The column halted at midnight. Precisely when the moon reached its zenith.
The hill Sir Varin had mentioned proved to be far more than just a ordinary campsite. A limestone cliff rose on the northern side, forming a natural wall that sheltered them from the night wind. At its base, a small spring flowed, forming a shallow pool before seeping back into the earth. The water was cold, clear, and sufficient for a hundred people.
Albert sat on a large boulder at the edge of the encampment, watching his soldiers pitch tents, kindle small campfires, and extract dried rations from their sacks.
Their movements remained stiff, still haunted by the afternoon's ambush—especially the levies who had witnessed enemy blood for the first time, or more accurately, the blood of their own comrades.
Two were dead. Two levies. One named Thom, the sixteen-year-old youth whose shoulder had been torn open by a bandit's axe, and another called Harald, run through by a spear. Three others bore wounds—severe injuries, but survivable if properly treated.
"Sir Varin," Albert called.
The knight approached, having already removed his helm, revealing a weary face with sweat tracing paths down his temples. "My Lord?"
"Do we have a physician? A healer?"
"There's one. Named Gerit, a levy. He apprenticed under a village healer for three years before being called up." Varin chuckled bitterly. "That's the best we have."
"Summon him. Tell him to tend the wounded. Give him whatever he needs—clean cloth, hot water, honey for the wounds."
"Honey?" Varin frowned. "My Lord, honey is—"
"Medicine," Albert interrupted. "Pure honey prevents infection... I know this sounds strange to you, but trust me. Gerit will know how to use it."
Varin regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "As you command."
He departed, leaving Albert alone on the boulder.
The night wind blew, cold and dry, carrying the scent of pine from distant forests. Albert withdrew something from within his cloak—a small leather pouch, tied with cord. He loosened the fastening and extracted a single feltwort cigar.
Dried leaves rolled neatly, brownish, with a faint reddish tinge from rose petals fermented alongside them. The aroma was distinctive—sweet, slightly bitter, reminiscent of tobacco but lighter, more... natural.
Two years... Two years of waiting, experimenting, failing, trying again. And now, on the first night of his journey toward war, he would finally taste the results.
He produced two small objects from another pocket. Flint and steel—the fire-starting tools used by travelers. But beside them lay something else.
Sulfur matches.
Not the modern matches of his old world. These were more primitive—thin wooden sticks whose tips had been dipped in a mixture of sulfur and phosphorus. His own creation, the fruit of minor research in Borin's workshop, inspired by vague memories of basic chemistry. Striking them against a rough surface would ignite a flame quickly, without the need to strike flint dozens of times.
A touch of technology in a world without magic.
Albert selected a match and scraped it against the boulder's surface. A small flame flickered at its tip, blue then yellow. He brought it to the cigar's end, rotating slowly, allowing the leaf—not tobacco, but feltwort—to catch evenly.
The first smoke entered his lungs.
Relaxation flowed from his chest, radiating to his shoulders, his arms, his fingers that had unconsciously been clenched all this while. Not a narcotic effect—feltwort wasn't intoxicating, didn't alter consciousness.
But that familiar sensation, that ritual of inhaling and exhaling smoke—that was what he had missed. That was what made his brain stop its chaos, stop calculating threats, stop dwelling on terrible memories.
Albert closed his eyes. Warm smoke filled his mouth, then he exhaled slowly, white plumes billowing into the night air.
"Ho... this is delightful."
Incredible...
"My Lord?"
Albert opened his eyes. Luise stood several yards below the boulder, gazing at him with a strange expression—a mixture of bewilderment, suspicion, and poorly concealed curiosity.
"What is it?" Albert asked.
"My Lord... what are you doing?"
Albert looked at his hand. The cigar still smoldered, thin smoke spiraling toward the night sky. He almost laughed.
"I'm smoking this," he said, raising the cigar. "Fermented feltwort leaves. I cultivated them myself in Götthain."
Luise frowned. "Smoking... leaves?"
She probably thinks I'm insane.
"Yes. The smoke enters my lungs, then I exhale." Albert demonstrated, drawing smoke, holding it briefly, then releasing it. "Not intoxicating. Not harmful. Merely... calming."
"Inhaling smoke..." Luise shook her head slowly. "Forgive me, but that's—"
Albert smiled faintly. A rare occurrence. "I know. But it helps me stay sane."
Luise fell silent. Perhaps pondering the word "sane" and its implications. But she didn't inquire further. She simply nodded, then said, "The campfire is ready, My Lord. Gerit has tended the wounded. Sir Varin requests your presence."
"I'll come shortly."
Luise nodded, then turned. But before departing, she paused. "My Lord?"
"Yes?"
"That leaf... do you have much of it?"
Albert raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to try?"
Luise shook her head quickly. "No. Just... curious. I've never seen anyone do that."
"This is the first time I've done it in this world," Albert murmured, more to himself than to her.
"Pardon?"
"Never mind." Albert drew on his cigar once more, then extinguished it by pinching the glowing end. He stored the remainder in his leather pouch. "Come. Let's join the others."
They walked toward the main campfire.
***
A large blaze crackled at the encampment's center, surrounded by soldiers sitting cross-legged on the ground. The atmosphere was subdued, unlike typical camps. No laughter, no songs. Only the sound of burning wood and low whispers.
Sir Varin sat near the fire, clutching a metal cup filled with hot water. Beside him, Gerit—a gaunt, middle-aged man in his forties with a thin beard and weary eyes—was dressing a levy's wound.
Albert seated himself beside Varin. Luise took position behind him.
"How are the wounded faring?" Albert inquired.
Gerit glanced up. "Two are badly hurt. One took a axe slash—I've stitched the wound, applied honey as you commanded. The cut is deep, but he's strong. Might survive if fever doesn't take him. The other suffered a spear thrust to the belly. That one..." he shook his head slowly. "I've done what I can. But belly wounds are tricky. If his guts are torn, he'll die within days."
Albert nodded. "Do your best."
"I will."
A young levy approached hesitantly, bearing a wooden bowl filled with grain porridge and strips of smoked meat. He offered it to Albert with trembling hands.
"For you, My Lord," he whispered.
Albert accepted the bowl. "Thank you. What's your name?"
"Lars."
"Sit down, Lars. Eat with us."
The youth looked startled, then sat stiffly on the ground, still seemingly unable to believe he'd been permitted to sit near his lord.
They ate in silence. Warm grain porridge, smoked meat, salty cheese, and cold spring water. Simple fare, but after a day of marching and fighting, it tasted like a noble's banquet.
When he finished, Albert rose. He walked toward the levies seated in the outer circle, near their modest tents.
Those faces stared at him. Fearful, respectful, curious.
"You fought well today," Albert said, his voice loud enough for all to hear. "I know you were afraid. I know some of you ran. But you returned! That's what matters."
An elderly levy—the one who had shouted at Dorian earlier—nodded slowly. "We were ashamed, My Lord. Running like cowards."
"You're peasants, not seasoned soldiers. Fear is natural." Albert regarded them one by one. "What distinguishes a true warrior from a coward isn't whether they've ever fled. It's whether they return to fight. You returned."
Silence. Then the old levy smiled, revealing gap-toothed gums.
Albert nearly laughed.
Several levies chuckled softly. The tension in the air eased slightly.
"Tomorrow we continue our journey," Albert continued. "Rest well. Tend the wounded. We'll reach the fortress in three days."
He returned to the main campfire, sitting beside Sir Varin. Luise remained behind him, silent as a statue.
"You have a way with them, My Lord." He said quietly.
"I'm merely honest."
"Honesty is rare in the mouths of nobles."
Albert sipped water from his leather canteen. "I'm no ordinary noble."
Sir Varin chuckled softly. "That much is clear."
The night wore on. Soldiers began sleeping one by one, wrapped in thin blankets near the campfires. Guards were posted at three points, rotating every two hours. Sir Varin checked on them periodically, ensuring none succumbed to slumber.
Albert sat at the camp's edge, gazing at the stars. In his hand, the half-smoked feltwort cigar. He relit it with a sulfur match, drew smoke, exhaled.
Behind him, footsteps. Luise.
"Get some sleep," Albert said without turning. "We march again tomorrow."
"My watch begins in an hour," Luise replied. She sat beside Albert, maintaining respectful distance. "My Lord... that thing you're inhaling?"
"I told you, it's feltwort."
"...And what's it like?"
Albert offered his cigar. "Try it."
Luise recoiled slightly. "I—"
"Afraid?"
"Not afraid. Just... unaccustomed."
"That's fine." Albert withdrew his cigar. "Not everyone enjoys it. But for me, it's... like an anchor."
"Anchor? What's that?"
"In my previous—" Albert stopped. Almost slipped. "In the past, I had this habit. A small thing that helped me stay calm when everything descended into chaos."
Luise was quiet, processing his words. Then, softly, "You speak as though you've lived a long time, My Lord."
"I hear that often."
Albert turned, meeting her gaze. Those violet eyes stared back, not judging, merely curious.
They sat in silence, accompanied by the dying campfire and distant chirping of crickets. Albert finished his cigar, stubbing it out against the ground.
"Luise," he said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"Do you know why your grandfather asked me to look after you?"
Luise didn't answer immediately. She gazed at the fire, then said, "Because he fears losing his only remaining family."
"And you? What do you think?"
"Me?" She shook her head. "I don't need looking after. I can protect myself."
"I know." Albert stood, straightening his cloak. "But your grandfather asked me. And I gave my word. So as long as you're under my command, you'll survive. That's my promise."
Luise stared at him. In those violet eyes, for the first time, something softened. Just a flash, then gone.
"Thank you."
"No need for such formality. You may call me Albert when we're alone."
"Albert..." she repeated softly, as if tasting the word. "It feels disrespectful, addressing you by name."
She rose, offered a brief salute, then walked back toward the camp to begin her watch.
***
Three days later, the frontier fortress came into view.
The stronghold was enormous—larger than Albert had imagined. Stone walls rising thirty feet high, watchtowers at every corner, a deep dry moat encircling the perimeter.
The royal banner flew from the main tower's peak, crimson with a golden lion. Beside it, dozens of other flags—vivid colors, heraldic symbols of noble families from across Helvetia.
"We've arrived," Sir Varin murmured.
The column halted at the main gate. A guard in royal livery approached, scrutinizing their writ of passage with meticulous care. His eyes swept over Albert from head to toe, then returned to the document.
"Albert vin Götterbaum?" he inquired.
"Yes."
"Troops from Götthain?" He counted swiftly. "Ninety-eight levies, ten men-at-arms, two knights, one squire... a woman?"
"Luise, my squire," Albert replied flatly.
The guard raised an eyebrow but offered no comment. He returned the document, saluted, and gestured for the column to enter.
"Welcome to Vastenburg, My Lord. The Garrison Commander will receive you tonight, along with the other nobles. Meanwhile, quarters for your troops are in the eastern wing. Specific assignments are posted."
They entered.
The fortress teemed with activity. Not bustling like a marketplace, but alive with military presence. Soldiers strode back and forth, some carrying crates of arrows, others leading horses. In the training yard, the clash of swords and instructors' shouts rang out. Along the walls, archers stood watch with bows at the ready.
And in the corners, nobles.
They were easily recognizable. Their cloaks were finer, their horses larger, their retinues more numerous. They clustered in small groups, speaking in low tones, occasionally laughing—not warm laughter, but political laughter.
As Götthain's contingent passed, several glanced their way. Eyes swept over Albert, then shifted to his ragtag troops—levies in simple gambesons, men-at-arms in ordinary armor, and Luise, a woman among soldiers.
A young nobleman, perhaps Albert's age, clad in extravagant red robes with curly blond hair, smirked.
"Look at that," he said loudly enough to be heard. "Village troops. Check their armor—all rusted."
His companion laughed. "They brought peasants for fodder?"
"At least cheap fodder."
Albert didn't stop. Didn't turn. He continued walking toward the eastern barracks.
But behind him, Luise growled softly. Her hand drifted toward her sword hilt.
"Luise," Albert called without looking back. "Don't."
"My Lord—"
"I heard them. But don't." Albert finally turned, meeting her gaze. "Do you think this is the first time I've heard mockery? Let them talk. They'll see for themselves soon enough."
Luise clenched her fist but released her sword hilt. "As you say, My Lord."
Sir Varin, walking beside them, smiled faintly. "You learn quickly, My Lord. In places like this, reputation is built through deeds, not words."
"Yes," Albert murmured. "I know."
They reached the barracks. Long wooden structures with thatched roofs, simple but sturdy. Inside, rows of bunk beds, long tables, a large hearth at the room's far end. Not luxurious, but adequate.
"Divide the troops," Albert instructed Varin. "Thirty per barracks. Men-at-arms in a separate barracks, near the entrance. You and Luise take private chambers—"
"I can stay here," Luise interrupted.
Albert looked at her. "In the soldiers' barracks? You're the only woman."
"I'm accustomed to it."
Albert nodded. "As you wish. But if any trouble arises, you know where to find me."
Luise smiled faintly. "Yes."
Albert left them, walking to the chamber allocated for him—a small room at the barracks' end, containing a bed, a table, and a narrow window facing the courtyard. He removed his armor, placed Wurzel beside the bed, and sat at the table.
He withdrew his leather pouch, took out a cigar, lit it with a sulfur match. The first smoke entered his lungs, and he closed his eyes.
"So here we are," he whispered to himself. "The front lines. Again."
Smoke curled upward toward the wooden ceiling.
Outside, sounds continued their ceaseless rhythm—footsteps, commands, horses' hooves, and interwoven among them, the laughter of young nobles who had yet to comprehend war's true nature.
But Albert understood. He had already died once on the front lines. And he had no intention of repeating the experience.
He finished his cigar, then lay down on the bed.
Outside, the moon hung high, bathing the fortress in silver light. In the barracks, soldiers began to sleep, exhausted after their long journey. In his small chamber, Albert closed his eyes.
As his eyelids shut, he heard the drone. Nightmares would surely come. As always.