Wohin auch das Auge blicket,
Wherever the eye may wander,
Moor und Heide nur ringsum.
There is only mire and heath all around.
Vogelsang uns nicht erquicket,
No birdsong comes to refresh us,
Eichen stehen kahl und krumm.
Oaks stand bare and twisted.
Wir sind die Moorsoldaten
We are the soldiers of the mire,
und ziehen mit dem Spaten ins Moor.
And we march with our spades into the bog.
— From the anti-fascist resistance song, 'Die Moorsoldaten' (The Peat Bog Soldiers)
********************
"Kill them! Kill them all!"
"Gah—?!"
The front lines began to calcify once more.
"Break through! Reclaim the sovereign territory of the Empire!"
"Give those dogs a taste of fire and steel!"
"The plane! It's going down! Get clear!"
The Central Army of the Ursus Empire launched a desperate counter-offensive, spearheaded by elite Arts Casters and veteran soldiers.
Among the Republic's Army Air Corps dotting the sky, several less experienced pilots strayed too close to the earth. Their canopies were shattered by the arrows of the Empire's master archers, transforming their crafts into flying coffins that plummeted into the dirt. Others had their wings sheared off by Arts, spiraling with their pilots into the unforgiving embrace of the earth and rivers.
Tanks that had pushed too deep into enemy territory were lanced by focused Arts and heavy ballistae bolts, their crews sharing the machines' fiery end.
The Imperial Casters conjured a thick, suffocating mist across the battlefield, and one by one, wireless radio transmissions flickered out into static silence.
Yet, this did not mean the Republic's Army was merely waiting for the slaughter.
"Direct fire with the howitzers! Don't worry about the barrels—the maintenance crew can deal with that later!"
"Emplace the machine guns and just fire! I don't care if the Arts have blinded us, saturate the area!"
"History is watching us!"
The Republican Army fought back with teeth and claw.
Desperate bayonet charges broke out in localized sectors, and tank units resorted to ramming maneuvers. The Empire's high-speed landships were pounded by concentrated fire from heavy howitzers, grinding to a halt one by one.
The field was a symphony of self-destruction: suicide bombings, unsheathed blade charges, and kamikaze strikes. Even with the Imperial Central Army fully committed, the attrition was nightmarish, maintaining a grim exchange ratio of one to two as the Empire's losses mounted.
The Emperor's Blades infiltrated the rear lines, harvesting the heads of the Republic's junior and field-grade officers. Entire supply platoons were wiped out in an instant.
However, the Blades were not invincible. Caught in the bloodshot gaze of the Republican encirclement, even these terrifying hunters were riddled with bullets, becoming mere stains upon the vast Ursus tundra.
Ursus was tearing itself apart—ripping, shredding, shooting, and stabbing its own kin.
The counter-offensive eventually stalled, blunted by the sheer weight of the Republican fire.
In just three days, the two sides had accumulated sixty thousand casualties.
And yet, the stakes remaining on the table were still immense.
The Ursus Republic hungered for the advance.
They craved total unification.
"Our offensive capability is not exhausted. We still have half a million men! If we strike again...!"
"...However, Comrade Chairman Zinoviev."
The reality was far bleaker.
"We have no surplus ammunition. Not even shells for the heavy guns."
"What about our munitions factories?"
"They are running twenty-four hours a day in triple shifts, but it is insufficient to keep pace with the demand of the front."
The momentum had evaporated.
"What of the Union? Why is the Union Government not aiding us?"
The Republic had been betrayed.
Abandoned by the Union Government—by the Sorbonne Clique.
"When is the Red Army arriving? When will the weapons shipments promised to our Republic reach us?!"
Only then did the realization begin to dawn on them.
The lead actors of this offensive were not the Union's forces, but themselves—the Army of the Ursus Socialist Republic.
Those who fought, and those who died, were not 'Unionists,' but people of Ursus.
The Union's Red Army of Workers and Peasants was nowhere to be seen.
"Damn it... we've been played."
The Republic had gained roughly four thousand square kilometers of new territory.
Twenty thousand Republican citizens were dead.
Three days had passed.
The fires along the front lines flickered out.
The war was not over, but the battle had reached its conclusion.
************************************
Inside the study of the Residence of the Chairman of the Union Central People's Committee.
"A complete victory, I should say."
Edward spoke while swirling a glass of wine.
Even though those who died were not from his homeland of Gaul, the deputy standing before him was horrified by the man's sheer nonchalance as his fellow citizens were being slaughtered.
"Twenty thousand men of the Ursus Republican Army are dead."
"Ah, that? A pity, truly."
Edward set his wine glass down.
He walked slowly toward the window.
"But it is merely a pity."
The Ursus Soviet Socialist Republic was an electoral stronghold for the Internationalists.
In any district of Ursus, the question was never whether the Centralists or the Sorbonne Clique would win; it was always a toss-up between the Ursus Social Democratic Labour Party, the Socialist Revolutionary Party, or the Social Revolutionary Workers' League.
The young men serving in the military were particularly radical. The Sorbonne Clique had no reason to desire their survival; they were voters who would never pull the lever for them.
"Perhaps, in fact, this is to our advantage?"
Edward turned around slowly.
"Consider it."
His voice remained silky smooth.
"The border is stabilized. The military has secured its budget. The Supreme Soviet, and we of the Sorbonne, have demonstrated our resolve. And the citizens have seen proof that the threat is very real."
He paused for a moment.
"The elections are only two months away."
The deputy's face hardened.
Edward continued.
"What could be better than this?"
A heavy silence followed.
The deputy asked in a low voice, "What becomes of the Ursus Soviet Republic?"
Edward shrugged his shoulders.
"Those fellows gained territory. They, too, will declare victory."
He picked up his wine glass again.
"It is a war where everyone claims to have won."
He added softly, "Politically, it is the most ideal result imaginable."
The tension thickened.
"But if they realize the truth... what happens then?" the deputy muttered.
Edward simply smiled at the deputy's concern.
"They likely already know. Which makes it even better. An angry revolutionary always commits larger blunders."
The deputy looked shaken. "The Republic might turn its back on the Union."
Edward gazed out the window.
"No."
His voice was quiet but absolute.
"They cannot turn their back."
After a brief silence, Edward turned his head to look directly into the deputy's eyes.
"Because they have no other choice."
The deputy's lips trembled.
"But... Comrade Vladimir..."
"Ah, Comrade Vladimir."
Edward mused suddenly.
"Comrade Vladimir likely knew this from the start."
The deputy looked up sharply. "Did he agree to this plan?"
Edward thought for a moment before laughing.
"Agreement is perhaps not the right word..."
He spoke softly.
"Let us just say he expected as much."
Edward's chilling smile was reflected in the deputy's eyes.
**********************
The prison was frigid.
Condensation clung to the stone walls, and droplets fell slowly into the darkness.
Talulah sat huddled in front of the iron bars.
Inside the cell were several prisoners—soldiers of the Republican Army, their red armbands torn and discarded, their hands bound.
One of them let out a hollow chuckle.
"You've come again, little one."
Talulah hesitated before asking, "The Union... what kind of place is it?"
The soldiers exchanged glances.
Someone smirked. "Why are you asking that all of a sudden?"
Talulah chose her words carefully. "...Just because. I'm curious."
A soldier leaning against the wall spoke up.
"Well. Nothing fancy."
"It's a place where people don't starve to death," another added.
The others joined in.
"If you work, you can eat."
"There are free hospitals."
"Nobles don't get to whip you just for breathing."
Talulah listened in silence.
A soldier smiled. "Children can go to school."
"You don't have to worry about being beaten in the street."
"And you don't have to be afraid if someone on the corner asks for your name."
Talulah looked up. "Is that true?"
The soldier nodded. "Aye."
"It's not perfect, obviously, but..." He thought for a moment. "It's a place where a person can live like a human being."
Another soldier chimed in with a grin. "And it's quite entertaining when a blade is held to the throats of the high-and-mighty. The newspapers report it from every direction."
A few of them shared a low laugh.
Talulah did not laugh.
She stared quietly at the floor. The ripple of a fallen water droplet spread slowly across the stone.
Nobles.
Whips.
Prisons.
And that face.
Kashchey.
His voice echoed in her mind: Man is a being meant for vertical relationships. Fear is what creates order.
Talulah's hands trembled slightly.
She asked again. "In the Union..."
She hesitated. "Do children become soldiers too?"
The soldier shook his head. "No. At least..."
He searched for the right words. "They don't force guns into children's hands. Why would they do that unless the nation was in its death throes? A child should be in school, studying. War is for adults."
Talulah said nothing.
After a moment, she rose slowly.
"Thank you."
She turned and walked away.
Inside the cage, the soldiers watched her leave.
"That kid... how old do you think she is?"
"Thirteen."
"Fourteen at most."
Silence followed.
"War is a filthy business."
The corridor was dark.
Talulah walked slowly, her footsteps echoing faintly against the cold stone walls.
Her eyes were darker than before.
Colder than before.
At the end of the hall, through a door left slightly ajar, a man stood watching.
He said nothing.
He merely peered through the gap, watching Talulah's receding figure.
A smile touched his lips. A minuscule, barely perceptible curve.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Rage. Hate."
His eyes glimmered in the darkness.
"Only then can you..."
He did not finish the thought.
The door clicked shut, leaving only the oppressive silence in the corridor.