The sun was already slanting slightly over the horizon, warming the dust that rose from the soldiers' boots. It was shortly after lunchtime when Caelus watched his regiment, aligned in column, advance across the field like a contained river, ready to unfold. The orders had been clear, and the tension could be felt in the air: every man and woman, every bayonet, every standard, was a thread in the tapestry of war being woven.
– Prepare to change from column to line of battle! – his voice cut through the wind, firm and controlled, yet laden with authority. Bia and the other officers ran, passing on his command, each word like hammer-blows on hot metal.
– Hold fast!
– Company to the left!
– Company to the right!
– Adjust the flanks!
The soldiers moved with studied precision. Those of the first company opened space, those of the second adjusted with small steps, keeping the exact rhythm. Caelus walked along the column, his eyes sweeping over the sweaty, focused faces of his troops.
– Look ahead! Keep your distance, keep in step! – he ordered, and his voice spread like a blade, cutting through any hesitation.
The sound of boots striking the ground blended with the cries of orders repeated by the non-commissioned officers:
– Form!
– Form!
– Front in line!
And slowly, as if the field itself obeyed, the column began to unfold, company by company, forming the line of battle. Each soldier knew where to place the bayonet, how to align his shoulder with his neighbour's, how to make their body part of something greater, a living wall of will and courage.
Horace Kingsley remained on horseback, distant but attentive, his eyes scanning every movement of Caelus's regiment. When Caelus finished the manoeuvre, the line now perfect and firm as tempered steel, he raised his sword in salute.
Kingsley smiled, a rare gesture, and replied in a deep voice, laden with recognition:
– Well done, Caelus. You have done everything I asked of you. With another two weeks, we would make every movement perfect.
But his smile faded as quickly as it had appeared.
– However, we do not have two weeks. The patrols' reports are not good news: King Rafael Calentiflor marches against us with an army of ten thousand. Ten thousand… and we barely have time to perfect our lines.
Caelus's heart beat faster, but he remained steady.
– Edouard Lefevre and Isabela Pisodorato have ordered our seven thousand to advance – Kingsley said, looking at Caelus. – They want to seize the initiative and decide the ground. If we do not act quickly, we will lose both.
Caelus tightened his grip on the sword, feeling the weight of responsibility on his young shoulders.
– Then we will have to face them before they entrench. Each of us knows what must be done.
Kingsley nodded, stepping closer to Caelus.
– And you will ensure that. Do not fool yourself: the perfection you saw today will not be enough. But I trust you, Caelus. If you can keep your head cool and your regiment steady, we may impose our will even against the king and his ten thousand.
– I will not fail – he breathed deeply. His eyes scanned every soldier before him, every flag, every bayonet poised.
Kingsley touched his shoulder lightly with his gloved hand.
– I hope not. Because, when the battle begins, lad, neither perfect discipline nor courage alone will suffice… the fate of these men and women, their ideals and the very ground we will fight for, will be in your hands.
And with that, the revolutionary army began its march towards destiny. The sun tilted slightly and autumn stained the landscape with tones of copper, gold and blood. The trees were beginning to strip themselves bare and some shook their branches like bony fingers over the dusty road. Each step of the roughly seven thousand soldiers raised clouds of dust that mingled with the damp scent of earth and fallen leaves.
Edouard Lefevre rode his steed, watching the ranks advance with contained discipline, though tired. Beside him, Isabela Pisodorato kept a firm expression, but her eyes betrayed the cold calculation that traced every bend of the road, every small rise in the ground, every clearing that might serve as shelter or trap.
– Keep formation! – Edouard ordered, his voice echoing among the soldiers. – Do not stray from the road and adjust the flanks. We cannot lose discipline.
Despite their numerical inferiority, the revolutionaries advanced with a silent confidence, knowing that geography favoured them. A gentle hill there could become a bastion; an open clearing, an ideal battlefield for an ambush. Each step brought them closer to the ground that, well positioned, would allow them to control the road between Pisum and Calentis, forcing any enemy to cross their territory tired and vulnerable.
The revolutionary army reached the desired ground shortly before dusk, the soldiers' boots crushing the dry grass and autumn leaves covering the soil. The main hill rose like a natural crown over the valley, and from its summit the view was clear: the road between Pisum and Calentis stretched like a golden ribbon across the ground, and the slopes offered cover, defensive positions and the advantage no commander could desire more.
Caelus watched the flanks, accompanied by Bia, who kept the troops under control, and by Horace Kingsley, whose presence commanded immediate respect.
At the top of the hill, Edouard, Isabela, Caelus, Bia and Kingsley gathered, the golden light of the setting sun tinting the contours of their faces, each look heavy with tension and determination.
– The enemy will have to come this way – Lefevre began, in a low but firm tone. – The king is expecting resistance, otherwise he would not bring an army of ten thousand – he left the sentence hanging, allowing everyone to ponder the weight of that number.
Isabela pointed to the ditch, her slender fingers tracing invisible lines over the mental map of the terrain.
– If we can hold this hill, any advance of theirs will be predictable. The slopes, the narrow paths… we can force the enemy to cross the points we choose. But we cannot underestimate their march. Tomorrow, every mistake will be paid for with blood.
– So, the question is… – said Caelus, breathing in deeply, – …how can we ensure that the advantage of the ground will not be snatched from us? We can organise barricades, improvised trenches… but time is short.
– If they advance along the main road early tomorrow, we will have to force the left flank – Lefevre said. – But if we can draw part of their troops into the valley, we can create a bottleneck.
– The problem is our troops' fatigue – Isabela interrupted. – Tomorrow we will not have time to train or reorganise. Every soldier must know exactly where to be and what to do.
– And what about King Rafael? – Caelus retorted, clenching his fists, his voice tense but firm. – He will have an army of ten thousand at his disposal… we cannot underestimate them. We need a plan B, C… anything that gives us room to manoeuvre.
Kingsley remained silent, his eyes scanning the valley, alert to any movement:
– I agree with the young Caelus, let us speak of a plan B, but stay alert. They are arriving.
The group turned. Kingsley's words, barely out of his mouth, mingled with the distant sound of hooves on stone and the dragging of heavy wheels. Far off, the road wound through the valley, but now the first flashes of torches appeared, small golden points advancing slowly, like insects on a dark night.
– They… are already here? – murmured Caelus. His voice was almost lost in the cold wind, his heart beginning to race.
Caelus raised his spyglass with steady hands, the night's cold biting his fingers, and fixed his gaze on the distant vale. Between the sea of torches and the shadows of the trees, he could see they were setting up a camp, each tent lit by the last remnants of moonlight and by flickering torches.
One tent stood out immediately – larger, taller and more imposing than the others. The coloured cloths rippled gently in the night wind, and he saw, with a sting of apprehension, the kingdom's emblem: a sheaf of golden wheat on an orange field, hoisted on multiple flags surrounding the royal tent, visible even from afar.
But something else caught Caelus's attention: the personal standard of King Rafael himself. A green vine, sinuous and alive, wound across a golden field, and it was flown at strategic points, signalling the monarch's presence and the unquestioned authority he exercised over that army.
Amid the noise of commands and the crack of weapons, Caelus saw, in the middle of the camp, a startling figure: Dorian Valmor, the commander whose face still burned in his memory, the same man who had almost taken his life at Pisum. A chill ran down Caelus's spine, a mixture of fear, hatred and the silent promise of revenge. Valmor bellowed orders, his voice thick and cutting, gesturing with scarred hands and his mother's sabre at his waist.
But, as much as the desire for vengeance burned in his veins, Caelus knew the truth that would prevent him acting rashly: he was not alone. Pisum, with all its might, stood by his side. His mother, Isabela, and Bia, loyal to the end, marched with him. He did not need to face Dorian alone; and when the moment came, justice would not be his alone.
Caelus lowered the spyglass, turning his eyes away from the royal camp, and back to the hill where the revolutionary army remained gathered. The darkness of night wrapped the soldiers, yet it was still possible to make out the flag waving in the wind, the living symbol of the cause that united them.
It was an image heavy with meaning in every stroke: an open pea pod, releasing small green seeds, as if the very field were offering a promise of rebirth. Behind it, a golden sickle crossed with a flaming torch, the light of the fire reflected on metals and fabrics, reminding all that work and sacrifice stood side by side.
The flag was divided into two halves. The left, painted a deep green, spoke of the connection to Pisum, of the fertility of the land and life that sprouts even in the harshest seasons. The right, a vivid red, was the blood shed by those who fought for change, by those who dared to challenge kings and old orders. Each fold of the cloth told a story of courage and risk, of men and women who dared to dream of something different.
Despite the tension that gathered like storm clouds on the horizon, he felt an unexpected confidence, a certainty that could not be explained merely by strategy or the number of soldiers. There was something more. An invisible force that seemed to guide him, that whispered to him, even in the dark, that every victory won so far had not been the result of chance.
If we were fighting in vain…, he thought to himself, why does our struggle seem right? Why do so many keep joining us, day after day?
– Caelus! – Kingsley shouted, cutting through his thoughts like a blade. – The left flank needs immediate protections. Organise your regiment and reinforce it. Now!
Caelus raised his eyes, feeling the weight of responsibility tighten his chest once more. The left flank was, unfortunately, the most vulnerable.
–The ground slopes gently, with no natural barriers, leaving enough space for any surprise attack to break the line. But there is no alternative: the artillery on the right flank requires extra attention. They have brought the Cavalry of the Rising Sun. Although they are not the force that died at Pisum, they still have to be fierce and disciplined to be part of that regiment. If the right flank gives way, the whole line may collapse.
– I understand – Caelus replied, anxious about his mission. – If we lose the guns, we lose the battle. And no, we cannot underestimate the Cavalry of the Rising Sun. I saw their field: Dorian Valmor will lead them, I am sure of it.