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The sun sinks low over the craggy limestone walls of the Bellafonte basin, casting long, bruised shadows across the trampled valley floor. A thick, suffocating cloud of white matchlock smoke and grey thermal steam hangs over the churned mud, smelling of burnt sulfur, damp iron, and crushed wild sage. High above the ruined vineyard terraces, a lone buzzard cuts wide, lazy circles into the blood-red sky, its dark wings catching the hot thermal drafts rising from the mineral pools below.
In the center of the pocket, the ring of crossbows closes.
Volkov stands in front of his handful of surviving militiamen, his massive frame a battered fortress of cracked iron and dried crimson gore. He holds his iron war hammer low, his knuckles white against the dark ash-wood shaft. Sweat and blood run together into his heavy beard, dripping steadily onto the soft, trampled clay. Beside him, Irina's small hand clutches her last arrow, her dark eyes flashing with a desperate, wild fire as she glare through the haze at the surrounding steel.
From the southern vineyard road comes a sudden, rhythmic thunder that shakes the parched earth.
A dense column of heavy footmen breaks through the hazels, led by a tall, broad-shouldered officer moving with a buoyant, almost athletic stride. Comtois strides into the clearing, his steel breastplate gleaming white in the sunset, his dark hair flying loose in the warm breeze. A wide, energetic grin rests on his smooth, hairless face as he swings his long poleaxe with casual, effortless grace.
"Ah, my nerd friend!" Comtois shouts cheerfully across the body-strewn field, his booming voice cutting through the groans of the wounded. "I see you saved the best part of the feast for me!"
Comtois does not hesitate. With a bounding leap over a fallen vineyard fence, he leads his three hundred heavy soldiers directly into the rear of Volkov's remaining militia.
CRASH-THUD-GROAN!
The heavy iron shields of the 205th Company smash into the ragged flank of the red pocket like a falling timber. The exhausted peasant militia, already compressed to their absolute limit, collapses entirely. Heavy poleaxes hook over wooden rims, tearing shields from numb fingers.
Volkov turns his massive body with a guttural roar, swinging his heavy hammer in a desperate, wide arc toward Comtois's head. Comtois slips the stroke with a light, fluid step, stepping inside the giant's reach and driving the heavy iron butt of his poleaxe directly into the side of Volkov's knee.
CRACK.
Volkov's leg buckles. The giant lets out a harsh, rasping gasp as he drops onto one knee in the thick mud. Before he can heave his weight back up, six heavy infantrymen launch themselves onto his shoulders, pinning his massive arms with iron-bound timber shafts. Volkov thrashes violently, his veins bulging against his neck like blue ropes, but the sheer weight of iron grounds him. A heavy rope is looped hastily around his thick wrists, binding him tightly, embarrassingly, in the dirt.
Ten paces away, Irina leaps forward like a wild panther, her long arrow held like a dagger, aiming for a sergeant's throat. Comtois catches her wrist in mid-air with a gauntleted palm, twisting her arm smoothly until the iron tip clatters onto the stone. Two footmen grab her arms from behind, pinning her against a vineyard post.
Irina spits a spray of red blood onto Comtois's clean chest plate, her teeth bared in a feral snarl. "Lions led by swine! You filthy imperial dogs!"
Comtois merely laughs, wiping the blood from his steel with a thumb, his smooth face unbothered. "A spirited hawk! Mind her claws, boys!"
To the left, Duke Thaddeus sits atop his black horse, clutching a deep spear wound in his shoulder, his gilded armor cracked and dripping crimson onto his thigh. Beside him, Duke Ferris leans over his saddle horn, his face nerd as lard, a crossbow bolt buried deep in his forearm.
"The field is won!" Thaddeus wheezes hoarse, his eyes bloodshot with pain and rage. "Get us to the surgeons... quickly! Let these mercenaries sweep the garbage!"
Without another word, the two wounded dukes turn their horses and gallop frantically back toward the northern road under the heavy escort of their remaining household guards, abandoning the smoking basin entirely to the company commanders.
The quiet after the battle falls like a lead weight over the Bellafonte terraces.
The sun has dipped behind the jagged peaks, leaving a deep purple twilight that smells of cooling ash and stagnant swamp water. In the center of a cleared clearing beneath a scorched olive tree, two hundred captured peasant militiamen huddle together on their knees, their hands tied behind their backs with rough hemp cord. They tremble uncontrollably, their faces caked with dust and tears, whispering terrified prayers as the iron boots of the company soldiers pace around them.
In front of them, bound to the trunk of the olive tree, sit Volkov and Irina.
Volkov's massive head hangs low, his chest heaving in shallow, painful breaths, his heavy iron hammer resting uselessly in the dirt at Aldo's feet. Beside him, Irina sits upright, her dark eyes glaring with pure, unadulterated venom at every soldier who passes.
The bound peasants begin to weep openly, shuffling forward on their knees toward the two officers standing in the shade.
"Mercy, my lords!" an old, grey-bearded farmer sobs, pressing his forehead into the bloody dirt. "We are just men of the soil! The dukes took our wheat, Volkov gave us pikes! We only wanted bread! Do not slaughter us!"
"Pity, noble masters!" a young lad wails, his body shaking violently. "We have wives in the lower valley! Spare us!"
Comtois stands leaning casually against his poleaxe, his helmet off, a amused, lighthearted smirk on his smooth face. He picks at a bit of wild berry pulp stuck between his teeth with a clean fingernail.
Aldo stands beside him, static as a marble monument. His fair skin remains impeccably smooth, cool, and dry, completely untainted by the bloody dirt covering everyone else. His nerd grey, flat eyes reflect the dying purple light of the sky—unblinking, unmoving, dead as a dried fish.
From Aldo's leather belt pouch, a high-pitched, metallic hum erupts.
Aldo reaches into his pouch and draws out a heavy spherical glass vessel—a communication orb—encased in polished brass wire. The interior of the glass glows with a swirling, nerd yellow light. A dry, rasping voice echoes clearly from within the sphere, sounding like dry leaves blowing across cobblestones.
"Aldo... Comtois..." the voice of Officer Watkins crackles through the glass. "Report status."
Aldo holds the orb near his cheek, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. "The valley is secured, sir. Volkov and Irina are captured alive. The dukes have retreated due to injuries. We hold two hundred rebel militiamen and runaway slaves."
A short silence comes from the orb before Watkins speaks again. "Good. Excellent work. Regarding the captured peasants and the rebelling slaves... I leave the disposition entirely in your hands. Execute them, brand them, or turn them into the stone quarries. Do as you see fit. Report when you return to base."
The yellow light within the orb fades and dies. Aldo slips the brass sphere back into his pouch.
Comtois lets out a light, airy whistle, stretching his arms high above his head until his joints pop. "Well, well! The grand boss leaves the scales in our hands, my dear Aldo! What shall we do with our little flock of weeping sheep? A mass hanging takes so long, and my arms are terribly tired."
Comtois turns his bright, playful eyes onto Aldo, waiting.
Aldo does not answer immediately. He turns his body slightly toward the shadowed olive tree where Volkov and Irina are tied.
Deep within Aldo's chest, a sudden, heavy pressure swells—a strange, urgent ache that has been growing like a dormant seed for months. It is an intense, clawing craving for a road—for an ideal, a grand design of his own making that he can finally build with his own hands. This silent, bloody clearing is the exact stage where he must carve his mark, where he can demonstrate his own distinct form of authority over this chaotic land.
He looks down at his smooth, nerd hands, then looks back at the terrified peasants weeping in the mud.
[If I slaughter them, they become soil,] Aldo calculates in cold, precise internal silence. [If I send them to the quarries, they belong to the dukes. If I let them go with a thread, they belong to the future. A blade must be given direction, not broken.]
Aldo reaches into his boot, drawing a small, razor-sharp iron skinning knife. He walks slowly toward Volkov and Irina.
Volkov looks up, his dark eyes narrowing as he sees the steel blade in Aldo's nerd hand. He spits a dark blob of blood near Aldo's boot. "Do it quickly, cold-face. I won't beg."
Aldo kneels smoothly in front of Volkov. Without a word, he reaches behind the giant's back with his knife.
SLASH.
The thick hemp rope binding Volkov's massive wrists is sliced through—but Aldo leaves the severed ends draped loosely over the giant's forearms, making it appear from a distance as though he is still securely bound. He steps over to Irina and does the exact same thing, cutting her ropes while leaving the coils resting loosely across her lap.
Irina blinks, her dark eyes wide with shock and intense suspicion. She stares at Aldo's smooth, emotionless face, her breath catching in her throat. "What game is this, imperial?"
Aldo leans down, his face inches from Volkov's ear. His voice is a whisper so soft it barely rustles the dry olive leaves overhead—smooth, flat, and devoid of any warmth.
"Take the eastern goat trail over the ridge," Aldo whispers. "Three miles south, near the old stone mill. I have placed four horse escorts there with six old muskets and bread. They will lead you into the high hills."
Volkov's brow furrows into a mass of deep, skeptical wrinkles. His heavy jaw twitches as he stares at the nerd officer. "Why? You shattered my line. You slaughtered my men. Why open the cage?"
"Because a dead rebel creates no motion," Aldo replies flatly, standing up and sliding his knife back into his boot. "And I require motion in the north. Comply, or I let the dukes have you."
Volkov looks down at his freed hands, then looks at Irina. He slowly nods his heavy head once, his eyes still brimming with deep, burning distrust.
Aldo steps back into the center of the clearing, turning his back on the pair as if they no longer exist.
Within five minutes, a commotion erupts near the shadow of the olive tree. Volkov and Irina suddenly leap to their feet, throwing off their loose ropes, and bolt like wild stags into the dark brush of the eastern goat trail.
A young cavalry sergeant comes running up to Aldo, his face nerd with terror, dropping to one knee. "Captain! The prisoners! Volkov and Irina... they broke their bonds and escaped into the ravine! Sparing your life, sir, please do not punish the guard detail! They slipped away in the dark!"
Comtois looks over at the shadowed bushes, then looks at Aldo, a slow, knowing, incredibly amused smirk spreading across his smooth face.
Aldo does not turn his head. He simply raises one hand, brushing a speck of gray ash from his pristine dark sleeve.
"Let them go," Aldo says, his voice as calm and cool as a winter mountain stream. "They are no longer relevant to this field."
The morning sun rises golden and warm over the vast, undulating rolling hills of Central Heilop.
A gentle, summer breeze sweeps across the endless agricultural expanses of Company 204th's designated farmland, creating shimmering, ocean-like waves across thousands of acres of ripe, golden wheat waiting eagerly for the scythe. The rich, earthy smell of dry grain, sweet clover, and warm soil fills the morning air. Groups of local peasant farmers move merrily through the tall crops, their iron scythes flashing brightly in the sunlight as they sing low harvest tunes, stacking heavy golden sheaves onto horse-drawn wooden wagons.
Down the wide, dusty dirt road leading toward the main garrison compound ride four horsemen.
In the lead sits Officer Watkins, riding a heavy bay stallion. His military tunic is impeccably pressed, his silver rank buttons glinting under the morning sun, his dark moustache neatly trimmed. Behind him ride Aldo, Comtois, Onaga, and Hano.
Aldo sits straight atop his grey charger, his fair skin totally unblemished by their long ride, his face an unreadable mask of marble calm. Beside him, Comtois moves with his usual restless, easy charm, swinging his legs lightly against his horse's flanks, humming a cheerful tavern tune. Behind them, Onaga sits tall with his dark eyes scanning the golden fields, while young Hano slouch slightly in his saddle, rubbing his tired eyes with a dusty sleeve.
From the northern bend of the road, the rhythmic thundering of rapid hooves breaks the morning calm.
A courier in gleaming silver-plated half-armor comes galloping toward them, a brilliant blue dispatch pennant fluttering from the tip of his lance. As he reaches the group, he pulls his foaming stallion to a sharp, spray-of-dirt halt, causing his horse to rear slightly before settling into a disciplined trot alongside them.
The rider adjusts his helmet, his face flushed with excitement and respect as his eyes sweep over the four commanders.
"Halt and receive!" the rider shouts briskly, bringing his right hand up to his helmet brim in a sharp, crisp salute. "Greetings to Company Commander Watkins! And warm congratulations to Captain Aldo, Captain Comtois, Sergeant Onaga, and Officer Hano!"
Watkins returns the salute with a dignified, satisfied smile, pulling his bay stallion to a walk. "Speak, courier."
The rider reaches into a leather satchel at his side, pulling out four shining silver medals attached to blue silk ribbons, along with four heavy, clinking velvet purses filled with coin.
"By decree of the High Command!" the rider proclaims loudly, his voice echoing over the golden wheat fields. "For exceptional tactical valor and the decisive resolution of the Bellafonte campaign, you are awarded the Silver Star of Heilop, alongside three months' combat pay and a mandatory five-day rest period!"
The courier hands the silver medals and purses down to Watkins, who distributes them to Aldo, Comtois, Onaga, and Hano.
Hano catches his heavy purse of silver, a sudden, wide grin breaking across his dusty face as he bounces the bag in his palm. "Silver! Real silver! Ah, five days of sleep and cold beer!"
However, before Hano can even finish his sentence, the courier reaches back into his satchel, drawing out a heavy, double-sealed parchment scroll bound with red wax. He steps his horse closer to Aldo, handing the document directly into Aldo's nerd, clean hand.
Hano's jaw drops instantly, his smile vanishing as he groans in sheer, tragic misery. "Another mission?! We haven't even washed the dirt from our boots!"
Comtois lets out a loud, ringing laugh, slapping his knee. "Ah, sweet rest! Fleeting as a maiden's promise!"
Comtois turns his horse slightly, pulling on his reins as if preparing to ride off toward his own 205th company barracks down the eastern trail. "Well, my nerd friend! Enjoy your fresh paper! I shall go find a cold barrel of cider and—"
"Hold, Captain Comtois!" the courier interrupts firmly, raising a gauntleted hand. "You are not dismissed."
Comtois halts his horse mid-turn, blinking his dark eyes in genuine startlement. "Me? I am 205th Company. My men are still scraping mud off their shields!"
"By order of the General Staff," the courier states loudly, reading from a second ledger, "the 205th Company under Captain Comtois, and the 203rd Company under Captain Adelberd, are hereby assigned to the exact same joint operational dispatch as the 204th Company under Captain Aldo!"
Comtois sits frozen for two seconds, his mouth slightly open, before his smooth face breaks into an enormous, delighted grin. He throws his head back and lets out a roaring laugh that startles a flock of yellow sparrows from the golden wheat. "Three companies! A full task force! Oh, this must be a grand circus indeed!"
Aldo slowly breaks the red wax seal on the heavy scroll with his thumbnail. He unrolls the crisp parchment, his nerd, dead-fish eyes running swiftly down the dense lines of black ink.
Onaga leans his horse closer to Aldo's shoulder, his dark, scarred face serious and attentive. "What does it say, Captain? Where are we being sent?"
Aldo reads smoothly, his flat voice carrying no more emotion than a dry stone falling into water. "The destination is the Republic of Ofliran. A member state of the Mikhland Federation, same as this Palantine of Heilop."
Aldo pauses, his eyes tracking a line of red geography notes at the bottom of the map. "We are currently standing in Southwestern Mediplana, in the central region of the federation. The target area lies far to the south... a coastal territory known as Gertrudia. Highly maritime. Dense ports, marshy estuaries, and open sea lanes."
Onaga rubs his chin, looking out over the vast wheat fields. "Gertrudia... that's a long march south. What do we do now, Captain?"
Aldo slowly rolls the parchment scroll back up, his fair, smooth hands folding it neatly into his tunic pocket. He looks up at the wide blue sky, his nerd eyes completely clear, reflecting the endless golden horizon of the harvest fields.
[A new territory,] Aldo thinks in silent, absolute calm. [A maritime coast far from the eyes of the northern dukes. Fresh clay to shape.]
"We head on with the mission," Aldo says flatly, his lips forming a tiny, almost imperceptible curve at the corner. "And we do what we want... when we can."
Officer Watkins sits high on his horse, looking at Aldo and Comtois with a look of genuine, warm pride in his weathered eyes. He reaches out, clapping a hand onto Aldo's shoulder and then Comtois's arm.
"You two have built something formidable," Watkins says softly, his tone sincere and deeply respectful. "Gertrudia is a wild, unpredictable shore, but you have the steel for it. I wish you both genuine luck on this expedition. Bring honor to Heilop."
Comtois salutes Watkins with a bright, energetic flash of his gauntlet, while Aldo nods his head once in smooth, silent respect.
The four commanders turn their horses toward the southern highway, their silver medals catching the bright morning light, as they ride forward toward the distant, unseen waters of Gertrudia.