"Lannister's up ahead? Looks like the fighting's already started?"
Foltest, leading the Temerian legion, had reached a ridgeline beside the Cintra Legion and the Free Company.
All present were seasoned veterans. Even from a distance, the thunderous roar of combat was unmistakable. Though the battlecries were mixed with strange howls and shrieks they had never heard before, the instinct was the same: double time, reinforce immediately.
But when they reached the ridge and could finally glimpse the battlefield—
King Foltest, experienced as he was, went still.
So did every other battle-hardened officer who had ever stood in formation.
The clash of steel and the spray of blood had reached an unprecedented level. But the fire, frost, gales, and lightning erupting across the battlefield raised this war to a realm none of them could even comprehend.
Was this still the Northern lands beneath their feet?
The thought was broken as two dragons roared overhead—and in the distance, the ice giant's stomping steps sent tremors through the earth, pressing down on them like the weight of an entire sky.
If a bard had been present, he would have been overjoyed—this was the kind of scene worthy of an immortal ballad.
"Lannister…" Foltest's hands trembled slightly on the reins. He stiffly turned his head to the side.
The lion crest on the marshal's armor flashed past in front of him.
"People of Cintra! Fight for Duke Lannister!"
"Free Company—charge!"
They surged forward past Temeria's silver lily banners, a torrent of dust rising behind them as they drove into the Nilfgaardian lines like a hammering wedge.
"Your Majesty?"
A Temerian general rode up beside the king, bowing his head in quiet expectation of orders.
As a general, he had his own considerations; but he also knew that as a king, the weight of decision extended beyond mere tactics.
What was happening before their eyes was enough to shake the king's long-held convictions—and might just drive him to make a different kind of choice.
Fortunately, the general didn't have to wait long for an answer.
"They're celebrating, General," Foltest said coldly. "Let's welcome our guests from the distant South."
"But as Temerians… I believe we're far more qualified to receive them, don't you think?"
The war drums echoed, cymbals clanged, and horns blared. The ground trembled beneath tens of thousands of galloping hooves.
The black-armored army was being torn apart in the smoke and dust—and the banners of the Black Sun fell.
...
"Son of a bitch."
Menno Coehoorn peered through his spyglass at the valley ahead. "This place is perfect for an ambush."
The Nilfgaardian Grand Marshal looked utterly disheveled. His armor was in tatters, stained with blood and grime, and the once meticulously groomed mustache on his lip now appeared uneven and neglected.
Menno no longer had the luxury of caring about appearances. His mind was consumed by the memory of the look Lannister had given him after slaughtering his entire personal guard.
But once he'd managed to tamp down the blow to his pride, the seasoned commander swiftly realized something was off about Lannister's actions.
It wasn't arrogance—at least not entirely—but from a tactical standpoint, the Marshal's value far outweighed the sum of the three mage units that had been eliminated. And yet Lannister's force had gone out of its way to eliminate only the mages, making a dramatic display, and then withdrawing.
Lannister himself had even circled Menno once, as if to silently convey a message: I'm not killing you because I have a use for you. You're smart enough to guess what that is—but you can't do a thing about it.
Menno could, of course, understand the difference between dying as a soldier and being spared as a pawn.
At first, he'd been furious. Furious that Lannister had been so certain of how he'd respond.
Then came the crushing despair—because, dammit, Lannister had been right.
The Third Legion and Fourth Cavalry Corps were the pride of Nilfgaard. Even if they'd been broken on the front lines, it was Menno's duty to bring the remnants back home. That was the responsibility he bore as a marshal of the Empire.
Even if dying in glorious battle might have done more for his legacy.
So after the defeat at Lyria, Menno had immediately leveraged his personal prestige to rally the remnants of the army. Nilfgaard's notoriously strict military discipline ensured the routed units gravitated back toward their commanding officer.
Not a single company had scattered into the northern countryside. In an astonishing display of cohesion, they had steadily fallen back.
From Lyria, through Rivia, across the Angren region, past Upper Sodden, and finally—into Cintra.
"Marshal," said Captain Sievers, wiping sweat from his brow. "Just ahead is the Valley of Marnadal. Once we pass through, we'll be out of Cintra and can regroup with our outer garrison."
That should have been good news. But the sweat on Captain Sievers's face had only worsened. He wasn't alone—every officer near the Marshal wore the same anxious expression.
Because, just as Menno had said, this valley was far too ideal for an ambush.
From the moment they'd entered Cintra, the Nilfgaardians had realized: after defeating the Western Army Group, Cintra had fortified its borders extensively.
Menno had no option but to retreat along the perimeter.
And now, standing at the mouth of the Marnadal Valley, they were staring at a path laid out by Cintra itself—a trap carefully carved for Nilfgaard's retreat. One they had to take.
Cintra hadn't earned the title Gateway to the North for nothing. This was the only road out of the region. The Nilfgaardians had no choice but to push forward.
If the Cintrans had any plan to annihilate this broken army, this would be their last and best chance.
Under normal circumstances, Menno might have convinced himself that—with their speed, with their remaining cavalry, and with a careful read of the Cintran numbers—there was still a chance this valley wasn't an ambush.
But not now.
Not after facing Lannister so many times.
Against all reason, Menno had developed a strange sense of trust in the Northern Lion—
Trust that the bastard would never let a chance like this slip by.
"Marshal."
Once again, it was Captain Sievers. "Please—wear my armor and take my mount."
Menno's grim face froze. He turned back sharply, eyes widening in disbelief at the young officer.
Captain Sievers straightened his back and spoke solemnly. "Please do not refuse, sir. Your life and leadership are too valuable to the Empire. No one can replace you."
"My cavalry brigade remains largely intact. If an ambush comes, they'll protect you. I'll lead the rear guard to hold the enemy off and buy you time to break through."
Menno stared at the young man for a long moment.
"I remember you. You're just a captain of the 7th Daerlanian Cavalry Brigade."
It wasn't condescension. What he meant was clear—
This burden was never supposed to be yours.
"Yes, sir," Captain Sievers said, striking his chest with a clenched fist. "The Seventh Brigade was one of the first to reach the Eastern Front. But we ran into Lannister early and suffered a defeat. Our commanding officer was killed."
"You assigned us to the flank during the final battle," the young officer continued, "which allowed us to preserve our structure better than most. Afterward, every new commander who replaced the last was eventually killed. That's why I'm in charge of the Seventh now."
Menno fell silent again. "This decision… it will cost you your life."
Sievers saluted. "It would be an honor."
"Captain Sievers."
"Yes, Marshal?"
"…Good luck, son."
"And to you as well, Marshal."
...
"They're coming."
From the ridge above, Eist took a deep breath.
"Raise our banner!"
The green-and-red dragonhead standard flapped proudly in the wind—it was the sigil of Clan Tuirseach.
Then followed the red-and-black shield of Clan Craite, the antler-tipped shield of Clan Dimun, the flame-forged hammer of Clan Tordarroch...
The Seven Great Clans of Skellige—had all answered the call.
At the center of their varied banners fluttered one massive flag: a blood-red warship, symbol of the Isles themselves.
From Lyria to Cintra's border, aside from the relentless thundering of hooves, only the seafolk riding the current of the Yaruga River could have arrived in time to prepare the battlefield. These fearless warriors of the sea were equally deadly on land, transforming instantly into the most lethal hunters of the hills—waiting patiently for their prey.
Suddenly, emerald light glowed around Eist.
His guards were unfazed as a figure coalesced beside their king—
They recognized him instantly and offered him the same reverent gaze they gave to their monarch.
It was Duke Lannister.
Lann and Eist exchanged a glance. Without saying a word, Lann placed the palm of his left hand on the ground.
All around them, points of light began to flicker into existence.
[Teleport]
Figures clad in armor. Figures wielding staves. Twin-bladed warriors. Beasts with bodies of stone. Winged monsters. Giants, towering and unshakable…
Eist took another deep breath. He had waited too long for this moment.
The Valley of Marnadal—
It was here, in this cursed place, that he and Calanthe had fallen into Nilfgaard's ambush.
It was here that he had lost Calanthe—
And the child she had been carrying.
The Nilfgaardians...
"Sound the horn!"
"Attack!"
[FWOOO—]
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