Four days of relentless travel bring the Imperial convoy to the outskirts of Eldrath, but the sight that greets them is not one of a sovereign nation preparing for war—it's a nation already bleeding.
As they cross the border, the roads are choked with a river of misery. Thousands of common people flee west, away from the capital. Carts piled high with meager possessions, crying children, and wounded soldiers create a chaotic bottleneck. The air, usually fresh in the grassy plains of Eldrath, is now tainted with the acrid sting of smoke and the copper scent of distant bloodshed.
As they push deeper toward the capital, the contrast to Mikhail's visit just months prior is jarring. The vibrant, luxurious city he remembers is now a grim fortress under siege. Even from the outskirts, the effects of the ongoing war are visible: distant plumes of black smoke rising against the sky, the constant, low-frequency rumble of artillery magic, and the terrified emptiness of the outer districts.
As the convoy nears the city proper, Vice Commander Hilowat spurs his horse, riding close to the window of the royal carriage. His face is grim, his usual stoicism replaced by urgent concern.
"My Lord," he calls out over the rumble of wheels. "Looks like we were misinformed about the situation."
Mikhail snaps to attention, sliding the window open further. "Explain yourself, Hilowat. What do you mean?"
"According to the intelligence provided by the Imperial court, the invasion wasn't supposed to start until a week from now," Hilowat reports, his voice tight. "But looking at the smoke and the refugee flow... The invasion is taking place right as we speak. The Orcs are already at the walls."
Mikhail's eyes narrow dangerously. "Understood. Prepare the soldiers. We are not stopping at the Palace. Head straight toward the battlefield."
"Understood, Your Majesty," Hilowat shouts, peeling away to relay the orders.
Mikhail sits back, his mind racing with cold fury. How can this be possible? How did the event suddenly fast-forward? The Orcs were organized, yes, but they stuck to patterns. Maybe it's that bastard... The realization hits him. The damn Emperor provided us with misinformation. It was a test, or perhaps a way to ensure maximum casualties for Eldrath before the "Savior" arrived. He wanted me to walk into chaos unprepared. I'll deal with you later, old man.
He feels a trembling hand beside him. He turns to see Miyako, her face pale, staring out at her burning homeland. Mikhail firmly takes her hand, squeezing it. He gives her a sharp, confident nod—a silent promise that he's in control. She takes a breath, steeling herself.
The convoy veers off the main road, bypassing the relative safety of the Palace district and heading straight for the war-torn border of the outer city defense line.
Minutes later, the reality of the war comes into full view. The Last Line of Defense—a ragged collection of Eldrathian knights and mages—is barely holding. A sea of green skin and iron armor, the Endless Hordes of Orcs, crashes against them like a tidal wave. The defenders are breaking.
Hilowat rides back to the carriage, his horse foaming. "My Lord, I have a request for you. Our Imperial Knights are elite, but they are already tired from the forced march. Looking at the sheer scale of the battlefield... the morale is wavering."
Mikhail nods once. He doesn't say a word. Instead, he kicks the carriage door open while it's still moving.
With surprising agility, he climbs out of the cabin, grabs the luggage railing, and pulls himself up onto the roof of the speeding carriage. The wind whips at his red coat as he stands tall, a beacon of Imperial authority amidst the chaos.
He draws a deep breath and his voice, amplified by his intent, roars over the noise of the marching hooves.
"My Great Imperial Soldiers!"
The heads of seven hundred knights snap toward him.
"Prepare for Battle! We are here to aid Eldrath, but more importantly, we are here to show this world the might of the Empire! Do not falter! Show them what we are made of! Prepare to fight through the bloody Orcs that stand in our way! Solis Dei guides us all!"
The response is immediate and visceral. The fatigue vanishes from the knights' faces, replaced by adrenaline and religious fervor. A unified battle cry erupts from seven hundred throats, shaking the ground.
Mikhail looks down at Hilowat, his hair whipped by the wind. "Will that be enough?"
Hilowat grins, pulling his visor down. "More than enough, My Lord."
"Change the convoy formation!" Hilowat bellows to the column. "We will fight through the enemies! Protect the carriage! Wedge formation! Charge!"
The Imperial column shifts instantly into a deadly spearhead. With the royal carriage at its center like the eye of a storm, the Imperium Knights push their first assault.
They don't slow down. They slam into the rear flank of the Orc horde with the force of a falling mountain. Lances shatter shields, warhorses trample bodies, and Imperial steel carves a bloody path through the green tide, sweeping through the enemy frontlines and carving a road straight toward the desperate Eldrath main battle camp. The saviors have arrived, and they're carving their introduction in blood.