Spring arrived without ceremony.
One morning the snow was still thigh-deep; the next, the river ran swift and swollen, carrying fragments of ice and bodies that had been frozen throughout the winter.
A foul stench spread from downstream—an odor impossible to ignore. The smell of a battlefield preserved beneath a layer of ice, now released.
Albert stood at the edge of the same river where he had learned to fish from Gerold. Now the water ran brown and murky. In the distance, two soldiers were dragging something to the shore with long poles. A corpse in blue uniform, its face already unrecognizable. An enemy soldier, destined for the pyre.
The sight reminded Albert of Gerold, who had died two weeks ago.
He hadn't fallen to sword or arrow, but to pneumonia. He'd slept in a damp tent, coughed for two weeks, and then passed away. Albert had sat beside him until his final breath, holding his wrinkled hand. Gerold had managed a smile—that same gap-toothed smile from when they'd first fished together.
"That fish you caught was delicious, My Lord," he'd whispered.
And then he was gone...
Albert hadn't wept. But every time he passed the riverbank, he would sit for a while. Alone. Sometimes he brought his fishing rod, though he never used it.
Luise never disturbed him during those moments. She would only wait in the distance, silent as a statue.
***
Two years.
That was what it took to turn ordinary soldiers into veterans. And over those two years, Albert witnessed more death than he cared to remember.
Klaus, that big Valeran man who had first dared to enter the ice water, died in the sixth month. Not in a major battle, but during a small ambush in the eastern forest. An arrow to the throat, from twenty paces away. Albert heard his shout from a distance—that heavy voice, suddenly cut off—and by the time he arrived, Klaus was no longer moving.
Stefan, the Götthain man-at-arms who was always on the front line, died in the second year. Crushed by a falling horse. His leg was shattered, hemorrhaging badly. He was still conscious when Albert knelt beside him.
"My Lord," he whispered, his breath ragged. "My wife... my daughter... in Götthain... tell them... I... I—"
The sentence never finished.
Lukas, that young levy who had nearly fled during the first battle, survived for two full years. He'd grown into a tough soldier, even been promoted to man-at-arms. He died in the Valley Battle, speared from the side. His body fell into the mud, eyes open, mouth filled with dirt.
Hilda survived. But of the twenty-three Dornenholz archers who had accompanied her on that first mission, only nine remained two years later. That young woman who had laughed when the officers' tent burned—she'd died last year, an arrow through her chest. Hilda buried her alone, without ceremony. There was no time for ceremonies.
The Götthain levies, once a hundred strong, were now reduced to thirty-one. Men-at-arms numbered just four. The Dornenholz archers had dwindled from ninety to twenty-six. The Valeran forces placed under his command now totaled twelve.
Total survivors... just seventy-three.
Albert remembered every lost name. Not in a book, but in his head. Those faces appeared every night, every time he closed his eyes. Sometimes they were silent, merely watching. Sometimes they asked—why me, why not you.
There were no answers. He could only light a feltwort cigarette and wait until dawn.
***
Unfortunately, war cared nothing for human life.
Battles came in relentless waves, one after another. Leandria kept sending fresh troops, Helvetia kept holding the line. The front shifted forward and back a few kilometers, but never changed dramatically.
Tens of thousands of fathers and sons perished across the vast plains.
Albert and his force became specialists. They were no longer confined to the left flank. Lord Harald began dispatching them to critical points—gaps in the defense, places where the enemy was about to break through, situations that required a "small miracle" to avoid collapse.
And Albert always came. Always held the line. Always brought back what remained of his soldiers.
No heroic speeches. No cheering. Just the simple fact: Black Sword Demon and his men could be relied upon.
Luise had also sworn her oath to Albert and become a knight.
In the twentieth month, something changed.
Albert was summoned to the command tent. Not for an ordinary meeting. Lord Harald himself had requested his presence—alone, without Luise.
The tent was larger than usual. New maps hung on the walls, marking the latest positions. Several high-ranking officers sat in chairs—Lady Mirelle, Earl William, even Commander Gerhard, who rarely appeared at the front lines.
In the center, an empty chair.
"Sit," Lord Harald said.
Albert sat. The ribs that had once been cracked were now healed, replaced by fresh scars on his shoulder and arm. His face—at seventeen years old—no longer resembled that of a youth. Dark circles under his eyes, fine lines around his mouth, a gaze too old for his age.
"We've received good news from the capital," Lord Harald began. "The King is sending reinforcements."
A smattering of applause from a few officers. Albert didn't react—more people simply meant more who would die.
"However," Lord Harald continued, "they aren't being sent as complete units. They're being dispatched to fill the ranks of forces that have lost many soldiers." His eyes shifted to Albert. "Your unit included, Lord Götthain."
Albert frowned. "The Götthain forces? We only have seventy-three men left. Even with reinforcements, we'd still be under—"
"Not reinforcements," Lord Harald interrupted. "Reconstitution. From now on, your unit is no longer the 'Götthain Forces.' It will be known as the 'Götthain-Lancaster Special Regiment.'"
Albert froze.
"I don't understand."
Lady Mirelle smiled faintly. "This was actually my suggestion. After observing your unit's performance over two years—how they've held the line, how they've trained, how they can be trusted in critical situations—I proposed that this unit be made permanent. Not merely a temporary collection of levies and men-at-arms, but a regular unit with a fixed structure."
"Lancaster?" Albert asked, still incredulous.
"Your family is bound to Lancaster through betrothal," Earl William said, his voice flat. "It's time that relationship was strengthened on the battlefield. Lancaster will send one hundred and fifty soldiers—men-at-arms and archers—to join your forces. Götthain, as compensation, will manage the logistics and supplies for this unit."
Albert looked at each of them in turn. Lady Mirelle—smiling, supportive. Earl William—expressionless, but not opposed. Commander Gerhard—nodding slowly.
"And me?" he asked. "My status?"
Lord Harald laughed. "You think we'd let someone else lead this unit? You're its commander, Lord Götthain. Rank... we'll sort that out later. But for now, you're equivalent to a captain. Perhaps higher, depending on results."
Captain... At seventeen years old, commanding a permanent unit composed of soldiers from two territories. This was absurd. This was—
"There are conditions," Earl William cut in. "Lancaster wants this unit stationed on the eastern border after the war ends. To secure the trade routes."
Albert looked at him. This was a trap. But not a malicious one—just ordinary political bargaining.
"And Götthain?"
"Götthain receives a share of the trade profits." Lord Harald shrugged. "Also reputation. A force trained and led by the Götthain heir becoming a permanent royal unit—that's no small matter."
Albert sat silently, processing. In his head, numbers spun. The seventy-three survivors. The one hundred and fifty from Lancaster. A total of two hundred and twenty-three. New structure, new equipment, new chain of command.
And him in charge.
"I need to speak with my soldiers," he finally said. "They deserve to know."
"Of course." Lord Harald nodded. "The official announcement will be made tomorrow. But I wanted you to know first. Consider it a mark of trust."
Albert stood, gave a brief salute, and turned to leave. But before he reached the tent flap, Lady Mirelle called out.
"Lord Götthain."
He looked back.
"You deserve this." Her voice was gentle. "I've seen many commanders on the battlefield. But you... you're different. Don't ever change."
Albert didn't respond. He simply nodded and walked out.
***
Outside, the snow had completely melted. Mud was everywhere. The air smelled of damp, rot, and blood.
Luise waited near the tent, as always. The moment she saw Albert's expression, she frowned.
"What happened, My Lord?"
Albert sat on a large rock near the campfire. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from profound exhaustion.
"Our unit is being made permanent. The Götthain-Lancaster Special Regiment, with me as commander. Lancaster is sending one hundred and fifty men."
Luise was silent. Then she sat down beside Albert.
"That's good news... aren't you happy?"
Albert looked at her. Those violet eyes gazed back with the same undiminished curiosity.
"I don't know," he admitted honestly. "Two years ago, I came here with one hundred and thirteen people. Now seventy-three remain—they died under my command. And as a reward, I get a promotion."
"It's not a reward." Luise shook her head. "It's a consequence. Because you brought the survivors back, because the enemy fears you, and because your superiors believe you can do more."
"Does that make their deaths meaningful?"
Luise didn't answer immediately. She stared at the fire, then spoke softly. "I don't know. But in war, the dead never know if their deaths mattered. It's the living who have to give them meaning—by continuing to fight... By protecting those who can still be protected. By ensuring they didn't die in vain."
Albert pondered this. In his head, those faces remained. Klaus, Stefan, Lukas, Gerold, and dozens of others. Silent. Waiting.
"I need to tell the troops."
Luise nodded. "I'll gather them."
***
An hour later, seventy-three people assembled in the muddy field.
Those faces—weary, scarred, but alive—looked at Albert with expressions difficult to interpret. Respect? Fear? Perhaps a mixture of both.
Albert stood before them, no ceremonial cloak, no white horse. Just himself, with his black sword at his hip and dark circles under his eyes.
"I have an important announcement." His voice wasn't loud, but in this silence, it carried clearly. "Our unit is being made permanent. The Götthain-Lancaster Special Regiment, with me still as your commander. Lancaster is sending one hundred and fifty new soldiers."
Silence. No applause, no cheers.
"I know what you're thinking. A 'reward' after two years of blood and mud. A promotion for the commander, while our comrades lie dead in the dirt." Albert paused, looking at each of them in turn. "You have every right to think that."
A man-at-arms—a Valeran survivor, a thin man with a scar across his forehead—called out, "So, My Lord, what's the difference?"
"The difference?" Albert exhaled slowly. "We'll no longer be called a 'temporary force' that could be disbanded at any moment. We'll have a permanent structure, better equipment, guaranteed logistics, and... we'll stay together after this war ends."
They fell silent. Then, from the back, Hilda's voice.
"So we're family now?"
Albert looked at her. Hilda—the woman who had been underestimated two years ago, now widely respected.
"We've been family for a long time," he said. "The difference now is that the kingdom officially recognizes it."
Hilda smiled. A thin smile, but genuine.
The man-at-arms who had protested now nodded slowly. "In that case, My Lord... congratulations on your promotion."
Quiet laughter rippled through the ranks. Not joyous laughter, but the laughter of relief.
Albert raised his hand. "We're resting for three days. After that, we train again. Lancaster is sending new soldiers—we need to get them up to speed quickly and teach them how we fight."
They nodded. One by one, they dispersed, returning to their tents, returning to their routines.
Luise approached. "Are you alright?"
Albert looked at her. "No. But I will be."
He walked to the riverbank. The water rushed past, carrying the last remnants of winter downstream. Albert sat on the same rock where he had once sat with Gerold.
He took out a feltwort cigarette. Lit it with his flint and steel. Smoke curled upward.
Behind him, his soldiers began to settle in for sleep. Before him, the river flowed on. Above, stars began to emerge.
Two years... So many dead, but the living remained.
Albert drew deeply on his feltwort.
"For all of you," he whispered to the wind. "For Klaus, Stefan, Lukas, Gerold, and all who left. I'll carry on."
Smoke rose into the night sky, slowly fading among the stars.
Winter had ended, but the war was far from over.