The chill of early spring hung in the air like a ghost that refused to leave the bones of winter behind. Thick fog coiled across the cobblestone roads of Eisenwacht, the capital of Falkenburg, where the great bells of the Iron Spire had not yet rung. It was the hour before dawn, the hour of whispers, of frost-kissed silence, and of soldiers readying for war.

  But he was already awake.

  Inside the torchlit command hall, Kaspar Falkenrath stood at the edge of the war table, one gloved hand resting upon its iron frame, the other casually holding a silver-feathered cloak over his shoulder. His eyes, a sharp, pale gray, moved across the map like a falcon tracing prey from above. His expression did not waver, even as his commanders exchanged low murmurs behind him.

  The parchment showed the eastern border, where Falkenburg met the rogue principality of Grellstadt, a territory that had, until last week, been bound by a peace accord. But their prince had broken it with flame and cannon, razing a Falkenburg trading post and slaughtering every man stationed there.

  Kaspar’s reply would not be written with ink.

  “Two divisions,” he said flatly, still staring at the map. His voice was smooth but absolute, as if the very walls of the hall leaned closer to listen.

  General M?ller stepped forward, his breath steaming in the cold room. “Two, Commander? Grellstadt’s brought in mercenaries. Their army's four times our size in that region.”

  Kaspar finally looked up, gaze calm. “And yet, we will be the ones burying them.”

  M?ller swallowed his retort and gave a slight bow. “As you will, sir.”

  Behind him, Renata Sch?fer leaned lazily against a column, twirling her curved blade and watching the scene with a smirk. “Let me take the eastern ravines,” she chimed. “That’s where they’ll hide their dogs before they strike. I’d like to break their teeth early.”

  “You’ll have it,” Kaspar nodded. “No survivors.”

  As the commanders dispersed to prepare, Kaspar remained. His eyes wandered again to the feather-shaped sigil branded into the map, a small emblem near the heart of Falkenburg. It wasn’t just strategy anymore. This was personal. The men at the border post were young. Some had trained under him. Some had been his friends.

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  His jaw tightened.

  By noon, Kaspar rode out from Eisenwacht, not in a gilded carriage, but on horseback like the rest of his soldiers. His black warhorse, Volund, carried the banner of Falkenburg strapped to the saddle, silver feather on a black field, flapping crisply in the wind. The army parted as he passed, saluting in silence.

  He wasn’t like other rulers. He bled with them. Fought with them. Won with them.

  And in four battles across the last three years, he had never lost.

  Their target was a place called St. Vael's Crossing, a strategic bottleneck of forest and river where Grellstadt’s forces were gathering to push deeper into Falkenburg territory. It would be their first, and last mistake.

  As Kaspar’s forces moved under the shroud of twilight, scouts returned with grim news.

  “They’ve brought warhounds. Forty, maybe more. Spiked armor. They're laying traps in the northern pass.”

  “Good,” Kaspar replied. “Let them prepare.”

  M?ller gave him a puzzled look. “You don’t plan to avoid it?”

  Kaspar turned his horse slowly, facing the command group. “I plan to make it their grave.”

  He dismounted. With a few strokes of chalk on the ground and scattered stones, he illustrated a formation none of them had seen before. It curved like wings, open, but misleading. Luring.

  “Eisenflügel,” he said. “The Iron Wings. We make them believe we’re scattered and weak. We let them charge. Then we clip them from both flanks, and burn what remains.”

  Silence hung for a beat before Admiral Silvain, standing nearby in his riding coat, let out a low whistle. “Gods help the poor bastard who charges into that.”

  Kaspar looked toward the gray horizon, where smoke from Grellstadt’s campfires began to rise.

  “No,” he said quietly, mounting Volund again, “Gods won’t help them.”

  The battle began two hours before dawn.

  From the hills, Grellstadt’s mercenary general, a man named Kurt Rehnschild smiled as his scouts reported that Falkenburg’s force was fragmented, divided into strange formations that looked more ceremonial than practical.

  “They’ve gone mad,” he scoffed to his lieutenants. “Or desperate.”

  They charged.

  But as Kaspar watched from the centerline, flanked by M?ller on one side and Renata in the shadows of the trees on the other, he whispered one word.

  “Close.”

  With synchronized fury, Falkenburg’s wings folded in.

  Cannons roared. Arrows darkened the sky. Renata’s ambush corps flooded the left flank like shadows from the forest. M?ller’s hammerline crashed into the right. And Kaspar himself rode into the front, cleaving through confused mercenaries with deadly precision.

  He wasn’t a figurehead. He led. He bled.

  By sunrise, the fields were covered in broken banners and the last of Grellstadt’s men were surrendering or lying silent.

  Kaspar dismounted beside the enemy general’s body and knelt. He placed a single silver feather on the man’s chest, then stood.

  “Five,” he said to no one in particular.