Luise sat on a wooden chair beside the bed, her back aching, her eyes burning, but she didn't move.
On the bed, Albert lay in an uneasy sleep. His body twitched occasionally—sometimes a spasm, sometimes just a tremor in his fingertips. Sweat dampened his forehead, hair plastered to his skin. His lips moved faintly, whispering without sound.
Sometimes, the sound escaped. Faint, broken, like someone speaking from within a nightmare.
"Don't—don't come closer... that's enough..."
Then his body would tense. His hand would reach for something—perhaps a sword, perhaps a hand—grasping at empty air.
"I'm sorry... sorry... I... I couldn't..."
Luise took that hand. Held it tightly.
"I'm here," she whispered. "You're safe. No one's attacking."
Albert's hand gripped back. His hold was strong—too strong, like someone falling and clinging to anything to keep from drowning. Luise winced but didn't let go.
Two hours she'd sat here. Since the medics had carried Albert down from the wall, since they'd cleaned the blood from his body and found small wounds he hadn't even noticed, since Lord Harald himself had come and ordered him to rest—Luise had remained here.
Outside, the sounds of the encampment were fading. Night had fallen, but inside this tent, there was only the sound of Albert's ragged breathing and indistinct whispers.
"Klaus... I'm sorry... Lukas... Gerold... I..."
Luise clenched her fist. In her chest, something stirred—not fear, but anger. Anger at a world that made this person bear such a weight alone.
"Damn it," she hissed. "Damn you all."
She didn't know who she was cursing.
***
Outside Vallenwood's walls, in the command tent of the Leandria forces, the atmosphere was different.
Marquess Stefan vin Grauwald—commander of the besieging forces, a distant cousin of King Ludwig—was furious.
Not ordinary anger. This was a rage that made the veins in his neck bulge, that made his hands tremble atop the wooden table, that made his officers freeze like statues.
"Say that again."
The intelligence officer swallowed hard. His face was pale, sweat trickling down his temples despite the chill in the tent.
"Our forces... retreated, My Lord. From the right flank. They—they saw something on the wall. A Helvetia soldier with a black sword. They say—"
"What do they say?"
"They say... he's not human. He wounded our soldiers but didn't kill them. Left them alive—alive in agony. Their screams... those screams terrified the others."
Marquess Stefan stared at him. His eyes—grey, cold—swept across the officer's face, searching for signs of deceit.
"You heard those screams yourself?"
"Yes. From half a mile away, we could still hear them. Not death cries—screams that were more... more horrifying."
Stefan walked to the tent entrance, pushed aside the canvas flap, and gazed outside. In the distance, beyond arrow range, his camps still stood. But there, in the temporary barracks for the wounded, faint sounds of moaning still carried.
He himself had heard the stories from the surviving soldiers. Not fully intact survivors—survivors with severed arms, with destroyed faces, with legs bent backward. They all said the same thing.
One man. A black sword. No expression. He didn't kill—he wounded, then left them alive.
"Leaving them alive..." Stefan murmured.
On the battlefield, killing enemies was ordinary. But deliberately wounding, then letting them return to camp, carrying stories, spreading terror—that was a different tactic. A cruel, cunning, effective tactic.
"Who is he?" he asked.
The officer answered quickly. "Albert vin Götterbaum. From the Kingdom of Helvetia, Götthain-Lancaster Special Regiment. They call him... Black Sword Demon."
Stefan repeated the name in his mind. Götterbaum. Not a great family, not famous nobles. Just a minor baron.
"A young man?"
"Seventeen years old, My Lord."
Stefan turned. Looked at his officers. Those faces—exhausted, frustrated, afraid. They'd been besieging for three days, lost thousands of soldiers, and now, because of one man, the right flank forces had retreated.
"Nonsense," he hissed. "All of this is nonsense!"
He walked back to the table, clenching his fists over the map.
"Listen," he said, his voice lower but sharper. "Tomorrow, we move archers into position. Every hour, one hundred arrows into the city. Not to kill—to weaken their morale. Let them know that out here, we're still present."
An officer raised his hand. "My Lord, our arrow supplies—"
"We have enough." Stefan cut him off. "And the day after, we begin breaking down their walls with trebuchets. Slowly, continuously, day and night. They won't be able to sleep, won't be able to repair."
"And the main assault?"
Stefan shook his head. "One more week. Let them exhaust themselves first, let that terror work both ways. We make them afraid, then we crush them."
The officers nodded, though hesitation lingered on their faces.
Stefan stared at the map. On paper, Vallenwood was just a small dot. But inside it, something troubled his thoughts. Not the Helvetia forces, not the high walls, not the supplies.
But one name.
Albert vin Götterbaum. The Black Sword Demon.
"Who are you really?" he murmured.
No one answered.
***
Albert woke at midnight.
Eyes open. His hand—his hand was holding something. Warm and soft...
He turned his head. Luise sat on the chair beside the bed, her head drooped forward, asleep. His hand—Albert's hand—still held Luise's. A tight grip, as if afraid to let go.
He released it slowly. Luise stirred slightly but didn't wake.
Albert sat up. His body ached—everywhere, a uniform pain. Small wounds wrapped in bandages, bruises covering his body, and in his head... in his head, silence.
For the first time in days, the voices were quiet.
He looked at his hands. Clean—they'd cleaned him. No blood. But he could still feel it. Warm, sticky, nauseating.
Outside, a strange sound. WHOOsh—then a heavy thud in the distance.
Enemy trebuchets, working through the night. Vallenwood's walls trembled faintly.
Albert stood. His body swayed, but he forced it steady.
"M-My Lord?" Luise's voice, sleepy.
"Go back to sleep."
"Where are you going?"
"The meeting room. Something needs to be discussed."
Luise shook her head, rubbing her eyes. "At this hour? They're all asleep."
"They'll wake up."
He reached for his cloak on the chair back, wrapping it around his shoulders. First step—staggering. Second—steadier. Third—he was at the door.
"Albert."
He stopped without turning.
"Be careful..."
He didn't answer. Just stepped out, into the dark corridor, heading for the meeting room.
***
The meeting room was in the former city hall, a two-story stone building near the square. Oil lamps on the walls still burned dimly—the guards always made sure there was light, just in case of emergency news.
Albert pushed open the door. Inside, a long table, empty chairs. Maps still spread open. Candles nearly spent.
He sat in his chair. Waited.
Ten minutes.
The door opened. Lord Harald entered, cloak rumpled, white hair disheveled. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Albert.
"You're awake?"
"Yes."
"What's wrong?"
"We need to talk. Call the others."
Lord Harald studied him for a moment. Then nodded, signaling the guard outside. "Summon Lady Mirelle, Earl William, and all unit commanders. Now."
The guard ran.
One by one, they came. Lady Mirelle with her hair messy, still wearing her nightgown beneath her cloak. Earl William with his hardened face, showing no signs of just waking. The other unit commanders—tired faces, sleepy, but alert.
They sat. A few looked at Albert strangely. A few tried not to look at him at all. Others—like Lady Mirelle—studied him with new intensity.
"What's this about?" Lord Harald asked. "You woke us in the middle of the night, so it must be important."
Albert pointed at the map. "The enemy is going to change tactics."
They looked at the map, then back at Albert.
"What do you mean? How do you know?" a commander asked.
"From experience... Today's attack failed. Not because they were outnumbered, not because our walls are strong. But because they were afraid." Albert looked at them. "And that fear will make their commander angry. When angry, he'll act irrationally."
Earl William snorted. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure." Albert's voice was flat. "I've seen it before. They retreated not because they lost, but because of the stories carried by the wounded soldiers. Stories about a Demon. Now, their commander has to choose: retreat completely and lose face, or hold on and find another way."
"They won't retreat," Lord Harald murmured. "Too much has already been sacrificed."
"Exactly. So they'll try another way." Albert pointed at points around Vallenwood. "Long-range attacks. Archers every hour, trebuchets day and night. They'll make it so we can't sleep, can't repair the walls, can't think clearly."
He remembered the tactic of continuous long-range harassment from modern warfare.
Lady Mirelle nodded slowly. "That's a sensible siege tactic. Weaken morale first, then attack."
"And after a week—maybe ten days—they'll try another assault." Albert looked at Lord Harald. "We need to hold out until reinforcements arrive."
Lord Harald exhaled. "Reinforcements... two more weeks. If the weather holds."
"We can hold for two weeks."
"You're sure?"
Albert didn't answer. Just looked at him.
Lord Harald looked back. In those old eyes, something shifted. Not respect—he'd respected Albert for a long time already. But something else. Perhaps...
"Alright," he finally said. "We'll arrange rotating watches. All units get sleep shifts, guard shifts. Archers split into three rotations. The enemy trebuchets—we'll answer with our own, let them lose sleep too."
The commanders began discussing. Voices overlapped—suggestions, objections, solutions.
But amidst it all, several pairs of eyes remained fixed on Albert.
A commander—a middle-aged man from a cavalry unit—stared at him with a strange expression. Not fear. Not admiration. But curiosity, like someone observing a rare animal in a zoo.
In the corner, another commander whispered to his companion, "Did you see him earlier? On the wall?"
His companion nodded slowly. "I saw. That was definitely not ordinary fighting..."
"That wasn't fighting. That was... I don't know what that was."
Lady Mirelle, sitting nearby, overheard the whisper. She didn't reprimand them. Just looked at Albert with narrowed eyes, like a child fascinated by something new.
Meanwhile, the discussion continued. Schedules were arranged, positions determined, orders given. Albert spoke at several points—pointing out weaknesses on the northern side, suggesting a more efficient archer rotation—but most of the time, he was silent.
At the meeting's end, Lord Harald stood. "Are we all agreed?"
Nods around the table.
"Good! Return to your positions. Get enough rest—tomorrow will be a long day."
They began to rise, walking toward the door. Albert also stood, ready to leave.
"Lord Götthain."
He turned. Lord Harald stood near the table, alone. The others had gone.
"What is it, My Lord?"
Lord Harald looked at him for a long moment. Then, in a voice lower than usual, "Today... on the wall... what you did?"
Albert was silent.
"I've seen many battles," Lord Harald continued. "Seen many soldiers fight in many ways. But what you did today... that wasn't tactics, wasn't strategy. That was something else."
Albert remained silent.
"I won't ask what it was, but I want you to know—" Lord Harald paused, searching for the right words, "—whatever it was, you saved this city today. And your men... they're still alive because of you. So don't dwell on it too much."
Albert looked at him. That old face—tired, wrinkled, but there was honesty there.
"Thank you, My Lord."
He turned and walked out.
In the corridor, Luise waited. Didn't ask, didn't speak. Just walked beside him, back to the tent, back to the darkness.
Above Vallenwood, the sky was beginning to pale. Dawn approached. And from beyond the walls, the sound of trebuchets began again.
WHOOSH... BOOM!
WHOOSH... BOOM!
Like the heartbeat of a giant that never slept.
Albert stopped before his tent. Looked at the brightening sky. His hand reached for his waist—the still-empty feltwort pouch.
"Luise."
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow, find out if any merchants in this city sell feltwort plants."
Luise nodded. "I'll try to find some."
Albert entered the tent. Lay down on the bed. Outside, the trebuchets continued to thunder, but oddly, he wasn't disturbed.
Perhaps because that sound was more honest than the voices in his head.
Perhaps because for the first time in days, he could hear silence in his mind.
Or perhaps because beyond the door, Luise sat guarding, as always, and that was enough to keep him here.
He closed his eyes. His breathing began to steady.
For tonight, the Demon slept.