The morning was still cold. Thin mist hung over the damp grass, soaking Albert's boots within the first five steps.
He didn't care. His eyes were already fixed on the ground ahead—reddish-brown earth, slightly sandy, with traces of water from last night's rain.
Rolf walked beside him, occasionally bending down to take a handful of soil, squeezing it, smelling it.
"Sandy loam," he murmured. "Good drainage, not too compact. Feltwort could grow here."
Albert didn't answer. He walked farther, toward the river that meandered in the distance. The water flowed calmly, muddy brown from last night's rain. On the bank, willow trees drooped, their roots half-submerged.
"This river," Albert said. "Can it be widened?"
Rolf stood beside him, observing the current. "It can, but it would take a lot of labor. Digging, moving earth, building embankments. Could take months."
"We don't have months."
"No..."
Albert stared at the river for a while longer. In his head, logistics routes. Small boats carrying grain from upstream villages, transporting produce to the city, bringing trade goods from outside. Cheaper than wagons on ruined roads.
"Mark it on the map," he said. "We'll work on it after the bandit situation is handled."
Rolf took charcoal from his pocket and scribbled on the small wooden board he always carried.
They walked along the riverbank. The soil here was richer—grass greener, bushes thicker. Albert stopped near a bend where the current slowed, creating a calm pool.
"Here," he said. "The first field for feltwort."
Rolf looked around. "Shaded, near water, soil not too wet." He nodded. "Good."
"Size?"
"The empty land up to that oak tree over there, maybe four to ten morgen."
"Enough for a start. We'll expand later."
They turned and walked back toward the city. The mist began to lift, the sun appearing on the eastern horizon, its light pale orange, illuminating still-wet rooftops.
At the city gate, Luise waited with an anxious expression.
"You took a while," she said.
"The river is good." Albert removed his wet boots, replacing them with dry ones brought by a servant. "What's wrong?"
"Hilda received word from scouts. Bandit movement to the south."
Albert blinked. "Since when?"
"Last night. They hadn't reported for two days, so Hilda sent two more. The new ones returned an hour ago." Luise handed him a scrap of paper—quick notes in charcoal, untidy handwriting.
Albert read. Three hideouts. Each about half a day's travel apart. Estimated strength: eighty, sixty, forty. Weapons: spears, swords, a few bows. No armor except some leather pieces.
"That's a lot," he said.
"Scattered. We can't hit them all at once."
"We don't need to hit them all at once. We hit them one by one, fast, before they know what's happening."
Luise nodded. "Hilda's already in the map room."
They walked toward the keep.
***
The map room was messier than usual.
A large map lay spread across the table, weighted down at the four corners by stones. On it, fresh markings—red dots for bandit hideouts, dashed lines for patrol routes, small arrows for attack directions. Hilda stood beside the table, her hair damp—she'd probably just washed her face.
"You finally made it," she said without turning. "Look at this."
Albert stood across the table. His eyes followed Hilda's finger as she pointed at the red dots.
"This is the largest hideout, here, at an old Leandrian guard post. Eighty men. They have wooden walls, a small ditch, and one entrance."
"The second is here, in a cave from an old stone quarry. Sixty men. Narrow entrance, hard to attack head-on."
"The third is here, deep in the forest, shabby tents. Forty men. No defenses."
Hilda sighed. "The third is the easiest, but the farthest. Two days' travel."
Albert closed his eyes. In his head, the map spun—red and blue lines, arrows, numbers.
"We hit the first one," he said. "The old guard post."
Hilda frowned. "Eighty men, wooden walls, a ditch. That's the hardest."
"But if we crush the biggest one, the others will be terrified. They might scatter or flee elsewhere. Easier to hunt down."
Hilda looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright."
"Do they have patrol schedules?"
"The scouts haven't confirmed yet, but they're not very disciplined. Bandits, not soldiers."
"Good. We attack at dawn, while they're still asleep."
Albert took charcoal and began drawing on the map. A line from the city to the bandit hideout. Two routes: one for the main force, one for the second team.
"The main force," he said, "I'll lead. Move fast, quiet, attack before dawn. No war cries, no mercy. Kill anyone holding a weapon."
Hilda nodded. "I'll take the second team. We'll wait here, at the crossroads. After you're done, we move in and collect valuables. Weapons, food, anything usable."
"Leave nothing behind. Burn what can't be carried."
"And those who run?"
"Chase them down. Don't let anyone escape to the other hideouts. This operation needs to stay silent until it's finished."
Luise, who had been silent, spoke. "Which team am I on?"
Albert looked at her. "You're with me. I need someone reliable on the left flank."
Luise nodded.
They spent the next hour on details. Number of soldiers, equipment, alternate routes, rally points, signal codes. Albert repeated each point, making sure nothing was missed. Hilda wrote on parchment with quick strokes, while Luise memorized everything in her head.
When they finished, the sun was already high. Albert looked out the window—blue sky, white clouds, a gentle breeze.
"Tomorrow at dawn," he said. "We move."
***
That afternoon, Albert checked his equipment.
Wurzel in hand, its black blade gleaming under the sunlight filtering through the window. No stains, no scratches. He had sharpened it the night before—slow, repetitive strokes until the edge was razor-sharp.
He sheathed it. He took the dagger from his rear belt—Alena's dagger, frozen wave patterns on the blade. Still sharp. Never used.
He gripped it for a moment, feeling the cold metal against his palm.
He wouldn't use that dagger tomorrow. It wasn't for killing—it was for remembering.
He slid it back into its sheath.
His brigandine was already placed on a wooden rack. Small iron plates sewn between layers of thick fabric, heavy but not too restrictive. Albert inspected each one. No loose plates, no broken straps.
He put it on, feeling the weight on his shoulders, his chest, his waist.
In the tarnished metal mirror, he saw his reflection. Pale face, slightly weary eyes, but not empty.
He nodded at the reflection. The reflection nodded back.
The door opened. Luise entered in her armor—a smaller suit of plate, fitted to her frame. Her hair was tied back, her face expressionless.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"What's still missing?"
Albert looked at her. "You."
Luise blinked. "I'm already ready."
"Not your armor. You yourself." Albert walked to the table and picked up a small leather pouch—feltwort, two cigars. "Are you afraid?"
Luise looked at the pouch, then at Albert. "I'm no longer afraid of dying."
"Not dying. What you'll see out there."
She didn't answer. Albert tucked the pouch into his cloak pocket.
"Let's find Hilda," he said.
***
In the keep's rear courtyard, Hilda was inspecting the final ranks.
Eighty soldiers—thirty from the Special Regiment, fifty new recruits—stood in loose formation. Tense faces, trembling hands, held breaths. Some had fought before; most had not.
Hilda walked before them, occasionally stopping to adjust spear positions, tighten belts, check boot laces.
"Tomorrow morning," she said, her voice not loud but carrying through the silence, "we fight. Not a great war—just cleaning up trash. But you must remember: on the battlefield, no one cares whether it's your first time or your hundredth. The only thing that matters is whether you live or die."
They were silent.
"So follow orders. Don't try to be a hero, don't leave the formation. And most importantly—" she paused, looking at each of them in turn, "—don't die a stupid death."
A few laughed nervously.
Hilda nodded. "Rest. Eat well. We depart at three in the morning."
They dispersed.
Albert stood on the keep's steps, watching the retreating backs. Beside him, Luise was silent.
"They're still green," Luise said.
"That's fine. What matters is they're willing to fight."
"Or they just need money."
"That's fine too. Motivation doesn't matter; results do."
Luise looked at him. "What?"
"Nothing..."
Albert didn't answer. He just walked back into the keep, leaving Luise on the steps.
***
That night, Albert sat in his office.
The wooden desk was covered with documents. Letters from his father, reports from Hilda, inventory lists from Rolf, maps with fresh markings. The candle on the desk had melted halfway, its wick black, the flame flickering.
He read Rolf's report. "Vegetables: exhausted. Milk: depends on dairy cows, only enough for children and the sick."
Albert wrote in the margin: Find vegetable sources. Talk to farmers in surrounding villages.
Another report from Borin. "Whetstones obtained from a merchant in the east. Double the usual price. Iron still sufficient for one month."
Albert wrote: Look for iron mines in the surrounding area. Send scouts.
Another report from Rolf. "The northern road is still damaged. The eastern bridge hasn't been repaired. Grunfeld villagers complain that bandits are taking their livestock."
Albert wrote: Bandits are priority. Roads and bridges can come later.
He set down his pen. His hands—which had written numbers, drawn maps, killed—now stopped. Outside, the night wind blew, carrying the scent of earth and dry grass.
He took out a feltwort cigar and lit it.
Smoke rose. He drew deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs, calming his frayed nerves.
Tomorrow at dawn, he and his soldiers would exterminate the bandits.
He exhaled.
The door opened. Luise entered without knocking, a cup of tea in her hand.
"I thought you'd still be here," she said, setting the cup on the desk.
"So are you."
"I can't sleep."
Albert took the cup and sipped. Ginger tea, warm, slightly spicy.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
"No."
"Liar."
Luise sat in the chair across the desk. "Fine, I'm afraid. But not of dying."
"Of what?"
"Of you dying."
Albert looked at her. In those violet eyes—he saw a fragile tenderness, rarely shown.
"I won't die. They're just bandits."
"Even a dog can kill a soldier if he's careless."
"I know." Albert stubbed out his cigar in the stone ashtray. "I won't die. Because I don't have the right to die before finishing all of this."
Luise looked at him for a moment, then sighed.
"You're stubborn."
"So are you."
They sat in silence. The ginger tea warmed his stomach. The candle on the desk was nearly gone, the wick drowning in melted wax, the flame growing dim.
"You need to sleep," Albert said.
"So do you."
"I'll sleep after I finish reading these." He pointed at the stack of documents.
"No. Sleep now." Luise stood, took Albert's arm, and pulled him to his feet. "We leave tomorrow at dawn. You can't lead while sleep-deprived."
Albert wanted to argue, but Luise was already pushing him toward the door.
"The bath is still warm. Bathe, then sleep. That's an order."
Albert almost smiled. "You're giving orders now?"
"I'm keeping you alive. That's more important than orders."
He didn't answer. He just walked to the bath, removed his clothes, and submerged himself in warm water. Steam rose, carrying the scent of eucalyptus.
He closed his eyes.
He opened them again after some unknown amount of time. The water had grown cold.
He got out, dried himself, put on his nightclothes.
In his room, Luise was gone. Only an empty teacup remained on the table, and the nearly dead candle.
Albert lay on the bed, staring at the dark wooden ceiling.
Tomorrow at dawn...
He closed his eyes and fell asleep.