The troop train rattled eastward through the night, wheels clacking a steady rhythm beneath us like the heartbeat of the Empire itself. I sat in the officers' compartment with Lena Schmitt across from me, the rest of my company and three full battalions of ground troops crammed into the cars behind. The air inside smelled of cigarette smoke, boot leather, and the faint ozone of the arcane crates stacked in the freight section. We were being rushed to the east because the Russians had managed to claw back ground in Galicia, deep inside Germano-Hungry territory. The Front was bleeding again, and high command wanted mages in the sky to plug the holes.
The portable radio on the small table between us crackled to life. Lena leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes bright in the dim lantern light. She had been like this the entire ride—eager, almost vibrating with energy.
"…confirmed reports from the southern front: the Kingdom of Sarbiane has formally surrendered. All remaining Sarb forces have laid down arms. The country is now under joint Bulgarian and Germano-Hungry occupation zones until the final peace is signed. Belgrade has fallen. The southern threat is ended."
Lena's face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. "Did you hear that, Captain? The Sarbs are finished! Bulgaria and our allies have crushed them completely." She shifted closer on the bench, her knee brushing mine. "It's almost romantic, isn't it? The Empire carving its rightful place across Europa. I could listen to victories like that all night… especially with you explaining them."
Her voice had dropped a little, softer, warmer than a new recruit had any right to sound. She tilted her head, blonde strands falling across one eye, and gave me a small, almost playful smile. I felt the heat in her gaze. It was more than patriotism now—something personal, something hungry. I cleared my throat and looked away.
Outside the window the darkness was broken by flickering campfires and long columns of marching men. Then I saw them: a ragged line of prisoners shuffling along the trackside under guard. Russian uniforms, mostly—gray greatcoats and fur hats—but the faces told a different story. Poles. Ethnic Poles pressed into the Great United Front's service, now marching west as POWs. Their eyes were hollow, shoulders slumped. Some still wore the red armbands of the Russian army; others had torn them off in surrender. I watched them pass in silence, wondering how many of those same men had fought us at Konin only weeks ago.
The train hissed to a stop at a forward railhead just before dawn. "Out! Form up!" I ordered. My company spilled onto the platform, boots hitting gravel. Lena was at my side instantly, falling in step so close our shoulders almost touched. "Wherever you lead, Captain," she murmured, voice low enough for only me to hear. "I'm right behind you."
We marched the last kilometers to the front under a gray sky, the ground trembling with distant artillery. When we reached the staging area my mages summoned their machines—ethereal wings of aether unfolding in shimmering light. Lena's construct materialized beside mine, perfect and ready. "Ready for Warsaw, sir," she said, saluting with that same eager grin.
"Support the ground advance," I told the company. "We break the Russian hold on the city. The Poles are already rising against their occupiers—help them finish the job."
We lifted off in formation, soaring over the shattered landscape. Below us German infantry columns snaked forward, mechanized walkers lumbering like iron giants. Warsaw rose on the horizon—smoke curling from its spires, streets already alive with fighting.
As we flew over the city the rebellion was unmistakable. Polish civilians and makeshift militia swarmed the Russian positions—barricades torn down, red flags ripped from buildings. Russian troops were retreating in disorder, firing wildly. Our orders were simple: help the Poles kill every Russian soldier still in the city.
I gave the signal. "Tracking rounds—free fire on Russian uniforms."
Our rifles sang. Enchanted bullets streaked downward, curving through the air like living things. One Russian officer tried to rally his men on a rooftop; my shot bent mid-flight, punched through his chest, and detonated inside, blowing him apart in a red mist that rained down on his troops. Lena's shots were just as precise—she picked off runners in the alleys, bullets tracking them relentlessly until they exploded in sprays of blood and bone. We swept street after street, leaving Russian corpses twisted among the rubble while Polish fighters cheered and waved up at us.
Only when the first German ground columns marched into the city squares did I order the descent. Our machines dissolved into wisps of aether as we landed on a shattered boulevard, boots crunching on broken glass and spent casings. Warsaw was falling. The Poles were free—for now—and the Empire's flag would soon fly over the Vistula once more.
Lena landed right beside me, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. "We did it, Hans," she whispered, using my first name for the first time. "Together."