The document was heavy. Not physically—just a few sheets of parchment, but the weight was in the words.
Albert read it once, then again. Royal bureaucracy handwriting—neat, rigid, emotionless.
"By the authority of His Majesty King Wilhelm, Albert vin Götterbaum is hereby appointed Commander of the Götthain-Lancaster Special Regiment, with the rank equivalent to Captain, entitled to a permanent garrison at Eastern Garrison, logistics allocation equivalent to two hundred and fifty men, and the authority to recruit and train troops as needed."
Below that, a long list of rights and obligations. Allowances, chain of command, reporting procedures.
Albert set the document down on the table. Beside it, a cup of cold water and a half-smoked feltwort cigarette.
"Congratulations, My Lord."
Luise stood at the tent entrance, leaning her shoulder against the support pole. Her face was as expressionless as usual, but the corner of her mouth lifted slightly.
"Thank you."
"There's other news." Luise stepped inside, placing a scrap of paper on top of the document. "A meeting this afternoon. All unit commanders are required to attend. Lord Harald himself summoned everyone."
Albert read the paper. Short, no pleasantries. Be there at noon, don't be late.
"Anyone know the agenda?"
Luise shook her head. "Just rumors. But from what I've heard... it's about a change in strategy."
Albert nodded. He picked up his feltwort, drawing deeply. Smoke filled his lungs—warm, familiar.
Two years of static warfare. Back and forth along the river. Thousands of soldiers dead, the front line barely moving. And now, suddenly, a change.
"Alright. I'll go."
***
The command tent was packed. More crowded than usual.
Albert sat in his seat—now slightly closer to the center, a sign of his changed status. Around him, the other unit commanders sat in familiar formation. Lady Mirelle near Lord Harald. Earl William in his corner. Several new faces—commanders of the reinforcements from the capital.
Lord Harald stood before a large map. A different map than before. Not defensive lines, not river positions. But a city.
"Vallenwood."
The name echoed through the tent. A fortress city in the east, Leandria's logistics hub. For two years, that city had been the enemy's main supply source. For two years, they could only watch it from a distance.
Lord Harald pointed at the map. "New intelligence indicates that the main Leandria forces have withdrawn north after their defeat in the Valley two months ago. Vallenwood is only guarded by a local garrison—maybe five thousand, maybe ten. Not enough to stand against us."
The commanders began whispering among themselves. Lady Mirelle raised her hand.
"We're advancing? Now?"
"Yes." Lord Harald looked at each of them in turn. "For two years, we've held the line. For two years, we've bled them bit by bit. Now it's time to seize territory, and Vallenwood is our first target."
He drew a line on the map—the army's route. "We'll move with one hundred and twenty thousand soldiers. Infantry, cavalry, archers, siege engines. A total encirclement. No one gets out, no one gets in."
The room fell silent. One hundred and twenty thousand... A tangible number, not an abstraction. Albert imagined a sea of humanity moving across the grasslands, surrounding a city in the distance.
"However," Lord Harald continued, "a conventional siege takes time. They have supplies and reinforcements, we have numbers. Who can hold out longer?" He shook his head. "We don't have much time—this needs to be finished before next winter."
"So?" a commander asked.
Lord Harald smiled thinly. "So we speed things up. With help from the inside."
All eyes turned to the map. Lord Harald pointed at points around the city.
"Before the main force arrives, we send a small team inside. Disguised, infiltrated. Primary target: the food storage warehouses. If we can destroy their supplies before the siege begins, the city will fall within a week. Even faster given our overwhelming numbers."
Lady Mirelle frowned. "High risk. If they're discovered, that team will die."
"But if they succeed, thousands of lives on our side will be saved." Lord Harald looked at Albert. "And I already have a team in mind for this."
Albert froze. Around him, the commanders began turning their heads.
"The Götthain-Lancaster Special Regiment." Lord Harald spoke the name clearly. "You've already proven yourselves with exceptional small-scale operations behind enemy lines. That supply burning two years ago—everyone still remembers."
Albert stood. All eyes were on him.
"That city isn't like an ordinary supply camp, My Lord. Its walls are high, its guards are tight, its populace is wary of strangers."
"I know." Lord Harald met his gaze directly. "That's why I'm choosing you. Not because it's easy, but because you're capable."
Albert felt the weight settling on his shoulders. The weight of expectations, the weight of lives.
"How many people?"
"Up to you. Maximum thirty—the smaller the team, the safer."
Albert thought quickly. Thirty people. Infiltrate an enemy city, destroy the food warehouses, and if possible, the gates. Then escape before the siege begins.
"When?"
"The main force moves in three days. You need to get in before they arrive—while the city is still calm, not yet on alert."
Albert nodded. There was no choice.
"I understand, My Lord."
***
That afternoon, Albert gathered his remaining soldiers in the tent.
Seventy-three survivors. Faces he'd come to know over two years—men, women, old, young. They sat on the ground, on crates, wherever they could. Luise beside Albert. Hilda in the front row.
Albert didn't waste words.
"We have a new mission. Infiltration of Vallenwood City. Targets: the food warehouses, and if possible, the main gate."
A few of them muttered quietly. Hilda raised an eyebrow.
"How many people?"
"Thirty max. I'll choose personally."
He began selecting. Not based on rank, but on ability. Those who could move silently, those who could read situations quickly, those who didn't panic under pressure.
Luise, automatically. Hilda, for her experience and leadership. Two Dornenholz archers—the ones who'd been on the burning mission two years ago. Three men-at-arms—the calmest, most trustworthy. The rest, levies who'd proven they wouldn't flee in critical moments.
Twenty-eight people. Plus Albert and Luise, thirty.
Those not selected sat in silence. Some disappointed, some relieved. Albert had no time to manage feelings.
"We're splitting into three teams." He drew a simple map in the dirt. "Team one—me, Luise, six others. Enter through the market, primary target the warehouses. Team two—Hilda, eight archers, target the gate. Study the guard rotations, find weak points, and if there's an opportunity, destroy the lifting mechanism."
Hilda nodded. "Team three?"
"Team three—Sir Varin." Albert pointed at the old knight, who had only fully recovered six months ago. "You and nine others secure the escape route. Emergency exit on the city's south side, near the river."
Sir Varin nodded. "Understood."
They discussed until nightfall. Entry routes, escape routes, signal codes, what to do if separated, what to do if discovered. Albert repeated every detail until everyone had memorized it.
When they finally dispersed, the moon was already high. Albert sat outside his tent, lighting a feltwort. Luise sat beside him.
"You know this is insane," she said.
"Yes."
"But you're still doing it."
"No choice."
Luise sighed. "I'm following. Wherever you go, My Lord."
Albert turned, looking at her. Those violet eyes—usually hard, watchful—now held something else. Something he couldn't quite explain.
"Glad to hear it."
***
Three days later, the main force began to move.
One hundred and twenty thousand people marched across the grasslands, leaving behind the camp they'd occupied for two years. Banners fluttered, war drums beat, dust rose high into the sky. A sight to behold.
But Albert wasn't watching. He was already inside a vegetable cart, along with Luise and six others, heading toward Vallenwood.
The cart stank. Rotten cabbage, wilted carrots, damp soil. They hid beneath a layer of vegetables, leaving only small gaps to breathe. The movement was slow, swaying, nauseating.
Albert counted time in the darkness. One hour. Two hours.
The cart stopped. Voices outside—the city gate, guards questioning the driver.
"Where from?"
"Holten village, to the west. Bringing vegetables for the market."
"Documents?"
"Here you go, sir."
Albert held his breath. Beside him, Luise didn't move.
"Pass."
The cart moved again. The sound of wheels on stone, echoes between walls—they were inside.
Albert exhaled with relief. First step successful.
***
Night in Vallenwood.
This city was larger than Albert had imagined. Thirty thousand residents, plus a garrison of five to ten thousand. Stone-paved streets, wooden and stone houses crammed together, a market in the center, and at the eastern end, massive warehouses where food supplies were stored.
They hid in a run-down inn near the market. The owner—an elderly widow—didn't ask many questions after seeing the silver coins in her palm. Two rooms upstairs, windows facing a quiet back alley.
Albert sat by the window, observing the movement outside. Soldiers patrolled every half hour. Citizens came and went with their goods. Children played in the gutters.
A normal world in the midst of war. Or at least, what appeared normal.
Luise entered, closing the door softly. "Hilda's in position. They've scoped out the east gate—twenty guards, rotation every four hours. Lifting mechanism is in the central tower."
"The warehouses?"
"Three guards in front, five in back, perimeter patrol every hour." Luise sat on a rickety wooden chair. "We could enter through the roof, but it'll take time."
Albert nodded. In his head, the plan began to take shape.