Night descends over the battlefield, draping the carnage in a suffocating shroud of darkness. The chaotic roar of combat has faded into the groans of the wounded and the barked orders of sergeants. On the reclaimed walls, Hilowat and a cadre of elite soldiers from both kingdoms work efficiently, re-establishing formations and organizing the evacuation of the injured to the rear lines.
Mikhail stands amidst the activity, watching the darkness where the Orcs have retreated. Beside him stands Miyako, her silhouette sharp against the torchlight, her blade finally sheathed but her hand never leaving its hilt.
Mikhail turns to her, his eyes scanning her form for any sign of blood that belongs to her. "How are you? Injured anywhere?"
She shakes her head gently, a soft, relieved smile gracing her lips—a stark contrast to the demon she'd been on the field hours prior. "I'm glad you're safe and sound, My Lord."
Mikhail scoffs, a dark, arrogant grin cutting across his face. "Of course. These filthy orc scum don't have what it takes to kill me."
As the night settles completely, the trio—Mikhail, Miyako, and Hilowat—along with a guard detail, descend from the wall and ride back to the central command tent.
The atmosphere inside the tent has transformed. The air of panic and impending doom is gone, replaced by a charged, electric awe. As Mikhail enters, Maria, standing dutifully like a shadow behind the Queen, gives him a subtle, proud nod.
Queen Yuehua and the gathered generals immediately step forward. The generals, grizzled veterans who'd looked at the "spoiled prince" with skepticism earlier, now look at him with reverence.
"My Lord," a general steps forward, "we are grateful. Without the Empire's charge and your command on the wall... we would be dead."
Mikhail raises a hand, silencing the celebration instantly. His expression is not one of victory but of cold, simmering wrath.
"The war isn't over," he states, his voice low and dangerous. "We have only defended the last wall. But I will not stop. For every sin they have committed, for every brother they have killed... I'll be their salvation. I'll be their judgment. I'll not stop till they drown in their own blood."
A chill runs through the room. It isn't the speech of a hero; it's the vow of an executioner.
Moved by his resolve and realizing her own limitations in this new caliber of warfare, Queen Yuehua steps away from the head of the large strategic table. She gestures to the empty seat—the seat of the Supreme Commander.
"From here on," Yuehua announces, her voice ringing clear, "the Imperial Crown Prince, Mikhail, has absolute authority over the battlefield."
One by one, the generals of Eldrath, the Queen herself, and the Imperial officers bow deep to him.
Mikhail walks forward, his boots heavy on the wooden floorboards. He takes the seat, claiming dominion over the war. He looks at the faces around him—Miyako, Hilowat, Maria, Yuehua. He has them all exactly where he wants them.
He smooths the tactical map out on the table with his gloved hands, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying intelligence.
He looks up, giving them a small, sharp smile.
"Gentlemen, let's prepare for sentencing."