Before the Imperial army lay the Brurian city of Tallak. It was neither the largest nor the smallest, yet rich enough in plunder to draw every hungry eye. Only stone walls and armed defenders stood between the Imperials and their prize.

Pickets ringed the fields, ladders lay ready in the grass, and the siege camp buzzed with men eager to be thrown against iron for gold.

Kriemhild sat by the fire while the cook's boy ladled stew into her bowl.

She tasted it, then looked up. "You Adraysalans know how to cook," she said, taking another spoonful.

The boy bowed and returned to the cauldron. Kriemhild set the empty bowl aside and rose to stretch, revealing that the boy stood a head taller than her, though she paid it no mind. She took up her scabbard and started toward her tent.

A Geldish lord suddenly strode through the camp.

"I need volunteers. Those willing to test the walls," he called.

Several hands went up. Whether they sought loot or recognition, each man meant to be first on the stones.

Kriemhild raised her scabbard high. "Here, mein Guten Herr."

The lord nodded to the group. "Very well. Come. The Imperial Captain is waiting."

A mixed line left the camp. Lords with their retinues, knights and squires in polished plate, men-at-arms in darkened steel and hardened leather, and peasants in padded cloth.

The attackers gathered before the ladders, sorting out their approach. Kriemhild moved through the ranks, pulling in the men she trusted, solid Geldlanders who knew how to keep formation. They circled the heavy siege ladder and began to raise it. Other groups along the line did the same.

On the walls, the Brurian garrison stirred like a kicked hive. Sling staves and crossbows lifted over the crenelations, waiting for bodies to come into range.

"Charge!"

Kriemhild and her group ran with the ladder, armor and weapons dragging at their strength. A bolt sliced over her helm, skipped off a man-at-arms’ cuirass, and buried itself in a young soldier’s knee. He collapsed, and the ladder grew heavier.

"Los, los!" Her voice rang inside the hounskull. The group closed the distance and drove the ladder up against the stone. They tried to catch their breath, but the defenders gave them no pause.

Stones crashed down onto the clustered attackers. A man-at-arms raised his shield and caught one, the weight crushing his hand and dropping him to a knee. Kriemhild dragged him tight to the wall, but a bolt plunged straight into his neck. She let him fall and drew her longsword.

"Climb, or we die here!" She planted a foot on the rungs and began her ascent. Her small frame worked in her favor as stones and bolts snapped past. One rung at a time, she rose toward the parapet.

Along the wall, the same struggle played out. Men reached the top rung and swung at defenders, some slipping and falling back into the chaos below. Kriemhild twisted aside from the arc of a polemace and vaulted onto the battlements. The defenders hesitated, struck by her size and ferocity.

She shifted to a half-sword grip and closed the distance.

An armored Brurian swung his polemace again, aiming to crush her. Kriemhild did not yield. She drove forward, feeling the rush of air as the haft swept past. Her blade snapped up and slid into the Brurian’s armpit. Blood welled. He stumbled back and was pulled away by his comrades.

More Imperials clambered onto the wall. Kriemhild turned toward the tower where the stairway led down into Tallak, ripe for plunder.

Everyone knew the first into the city walked out the richest.

"Komm, schnell!" she shouted to the remnants of her group.

Two armies faced each other from opposing hills, both glittering with steel and horses. The Kordurian city of Epidyra lay on the horizon. To one side it was a prize. To the other, a charge to protect.

Kriemhild stood in the line with her lord's retinue, men she had campaigned beside for years. They held the right flank. Unfortunately for her, that put them beside the Falkenheim contingent.

A rough, familiar voice rose from the ranks of those axe-swinging northerners. Isfrid Bjarna.

"Kortsverd!" she shouted. The guttural Falkenheim tone soured Kriemhild's expression.

"Ja?" Kriemhild answered, cool and flat.

Isfrid dropped an arm across Kriemhild’s head. "Listen, girl. After the battle, come drink with us."

Kriemhild shrugged the arm off and faced her. "No."

FWOOOOM

The horn sounded and the Imperial line advanced down the slope. Across the field, the Brurians met them.

A man screamed as Kriemhild drove his face into the mud and slipped a dagger between the plates of his pauldron.

The battle had dragged on for an hour. The fields had turned to churned mud, scattered with bodies, horses, and wounded men clinging to life.

Kriemhild rose, tucked her dagger away, and hefted her longsword. Ahead, the Kordurian pike wall held firm against the Brurian push. Around her, Geldlanders and Falkenheimers pulled themselves back into order.

Isfrid rallied her huscarls, locked their shields, and began to press forward. "Fortsett! Angrip!" she roared. Handaxes arced over the shieldline and clattered into the Brurians, drawing screams.

Kriemhild and the Geldlanders formed up in the same manner, plate pressing against plate as they aligned with the Falkenheimers. Greatswords and polearms smashed into the Brurian line and broke it open.

Heavy hooves thundered in the distance. Adraysalan knights swept across the field and lowered their lances toward the Brurian flank.

They struck with a crash of horseflesh, iron, and splintering wood. The line buckled, and the field sank back into a muddy hell once more.

The army made camp outside Roccalia. Soldiers drifted down the paved roads toward the gatehouse, eager for whatever sights and distractions the city offered.

Kriemhild lingered near the Ferra forge, eyeing the prices on the masterwork blades. Far too costly for tools that would end up chipped and battered. She turned away and walked toward the dueling fields where steel rang in steady rhythm.

"Haha! Do you see your mistake, good man? You stood against the teachings of my good Master Fiore!" a voice boomed, followed by the jingle of coins dropped into a pouch.

Kriemhild’s eyes narrowed. Lucia Ferra. The swordmaster still “schooling” men in the same fields she had grown up in.

Lucia’s skin prickled. A worthy presence had entered the yard. Her head snapped toward Kriemhild.

"Pheeeew~", Lucia whistled, "Signorina, that is a fine blade you carry." She stepped closer, Spina resting on her shoulder with a bright gleam. "Care to try swinging it at me? If you touch me, two silvers are yours."

Kriemhild glanced at her own weapon. It was far from fine, and she had no intention of “touching” Lucia with it. That would be murder. "What are you talking about?"

Lucia tilted her head. "Would you like to duel?" she said, plainly this time.

Kriemhild scoffed. "Then say that." She tore the sword from its scabbard and brought it to her side. "Two silvers?"

"Mhm. Zwei," Lucia answered, testing the Geldish word with her Adraysalan accent.

Kriemhild’s expression stayed flat. "Did I hear correctly that you studied under Fiore?"

Lucia leaned forward and jabbed a finger at her. "Master Fiore, signorina. The greatest swordsman in the Empire."

Kriemhild stepped back and raised her blade. "Is that so? My Master Liechtenauer may teach you differently."

Lucia’s playful smile faded. She flourished Spina and leveled the point. "Is that so?"

Spectators crowded in, already wagering. This would be worth watching.

Kriemhild drew a deep breath and released a long, satisfied sigh. She was back in Geldland. Home. More importantly, she was in Flusswacht, exactly where she needed to be: the best place to unload her spoils and restock her kit.

She skipped down the cobbled street with loose, unhurried steps, a bundle of loot over her shoulder as she hummed a familiar Geldish tune.

"Du, du liegst mir im Herzen..."

The three Schwestern bridges rose ahead, stone arches casting long afternoon shadows over the Trino.

"Du, du liegst mir im Sinn..."

She crossed the first Sister, sabatons tapping against the worn stones, catching a light spray as a fisherman hauled in his net.

"Du, du machst mir viel Schmerzen..."

A man tossed her a flower, a soldier’s welcome. She tucked it into the hinge of her visor and flashed a rare smile.

“Weißt nicht, wie gut ich dir bin...”

She turned toward the path leading down to the Geldweg.

“Ja, ja, ja-HUH?!”

The path was blocked. Completely. A packed crowd pressed shoulder to shoulder, craning to see the commotion.

A slow, frustrated exhale blew from Kriemhild's nose.

No, no. This was fine. The Geldweg got crowded all the time. Of course. She pivoted toward the second Schwester. Maybe the bridge merchants would want a look at her haul.

"Guten Tag, I have a-... hey, I'm talking to you." she growled, attempting to get a stallkeeper's attention. He didn’t so much as glance her way, leaning out over the bridge for a better view of the Geldweg.

Her grip on the loot bag tightened until the leather creaked.

This was fine. Completely fine. She was home. That was what mattered.

Maybe she could wait it out at her favorite Bierhall. She hadn’t tasted Geldland ale in months.

She stomped away, hoping to cool her temper.

Du, du machst mir viel Schmerzen...

"Sorry, Kleinschwert. Hall's reserved." the barkeep shrugged.

"R-Reserved? The whole hall, reserved?!" Kriemhild snapped.

"Ja. Some important noble in Flusswacht today, haven't you heard?"

Kriemhild was trembling with anger. She spent an entire campaign with Imperial nobles, and wanted to pry their eyes out with a dagger every time they gave a speech, which was much too often.

"Who?" she managed, her voice cracking under the strain.

"E-excuse me." a soft voice murmured behind her.

Kriemhild spun, ready to unleash everything boiling inside her before she froze.

Sunilda. Sunilda Evrana. Thornoran princess turned Adraysalan noble. Beautiful, painfully so, but without the pompous Imperial flair Kriemhild had grown to despise.

"My deepest apologies." Sunilda bowed, her Thornoran accent made each word come out clumsily. "I did not mean to interrupt. They insisted the hall be reserved for my safety..."

Kriemhild just stood there, silent, lips trembling, unable to form a single coherent sound.

Sunilda rescued her.

"Ah, I know." She tapped a pale finger thoughtfully against her lip. "Would you share a pint with me, then?"

"Y-Yes, my Lady." Kriemhild answered, uncharacteristically, in Adraysalan.

The Imperials ringed Satonta with 35,000 infantry and 5,000 knights. They expected no surrender. The 20,000 Brurian defenders, fed and reinforced by sea, were zealots who would fight to the last.

Everything outside the walls had been flattened, stripped for plunder or cleared for siege works. The Imperials used every method they knew: sapping beneath the foundations, pounding at the masonry, and sending raiding teams up ladders during the night to kill sentries and slip away before dawn.

The main assault group massed nearby: 16,000 infantry and 4,000 knights, ready for the breach.

FWOOOOSH-THUD!

Kriemhild stood behind a mantlet, peering through the slits, admiring the engineers and their craft. The trebuchets loosed mighty stones at the ancient walls of Satonta, peeling away a millennium of carved prayers and sanctified ash. Each impact sent a roar of hymns rising from within the city.

No gods answered. Only wrath. Only steel. Only blood.

"ALLE MANN SAMMELN!" a Geldish lord bellowed, calling the Geldlanders to form up before the siege towers. Falkenheimer axemen and Kordurian halberdiers gathered with them, each soldier carrying tempered Adraysalan steel.

A Kordurian captain raised his voice above the murmuring ranks, his cadence sharp and steady. "The assault begins soon. Take every tower. Seize the gatehouses. These demons and their ancient city of heresies will fall, stone by stone. For the Emperor!"

A surge of cheers rolled through the formation. Men rushed to their towers, rams, and ladders, while another column prepared to charge the fractured stretch of wall.

Kriemhild climbed into the top compartment of a tower, wedging herself among the armored bodies. The whole structure shuddered as it lurched forward.

Pride swelled in her chest. The Brurians would slaughter or convert every Imperial alive if given the chance, but she, and the good men beside her, were here to kill them first.

"FOR GELDLAND!" she shouted. "FOR ADRAYSAL!"

"FOR ADRAYSAL!" the soldiers roared back.

The tower slammed into the walls. A weakened section collapsed. Ladders crashed against the stone. The drawbridge dropped.

Polished plate and sharpened steel poured out, hungry for Brurian flesh.

The ancient city of Satonta burned.

Kriemhild moved through the ruined streets with a band of Geldlanders as the Imperial army stripped the city bare. Houses lay gutted, market stalls smashed to splinters, temples defiled and looted of their relics. The civilians left behind were a tragedy of their own making, mothers cutting their children’s throats, men dying in their gardens, Brurian women hurling themselves into the rocks and surf rather than be taken. Those too slow to die wished they had been faster.

Better them than us.

She looked up at the citadel of Fatav’s Honor, where the last defenders had withdrawn. Whoever remained inside was either the most fanatical or the most desperate, and armored well enough to show it.

Her gaze caught on a figure at the base of the wall, a tall woman in flawless plate, weapons gleaming.

"Captain Gaia! The ram has arrived!"

Gaia turned sharply and nodded. Her eyes shifted to Kriemhild and the assembled Geldlanders. "Krieger! Los! Nehmen wir das Schloss!" she barked in perfect Geldish, unbothered by the stones and arrows crashing down around her.

The Geldlanders exchanged brief looks and fell in line with the oncoming procession. Most were polished knights or scarred men-at-arms, the Empire’s finest.

The Imperials drove the ram to the citadel gates.

THUMP... THUMP... THUMP

CRASH

Before the Imperials could drag the ram clear, a group of Brurians surged out in a sudden counterattack.

Gaia stepped into them first. "FOR THE EMPEROR!" She swung her Lucerne back and drove it down on a Brurian’s knee.

CRACK

The plate folded under the blow, dropping him instantly. The spike punched through the slit of his visor, tore through bone, and came free in a burst of blood.

Kriemhild pushed forward to meet the sally, her longsword smashing helmets and knocking aside blades.

Gaia hooked another Brurian by the pauldron with the Lucerne’s beak and dragged him off balance into the Imperial line. Kriemhild and two knights closed in, chopping at joints and pounding at the narrow gaps until he collapsed.

The Brurians fell back through the breached gates, pulling into the deeper corridors of the citadel and forming a second line.

The gates now yawned open. The fight for the citadel had begun. Here, each kill, each steel-plated scream, had to be earned.

Verdammt...

The ballroom was in full swing, lords and ladies dancing, gossiping, drifting beneath chandeliers while a soft tune played.

Kriemhild sat alone in a far corner, trapped in a dress her mother had forced on her. A Geldish lord had invited the Stahlmanns to the Flusswacht Ball, and refusing would have meant slighting half the noble court. So here she was.

She sipped Adraysalan red, too sweet, too perfumed, and counted the minutes until midnight. Out on the floor, her sisters danced and laughed with an old family friend, Adelina Rumhilt.

I. Want. To. Go. Home.

Kriemhild stood and pushed past a few overeager men, heading straight for the balcony.

Adelina appeared behind her moments later.

“Kriemhild... brooding again?” she said, arms crossed. “Why don’t you just dance like the rest of us?”

Kriemhild’s grip tightened on the railing. “I don’t want to dance. I want to-”

“What? Swing a sword? Get trampled by a horse?” Adelina snapped. She seized Kriemhild’s arm and pulled her back toward the ballroom.

“L-Let me go! LET. ME. GO!” Kriemhild growled. “Stop!”

The struggle drew attention; a cluster of ladies hurried over, and in moments several were dragging her toward the dance floor.

Caught in the open. Surrounded. Unarmed, unarmored.

That was exactly what it felt like.