Elara watched from behind the kitchen curtain.
Albert was kneeling in the courtyard, one knee on the ground, his hands awkwardly reaching toward Edeline. The little girl stood three paces before him, hands on her hips, her face wearing an expression of seriousness that didn't match her age.
"Brother has to crawl," Edeline said. "Horses crawl, they don't kneel."
"Horses don't crawl."
"Little horses crawl. You're a little horse."
Albert stared at his sister. Edeline stared back with those identical green eyes. Elara pressed her lower lip—don't laugh, don't laugh.
"Fine," Albert said. He crawled. His knees struck the rocky ground, his hands pressed into the damp grass. Edeline climbed onto his back with an ungraceful movement, her small skirt catching on Albert's ear.
"Hey... stop that," Albert said.
"Go!"
Albert crawled slowly around the yard. Edeline laughed—a loud, carefree laugh that made a few servants pause in their work and smile. Elara felt something in her chest. Warm and painful, all at once.
She remembered Albert at Edeline's age. A serious little boy who preferred reading books to playing horsey. Who rarely laughed. Whose eyes—even back then—were too old for his years.
He had never climbed onto her back, asking to be carried.
Elara sighed. Her hand—unconsciously—touched the small pendant at her neck. Goddess Verena, she said silently. Protect my son. He has suffered enough. Don't take him again.
In the courtyard, Albert had stopped crawling. Edeline climbed down and ran toward the swing hanging from the old tree. Albert stood, brushing off his wet knees. He looked toward the kitchen—straight into Elara's eyes.
Elara smiled and Albert smiled back.
***
Those final days in Götthain were organized chaos.
Albert couldn't remember the last time he'd slept more than three hours. Every night he sat at his desk with his endless lists—equipment, weapons, food, people. Every morning he woke with a stiff neck and burning eyes, heading straight to the courtyard to check preparations.
Borin had packed half his workshop. The anvil, two small furnaces, dozens of tools. All loaded onto two wooden wagons pulled by old horses.
"Two furnaces aren't enough," Borin said. "Once we're there, we'll need to find bricks and build new ones."
"Later," Albert said. "Getting there is the priority."
Luise was busy with logistics. Food, water, tents, medicine. She hadn't slept properly in three days—Albert could tell from the dark circles growing deeper beneath her eyes. But she never complained. Never.
"We're short on horses," she said one afternoon, inspecting a worn harness.
"I've ordered some from a merchant in the city. They'll send them next week."
"We'll already be on the road by next week."
"They'll catch up."
Luise looked at him for a moment. "Are you sure?"
"No."
She didn't answer. Just sighed.
The night before departure, Albert sat in his room. The letter to Alena was already written—four pages, longer than usual. He reread it, changed a few words, then folded it neatly.
Outside, the moon shone bright. He could hear crickets, the occasional whinny of horses from the stables.
His hand reached for a feltwort cigar. He lit it. Smoke rose.
The journey from west to east was never easy, especially with a large company. Heavy wagons would slow them down. And in the dry season like this, the roads were rocky, and the wells at rest stops were often dry.
He drew deeply.
Tomorrow he would leave. Alena was still at Lanser—a letter from her father, she said, matters that couldn't be delayed. They wouldn't meet before he left Götthain.
Perhaps that was for the best. Partings were easier on paper.
He stubbed out the cigar. Tucked the letter into his cloak pocket. Then he lay down, closed his eyes, and let exhaustion pull him under.
***
That morning, a thick fog lay over everything.
Albert stood in the front courtyard, a heavy green cloak wrapped around him. Behind him, the company was ready.
Two large wagons carrying Borin's loads, one small wagon for supplies, thirty-seven new soldiers, plus the veteran soldiers from the Special Regiment who had accompanied him on the journey to the capital. Luise at his side, Borin beside his wagon with an impatient expression.
Lady Elara stood on the castle steps, Edeline in her arms. Her face tried to be strong, but her eyes were wet.
"Did you eat breakfast?" she asked.
"Yes, Mother."
"Warm clothes?"
"Yes."
"Medicine?"
"Gerit has prepared everything."
Elara nodded. She bit her lower lip—a habit Albert had known since childhood.
"Be careful," she said.
"Yes, Mother."
He stepped closer, embracing his mother. Edeline squirmed between them, whining.
"Brother, don't go!"
Albert released the embrace, kneeling before his sister. "I'll come back. I'll bring you a present."
"Really?"
"Yes."
Edeline looked at him for a moment, then extended her pinky. Albert linked his with hers. A small, warm, slightly trembling finger.
"Promise," Edeline repeated.
"Promise," Albert said.
He stood, walked to his horse—the white horse gifted by Duke Leopold. Luise was already mounted, waiting.
"Move out!"
The company began to move. Wagons creaked, horses whinnied, soldiers walked alongside with heavy steps.
Albert looked back once. Saw his mother still standing on the steps, Edeline in her arms. Saw Götthain Castle beginning to blur, swallowed by the fog.
He turned away. Faced forward.
***
The journey was tedious.
Not tedious like waiting. But tedious like factory work—repetitive, without variation, without end.
Wake early, pack the tents, breakfast of porridge and salted meat. Depart. Walk. Walk. Walk. Stop at a rest post, eat lunch. Walk again. Walk again. Stop when the sun began to set, set up tents, eat dinner. Sleep.
Repeat.
The first day, the soldiers were still spirited. They told stories, laughed, talked about the battlefield. The second day, their enthusiasm began to fade—sore feet, aching backs. The third day, they walked in silence, only the sound of footsteps and wagon wheels.
Albert rode at the front. His eyes swept the road—red earth, rocky, sometimes pitted. Occasionally he saw animal tracks, sometimes tracks of other wagons. Nothing interesting.
Luise rode beside him. Silent as well.
On the fourth day, rain began to fall.
Not a downpour, but a light drizzle that never stopped. The roads turned to mud. Horses slipped. Wagons nearly got stuck twice. The soldiers grumbled, cursed the weather, cursed the long journey.
"We need to stop," Luise said. "If we keep going like this, the horses will get injured."
Albert looked at the sky. Grey. No sign of clearing.
"We'll stop at the next village."
The next village—a small settlement of fifteen wooden houses—had no inn. They camped in a field near the river, under rain that wouldn't stop. Albert helped set up tents, distributed food rations, checked on the sick.
A young soldier coughed. His cheeks were flushed, his forehead hot.
"Gerit," Albert called.
The healer came with a leather bag in hand. He examined the young man, muttered something, then produced a bitter concoction from a glass bottle.
"Drink this and sleep. We'll see how you are in the morning."
The young man drank it with a grimace. Albert stood by him for a moment, then left.
That night, he couldn't sleep. Not because of the rain—he was used to sleeping in worse conditions. But because his mind wouldn't stop.
The new territory. Six villages. Nine thousand people. No mines. No reserves. Just land, a river, and its forests.
He sat at the tent opening, lighting a feltwort cigar. The rain still fell, tiny droplets dampening the tip of his cigar.
Luise came out of the neighboring tent. Her face was wet, her hair wet.
"You're not sleeping?" she asked.
"Can't."
She sat beside Albert, their shoulders touching. Wet. Cold.
"Are you afraid?" she asked.
Albert looked at her. "Afraid of what?"
"Failing."
Albert drew on his cigar. Smoke mingled with rain, rose, then vanished.
"I've already failed," he said. "Many times. At Vallenwood, at Grimwald Valley, in every battle. I failed to save them."
"But you're still here."
"Yes. I'm still here."
Luise didn't answer. She just sat beside Albert.
The cigar finished. Albert stubbed it out on the wet ground.
"Tomorrow we continue," he said.
"Yes. The journey is still long."
They went into their respective tents. The rain didn't stop until morning.
***
On the fifth day, the sun appeared.
Blue sky, white clouds, fresh air. The soldiers dried their clothes on rocks, laughing, telling stories again. The young man who had coughed the night before was now healthy—Gerit had given him another remedy, bitter, but effective.
Albert checked the horses. All healthy. Wagons undamaged. Food supplies still sufficient.
"We move," he said.
They walked. The roads were still wet, but not muddy. The horses seemed lighter, the wagons easier to pull.
Albert spurred his horse forward. Behind him, the company followed.
In his head, the list remained. Food. Equipment. Weapons. Wood. Healer. Seeds. Horses. Documents. Money.
What mattered was that he kept moving. Eastward, toward his new territory. Toward a new home he had never seen.
Behind him, Luise rode beside Borin's wagon. The blacksmith was muttering about the eastern lands, about what kind of iron might exist in the mountains there.
"You're sure there's iron there?" Luise asked.
"Don't know. But it doesn't hurt to look."
Luise shook her head. "You're just as strange as My Lord."
Borin grunted. "Thank you."
Up ahead, Albert overheard the exchange. He almost smiled.
But the smile turned into a sigh as he remembered the letter left behind for Alena.
He had written: "I'll come back. Don't worry."
Empty words. But there were no other words he could write.
In the distance, the horizon began to change. No longer the green hills of Götthain, but lowlands beginning to dry. Red earth, thorny bushes, and at the far end, a thin mist hiding whatever waited.
Albert spurred his horse a little faster. Not from haste, but because he wanted to arrive.