear of him, weren't intimidated by the "Black Sword Demon" nickname. This was a woman who had lived in a harsh world for a long time and wasn't afraid to die.
"I won't lead them into a suicide mission," he said. "But possibly into dangerous situations. If that's a problem, will you still follow?"
Hilda smiled thinly. "That's the difference. You said 'dangerous,' not 'suicide.' I can accept dangerous."
Albert nodded. "Gather your people. We'll have a briefing after sunset."
***
Night fell quickly on the battlefield.
Albert sat in front of his tent, lighting a feltwort cigarette. Smoke curled upward, vanishing into the star-scattered sky. Around him, new tents were being erected—the combined forces of Götthain, Valeran, and Dornenholz. A hundred and fifty men, plus his original force. Roughly two hundred and forty soldiers in total, though only two hundred and thirty-one were fit for active duty.
Footsteps behind him. Luise. She sat down beside Albert without asking permission—something she had never done before. But Albert didn't mind.
They sat in silence for a while. The crackle of campfires, the distant chirping of crickets.
Then Luise spoke. "You're smoking that strange thing again."
Albert turned to her. "Yes."
"How many today?"
Albert thought about it. "Four. Maybe five."
"You know too much is bad for you, right?"
Albert almost smiled. "I know."
"But you do it anyway."
"Yes."
Luise sighed. Then, suddenly, her hand reached out and plucked the cigarette from Albert's fingers.
"HEY—"
"That's enough." Luise stubbed the cigarette out on the ground, grinding it under her heel. "You need sleep, not smoke."
Albert stared at her, incredulous. "You—you took my cigarette?"
"Yes."
"You dare—"
"I dare." Luise met his gaze directly. Her eyes—violet, gleaming in the firelight—held no fear. Didn't back down. "You said it yourself, when there's no one else around, I can call you Albert. So, Albert, you need to rest. You're human. Humans have limits."
Albert froze.
She had called him Albert... not My Lord, not Lord. Just Albert.
For a moment, he didn't know what to say. No one had ever dared call him that—not even in Götthain, even if it was technically by his own suggestion, this was still completely unexpected.
"I..."
"You what?" Luise crossed her arms. "You think I haven't noticed? Your eyes were empty yesterday, after the battle. You were like someone who wasn't really there. And you just kept moving, kept killing, kept running, until you collapsed." Her voice rose slightly—not angry, but strained. "I had to carry you to the tent. I had to wait for you to wake up. I had to worry."
"Luise..."
"I promised to protect you. Remember? You said you'd protect me too, protect the people under you. But who protects you, Albert?"
Silence enveloped them. The campfire crackled.
Albert looked at Luise. A young woman with violet eyes and black hair, who was always quiet, always watchful, always at his side. Who today had dared to take his cigarette and scold him.
"I don't know," he finally admitted. Honestly. "Maybe no one. And that's fine. It's not necessary."
"Wrong." Luise pointed at herself. "Me. I will protect you. People might think you're a genius, extraordinary. But I think you're reckless, you're foolish, you love taking insane risks—but I'll be here. To pull you back before you die stupidly."
Albert stared at her. In his chest, there was a strange warmth... No! Don't!
"You're serious?"
"Have I ever joked?" Luise let out a long sigh, then leaned back, gazing into the fire. "I don't have any family left except my grandfather. And my grandfather told me to look after you. So... yeah. I'm serious."
Silence again. But a different kind of silence. Not tense. Just... quiet.
"Luise."
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
She turned to him, her expression odd—perhaps surprised, perhaps touched. Then she smiled. A small smile, but warm. "You're welcome."
They sat there together, under the starry sky. Albert didn't smoke another cigarette that night.