The rain ca down hard that morning, not in gentle drops but in harsh, drumming sheets that made even the seasoned veterans curse under their breath. Mud sucked at the boots of the marching n, and the wheels of the supply wagons groaned with every inch of progress. The sky overhead was the color of iron, and the world felt just as heavy. The army was moving again, and with every step toward Virelle.
Herald trudged along in silence, wrapped in a damp cloak that did little to keep him dry. His sword felt heavier than usual, and his back ached from the weight of his pack. Beside him, Varlo coughed into his hand, his usual boisterous deanor dimd by fatigue and a persistent fever. On the other side, Lio trudged with his head low, the bandage on his temple bleeding through. They weren’t the sa soldiers who had marched so eagerly from Thamros. Ti and war had carved away the softness in them, leaving behind raw edges and quiet resolve.
Virelle was the key to the Eastern Campaign. A stronghold nestled in the heart of the valley, it was one of the last fortified cities under Tudian control east of the Calvados border. Strategically vital, its fall would sever Tudian supply lines and force a major retreat. The Allied command had planned this assault ticulously, but even the best plans couldn’t prepare for the terrain, the weather, or the toll the campaign had taken on the n.
Rumors had begun to spread—whispers that the Tudians were calling in rcenary reinforcents, and that a figure known only as "The Sword of Fla" had been seen razing villages west of Virelle. The stories were vague, probably exaggerated, but the fear they sparked was very real.
They reached the foothills by midweek, setting up camp in the shadow of broken towers and moss-covered ruins—remnants of an age long passed, when this land had belonged to no empire. Commander Brenn, ever stern and unsmiling, summoned the unit leaders for briefing. Herald wasn’t among them, but he caught fragnts of conversation on his way past the command tent. Phrases like "ambush routes," "narrow passes," and "fortifications lined with arbalests." The Tudians had dug in deep, and they weren’t planning on giving Virelle up without bleeding the land dry.
That night, Herald sat with Varlo and Lio beneath the thin cover of a tarpaulin. Varlo had finally eaten sothing—a broth too watery to be called soup, but warm enough to ease his shivers. Lio sharpened his dagger slowly, the blade catching glints of firelight.
"I keep thinking about Nadine," Varlo said, voice barely above a whisper. "She hated the cold."
Herald looked up, unsure how to respond. Nadine had been Varlo’s older sister. She had joined the dics earlier in the campaign and died when a Tudian scout group raided a field hospital three weeks ago. No one had spoken her na aloud since.
"She used to wrap her scarf around my neck and call her little bear," Varlo continued. "Now I can’t even picture her face without thinking of blood."
Lio stopped sharpening. Herald placed a hand on Varlo’s shoulder.
"She wouldn’t want that," he said. "You rember the scarf. Hold onto that."
Silence followed. Heavy. Real. The kind that sits in the bones.
The assault began two days later.
The Allied forces approached Virelle from three sides. Calvados troops took the western cliffs, Liberal forces moved through the marshes to the south, and Eudenia—Herald’s unit, the one assigned the northern slope, the most direct and most heavily defended path. The plan relied on timing and coordination. If one front faltered, the others would be exposed.
Herald stood at the base of the ridge, shield strapped to his arm, sword in hand. Beside him, the faces he had co to trust over countless battles—Varlo, Lio, Fo, Ern, even Captain Greaves—were set in grim determination. They waited for the horn.
When it blew, it sounded like the scream of so ancient beast waking from a deep sleep.
Quickly, They charged.
Arrow fire t them halfway up the slope. Screams echoed as n fell, so clutching their throats, others tumbling down in broken heaps. Herald raised his shield, deflecting two shots, and pushed forward. Mud and blood coated his boots. The enemy was waiting at the crest—Tudian soldiers in heavy armor, shields locked tight. They hurled javelins and shouted curses in their native tongue. It didn’t matter. Herald had stopped understanding words in monts like this. The world beca motion, instinct, steel.
He crashed into the shield wall, along with a dozen others. The impact rattled his bones. For a mont, it was chaos—yells, tal grinding against tal, blood spurting from severed arteries. Herald swung wide, his blade catching a soldier’s thigh. The man howled and dropped. Another lunged, and Herald ducked under the strike, slamming his shield into the attacker’s face.
To his left, Lio fought with controlled precision, slicing tendons and dodging blows. To his right, Varlo had taken a wound to the leg but pressed on, stabbing upward into an enemy’s stomach.
Ti blurred. Herald didn’t know how long they fought—minutes, hours—it all rged. When the line finally broke, and they pushed the Tudians back toward the outer gate, victory tasted like rust and bile.
But it wasn’t over.
As they regrouped beyond the crest, a thunderous sound shook the ground. The inner gate of Virelle opened, and out poured a second wave, fresh troops, larger in number. The commanders hadn’t anticipated reinforcents this size.
"Fall back! Form ranks!" Greaves shouted, but the line was already breaking.
What followed was a blur of retreat and screams. Herald barely managed to grab Varlo and Lio before the enemy surged into their ranks. The three of them fought their way down the slope, slashing and ducking, until they reached a grove below.
Bodies lay everywhere. The once lush green grass was painted red. A horn blared in the distance, Calvados troops rallying, but they were too far.
They found cover in a ruined watchtower at the edge of the grove. Inside, they t up with Ern and two other wounded Eudenian soldiers. They tended wounds, shared what little rations remained, and waited for orders that never ca.
Night fell.
"We’re not getting reinforcents, are we?" Lio asked, his voice low.
Herald shook his head. "Command’s scattered. Everyone’s scattered."
"We’re dead n."
"No," Herald said. "We still have breath. We still fight."
It was a thin hope, but it kept them alive through the night.
By morning, the skies cleared. Smoke rose from the direction of Virelle. The battle was still ongoing, but the Allies had gained no ground.
A scout stumbled into the tower near dawn. He was bleeding from the gut, barely conscious, but he carried a ssage: Calvados had breached the southern wall. Liberal forces were holding the central road. A final push was ordered, Eudenia was to strike again, or risk collapse.
Herald didn’t hesitate. He bandaged his arm, tightened his boots, and helped Varlo to his feet. Together, they left the safety of the tower and rejoined the remnants of their unit.
They weren’t many, barely two hundred, down from over a thousand. But they moved with purpose, their fear buried beneath duty and desperation.
The final push up the northern ridge was different. No shouts, no horns. Just the sound of boots and breath and swords being drawn.
They t resistance, but this ti the defenders were tired too. The battle was fierce, but the Allies had the montum. By midday, the northern gate fell and the battle was won, and overall victory seed closer.
Herald stood within the walls of Virelle, panting, blood-soaked and alive.
They lit fires that night, not to celebrate, but to mourn. Herald sat beside the flas, staring at the stars.
He rembered what Commander Brenn had said before the campaign began.
"This war isn’t just about land. It’s about mory. About reclaiming the right to decide our future."
Herald didn’t feel victorious. But he felt sothing new—resolve. And behind that, a quiet fear.
Because if this was victory, what would defeat look like?
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