The tent, now abandoned by the officers and staff, felt cavernously wide—vastly more so than usual.
As the rhythm of breathing, the rustle of turning pages, and the frantic scratch of calculating pens vanished, only the solitary glow of a oil lamp and the suffocating scent of rain-drenched soil remained.
The lamp's flame flickered violently in a stray draft, and only a moment later did the heavy canvas of the tent groan in response.
That discordant tempo was out of sync with Amfielice's own heartbeat.
She stared briefly at the pins and strings marking the strategic map spread across the table.
The red pins—marking the enemy—were clustered heavily on one flank.
Several lengths of string had already been severed, and at each point of rupture lay a telegram. Crucial, desperate communications.
But she did not reach for them again.
This tent was no longer a command post. Its utility as a nerve center had expired.
Therefore, everything within it was destined for the furnace.
She flicked open her officer's lighter, systematically consigning the telegrams to the flame, one by one.
Having done so, Amfielice turned her gaze to the flagstaff standing in the corner of the tent.
The flag hung limp and sodden, yet its colors remained defiant amidst the gloom.
She reached out and unfastened the knot. The fabric felt coarse against her palm—a texture woven from accumulated dust and the grime of persistent rainfall.
"Good," she murmured, her voice barely a shadow of a sound.
She retied the flag, pulling the knots tighter this time.
Higher. Straighter. More conspicuous.
So that the moment the wind caught it, it would be unmistakable.
Then, she ran the tip of her finger along the scabbard of her sword.
The leather was biting cold, but her hand accepted that chill with practiced familiarity.
Outside, the world was screaming. The thunder of artillery was drawing closer.
Distant shelling merely rumbled the earth, but a close strike tore the very air asunder.
The whistling came first—a high-pitched, predatory screech.
Amfielice inhaled deeply, then exhaled. In that brief interval between breaths, she took a single, measured step.
A deafening roar followed as a shell impacted just beside the tent. The ground buckled, geysers of mud erupted, and jagged shrapnel tore through the canvas with the sound of shredding silk.
The oil lamp swayed violently, nearly guttering out before the flame stubbornely clawed its way back to life.
A sliver of shrapnel hissed past Amfielice's cheek. It did not graze her skin, but the sheer vacuum of its passage severed a single strand of her hair, which drifted silently to the floor.
Even so, she did not blink.
'If they're this close, they'll arrive shortly.'
Amfielice observed the plume of smoke rising from the impact crater. She noted the dispersal pattern of the haze, the direction of the displaced earth.
Somewhere, eyes were observing her. An observation post was ranging the target.
And the moment those eyes confirmed her presence, the value of this position would skyrocket.
Before the next shell could fall, Amfielice stepped out of the tent.
The outside air was thick with moisture. The previous day's deluge had turned the earth into a grasping slurry of mud that clung to her boots, attempting to anchor her in place.
From the distance came the grinding of iron-rimmed wheels against stone and the heavy, rhythmic snorting of draft horses.
She did not look at the sky. There was no salvation to be found there; in this theater of war, the sky was merely a corridor for projectiles.
The whistling returned. Once again, she moved exactly one beat ahead of the impact.
Her boot sank into the mire, but her grip on her sword's hilt remained iron-clad. As she pulled her foot free, the ground where she had stood vanished in a violent eruption.
This one was closer still. The blast threw a wall of grit across her vision. Dirt clung to her eyebrows and peppered her lips.
The acrid, mineral taste of soil spread across her tongue—a flavor she had known since childhood.
She remembered a morning on the training grounds, her father forcing her to cut through sandbags until her arms burned. 'A sword does not merely cut the air; it carves the space where you must stand,' his voice echoed in her mind, flavored by the dust of the present.
Back then, her father had been quieter than a rural dawn. That silence had made him more terrifying than any shout.
He never smiled. Praise was a luxury he rarely afforded. Yet, she knew it wasn't out of a lack of love; he was simply a man of clumsy, rigid affection.
'Trust neither in your blood nor your talent, girl. Trust only in your labor.'
Amfielice spat out the grit and lifted her foot. An artilleryman's rhythm exists between the inhalation and the exhalation: loading the charge, adjusting the traverse, confirming the observation, and firing again.
The window is narrow—too narrow for most victims to perceive. But Amfielice navigated that void with her footsteps.
She moved in small increments. Precise. Economical. Shells fell, earth rose, and in the intervening seconds, she shifted her position just enough.
The enemy would not see a woman fleeing. She did not move like prey. She moved like an analyst calculating a lethal equation.
The deadly dance of the howitzers missed her by hairs, striking the empty mud. Shrapnel whistled through the air, but the chaotic spray could not catch her.
The bombardment paused briefly. Long enough for a single breath.
In that lull, a screen of smoke rolled in—not carried by the natural breeze, but propelled by the sheer force of the preceding blasts. It flowed thick and low, like a giant hand pushing a gray tide across the earth.
Amfielice narrowed her eyes. 'Now they come.'
Arrows were the first to emerge from the haze—the distinct thrum-thrum-thrum of shafts biting into the atmosphere. They were numerous enough to be called a rain, but rain could be warded off by a shield.
Amfielice drew her sword. The steel sang as it left the scabbard, a clear, ringing note that filled the silence left by the receding artillery.
A heavy crossbow bolt—traveling at a different velocity than the arrows—homed in on her face. Amfielice made a single, sharp horizontal stroke.
With a crystalline crack, the bolt was sheared in two, its halves tumbling harmlessly aside. The vibration of the impact hummed up her arm, but she did not shake her wrist. There was no need.
Another followed. Then another. Lines of unseen force seemed to trace the path of her blade; though the slashes were invisible, the projectiles could not cross the threshold she established.
Inside the smoke, someone gasped—a sound of sheer disbelief. Amfielice did not smile. A smile was a sign of leisure, and leisure was a luxury she could not afford.
She stepped forward, her movement parting the haze. Silhouettes solidified into men: the Grande Armée of Gaul.
They were not some legendary specialized corps; they were the regular infantry. And regular infantry was terrifying precisely because of their uniformity. Their training was consistent, their command was predictable, and they were intimately acquainted with death.
They advanced in an unbroken line. If the front rank collapsed, the rear rank stepped into the gap. It was the Imperial method: filling the voids with more human bodies.
Amfielice looked down their line. It seemed endless. But behind that mass of infantry, she felt a different movement—heavier, faster. The clatter of plate armor, the metallic rasp of swords being unsheathed.
'The Marshals of Gaul.'
Gaul utilized a unique command structure known as the System of Twenty-Nine Marshals. Some were master strategists, while others were elite combatants assigned directly to the Emperor's personal command.
The first to emerge was Marshal Dumont. He charged behind a wall of shields, his heavy, oversized blade raised for a crushing blow.
"Windermere!" he bellowed.
The way he barked her name made her realize he wasn't hunting a 'person.' He was hunting a 'trophy.' Dumont's sword came down like a guillotine.
Amfielice did not meet the blow head-on. Instead, she angled her blade, letting the colossal force slide off to the side with a screech of metal against metal. Dumont's balance faltered for a fraction of a second.
In that instant of dissipated momentum, Amfielice's sword tip flicked across Dumont's wrist. It wasn't a deep cut, but it was agonizingly precise. Dumont's fingers involuntarily splayed open, and his massive sword hit the mud.
Dumont lunged instinctively to recover his weapon, but Amfielice's boot was already there, obstructing his path—not to trip him, but to steal the time he needed to regroup.
Dumont gnashed his teeth in fury. Amfielice spoke quietly.
"Too hasty."
Her tone held no mockery; it was a cold, objective assessment. When Dumont threw a desperate punch, Amfielice had already sidestepped. As his fist struck only air and his shoulder lunged forward, she struck him across the neck with the flat of her blade.
The air left Dumont's lungs. Stunned and disoriented, he slumped to his knees. Amfielice was already looking past him.
The second was Laforge. Unlike Dumont, he didn't charge. He approached with the grace of a man taking a stroll, yet his speed was unnerving.
"Are you all that's left?" Laforge asked, his voice seeking confirmation.
Amfielice remained silent. Her lack of response eroded Laforge's patience, and he lunged with a sudden, quiet thrust of his sword.
Amfielice didn't parry. She twisted her body by a mere half-measure. The steel hissed past her collar, severing a single thread from her uniform. As it passed, she tapped the side of his blade with her own—a light tink that sent a jarring vibration through Laforge's arm.
Laforge's eyes widened ever so slightly. He was a man who relied on finesse, not brute strength. If given time, he would undoubtedly regain his composure. Amfielice decided not to grant it.
"Did you expect me to retreat?" she asked.
Laforge's expression hardened. He launched into a flurry of attacks—thrusts and slashes that tore the air into ribbons. Yet, Amfielice did not try to break the sequence.
Instead, she inserted gaps into his continuity. A half-step back here, a slight tilt of the wrist there, a momentary press against his blade with her sword's spine. Bit by bit, Laforge's rhythm began to fray.
When his footwork slowed by a fraction, Amfielice's blade darted in. It wasn't a killing blow; she delivered a shallow cut beneath his shoulder, at the precise point required to deaden the arm's nerves. The feeling of parting flesh transmitted through her hilt.
Laforge's sword arm went limp. He scrambled back immediately, his limb mangled and useless, his gaze never leaving her. Amfielice met his stare, then looked further into the smoke.
The third Marshal was Bellangé. Dressed in a Gallic uniform with short, bluish hair—a rarity for their kind—she watched Amfielice with a predatory composure. She did not come alone.
Beside her stood a veteran Sarkaz Caster, his staff glowing with a sickly light. Even through the smoke, his eyes burned with focus. Arts pressured the air, making the very act of breathing feel heavy.
Binding. Constraint.
The spell was invisible, but her body recognized the violation. Her ankles felt as though they were sinking into lead; her shoulders bowed under an unseen weight. Her feet were becoming anchored to the earth.
Bellangé smirked. "Was it fun while your rampage lasted?"
Amfielice drew a breath. Through that breath alone, she forced her body back into her own control. Then, she tapped her toe against the mud.
A splash of muck flew into the air. In that instant, she manipulated the timing—making the Caster believe the anchor was at her feet while she pivoted her entire weight. The binding didn't break entirely, but it gave her room for 'one move.'
With that move, she drew the dagger at her hip and hurled it—not at Bellangé, but at the Sarkaz Caster. Bellangé tried to intercept it mid-air, but she was too late. The dagger buried itself in the Caster's throat.
The staff fell from his nerveless fingers. His eyes bulged as he clutched his neck, collapsing into the mud as his lifeblood spilled out.
Bellangé's face twisted into a mask of rage as she lunged. She didn't rely on the brute force of Dumont or the patience of Laforge. She attacked with pure, unadulterated speed—a hail of short, rapid strikes intended to end the fight before Amfielice could fully recover from the binding spell.
Amfielice did not trust her sluggish legs. Instead, she maintained her balance through her core. Reading the trajectory of every stroke, she deflected the steel just as it was about to bite. One by one, she bled away Bellangé's velocity, turning the momentum against her.
When Bellangé's tip wavered, Amfielice's sword flashed across the woman's chest. The sound of rending armor was sharp and final. Bellangé gasped, recoiling as blood began to soak her tunic.
"You... you absolute monster of a woman..."
As Bellangé retreated, the shells began to fall once more. Boom! Boom! The artillerymen were narrowing their coordinates. Amfielice felt the fire zeroing in on her position. She felt no fear.
'Good.'
She glanced back at the tent. It was still standing. The flag was still flying. The maps were still visible. It was exactly the picture the enemy wanted to see—the grand prize just within reach.
Amfielice feigned a defensive stance in front of the tent, making herself the most alluring target on the battlefield. At that moment, Kent's voice surfaced in her mind.
'You must return to us, ma'am.'
It hadn't been an order. It was a plea. And for that reason, it felt heavier than any command from high headquarters.
'I will,' she answered silently.
The whistling returned—shrieking directly overhead this time. Amfielice drove the point of her sword into the mud, bracing herself and lowering her center of gravity.
A shell detonated close enough to pelt her face with debris. Scorched canvas flew through the air as the heat wave hammered her skin. Her eyes stung from the grit and smoke. Tears threatened to well up, but she refused them.
She tightened her grip. Blood trickled from a shrapnel graze on her shoulder—a warm sensation that served only as proof that she was still alive. Compared to that fact, the wound was nothing.
Arrows flooded the air again, more concentrated and accurate this time. Snipers were now woven into the smoke. Amfielice moved, her blade a blur that split the air. One bolt shattered. A second was deflected. A third struck her blade and skidded into the dirt with a sharp thud.
From that thud, Amfielice extrapolated the angle. She saw a flicker of shadow in the haze—the movement of a man exhaling. She kicked a small stone from the mud. It hissed through the air like a bullet.
A muffled scream and the crunch of bone echoed from the fog. Whether it had hit a skull or a limb, it didn't matter. What mattered was the momentary lapse in the enemy's concentration.
The Grande Armée pressed forward. Shield against shield, shoulder against shoulder—their charge was no longer a matter of technique, but of pure density. Amfielice took a step back. Then another. It was a retreat, but not a rout.
She was drawing them in. And when they were close enough, she unleashed a wave of Arts-infused steel.
"Aargh!!"
"My—my shield! It's been sheared in half!"
Dozens of Gallic soldiers fell in a single sweep. Bellangé re-entered the fray, her armor hastily patched and her breathing ragged, yet her eyes remained sharp. She had likely realized by now: this wasn't a duel. It was a stalling action. And Amfielice was the clock.
"Artillery! Over here!" Bellangé shrieked.
The responding roar of the howitzers was immediate. Amfielice looked directly at Bellangé.
"Yes. Over here."
As the whistling reached a crescendo, Amfielice turned and ran toward the tent. With a swift stroke, she severed the main support ropes. The canvas groaned as it buckled in the wind, and she used her own blade to tear it open.
As the tent collapsed, it caught the flame of the overturned lamp. The maps, the pins, and the strings were instantly engulfed. Light flared as the fire consumed the dark haze, revealing the sprawling ranks of the Gallic army.
Against the backdrop of the inferno, Amfielice stood tall. Her shadow stretched long across the mud, causing the front rank of the Grande Armée to hesitate for one precious second. To Amfielice, that second was worth its weight in gold.
She thought of her father. He had never spoken to her of 'light.' He spoke of 'shadow.'
'We dedicate ourselves to the people. Therefore, do not strive to be the light that leads them. Be the shadow that makes their brilliance stand out.'
Finally, she understood.
She gripped her sword hilt one last time. A shell impacted nearly on top of her. The heat was blinding, and the world dissolved into stinging heat and gray smoke. She narrowed her eyes against the tears, gripping her sword as the enemy surged forward once more.
Bellangé advanced, followed by yet another Marshal. In the distance, she could sense every crossbow, every cannon, every Caster training their sights on her position.
She thought of Kent. She thought of his voice calling her name with such tenderness—a voice that was far too gentle for a subordinate addressing his commander.
"That insolent boy... how dare he address his superior with such warmth..." she whispered. No one was there to hear it, yet she felt the presence of everyone she fought for: her father, the people of the Windermere Duchy, her staff, and the citizens of the Union back home.
Feeling their collective weight, she lowered her sword point. For a moment, the battlefield felt unnaturally silent. The cannons still roared, the fire still crackled, and men still screamed, but inside her, the noise coalesced into a single, crystalline rhythm.
It was like the ticking of a great clock. The second hand drove the minute hand; the minute hand drove the hour hand. All worked in unison to move time forward. And within that movement, Amfielice spoke one last word.
"Fine."
Her eyes narrowed to slits.
"I shall move."
As if in response, the thunder of the artillery answered once more.
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