Dawn descended beneath the thick mire of the mud.
In a foreign land where only a flickering field lamp kept the tent's breath alive, Corsica I placed his hand upon the map.
Inside the command tent, there were more sounds than people.
The rhythmic clacking of the telegraph, the heavy tread of a messenger's sodden boots, the roll and stop of an ink bottle, and the labored breathing of the staff officers.
Thierry, the Chief of Staff, was the first to speak in a hoarse voice.
"Your Majesty. On the central front, Londinium is..."
Corsica I raised a hand, severing the sentence.
"I am aware."
Without looking at the Chief of Staff, he swept his hand upward across the center of the map.
Red markers were dotted across the paper, one after another in a grim, bloody line.
An operations officer took over.
"The Victorian Liberation Army has penetrated the urban sectors. Union artillery has pulverized the outskirts, and the Liberation forces surged through the breach. Reports indicate the Victorian flag has been hoisted atop the hotel used as our military government headquarters."
Corsica I exhaled a single, sharp word.
"Conclusion."
The word froze the air inside the tent.
There was no longer room for a lengthy briefing.
The operations officer quickly broached the end result.
"Supply lines are effectively severed. Our main force is on the verge of total encirclement."
Corsica I pressed his fingers down as if folding the right side of the map into oblivion.
The paper crumpled under the pressure.
"Then we discard the right wing."
The Chief of Staff spoke reflexively.
"Your Majesty, if we abandon the right wing—"
"We discard them."
Repeated twice, the dissent vanished. Everyone in the tent understood exactly what the word 'discard' entailed.
Weapons, cannons, horses, ammunition, and the faces of those who would never see home again.
The things being abandoned were not merely entries on a ledger; they took the form of human lives.
Corsica I stood by the tent pole, checked his wristwatch, and commanded.
"Within the day, realign the formation toward the homeland. Slower units will remain on-site to wage guerrilla warfare and cover the retreat of the main body. Then, we gather the core and pierce through."
Pierce through.
There was no hesitation in his voice as he spoke the word.
The Emperor was a man who had survived not by 'enduring,' but by 'breaching.'
The Chief of Staff held out another sheet of paper.
"Your Majesty, from Lingones—"
The moment those words were uttered, the air in the tent wavered again.
Corsica I's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Even under that piercing gaze, the Chief of Staff could not swallow the news.
He knew that keeping silent now would lead to a far greater catastrophe.
[Lingones. Suppression failed. Imperial Palace surrendered. People's Front Government established.]
Corsica I laughed, a beat too late.
The laughter was brief and frigid.
"Surrendered."
He spoke the word as if rolling it around his tongue to test its weight.
"Who surrendered?"
No one replied.
No one was capable of answering.
Outside the tent, on the field road, the very opposite of 'surrender' stretched out in a long, miserable line.
Wounded soldiers. Starved horses. Exhausted infantrymen. And, wedging their way between them, a stream of carriages.
Inside those carriages were the nobility.
And if not the nobility, then their luxury goods.
Corsica I pulled back the tent flap and stepped outside.
The biting cold air struck his face.
The field road dug out by the engineers was no longer a path; it was a weeping wound on the earth.
Mud churned every time a wheel passed.
And over that churned mud, yet another wheel would grind through.
He scanned the procession.
The cavalry horses were heaving, their breath ragged.
The artillery units faltered as their wheels sank deep into the sludge.
The supply wagons were being pulled forward by the sheer willpower of shouting men.
It wasn't for a lack of horses.
The animals, like the men, were already spent.
And in the midst of it all, there was a carriage that refused to yield even at the sight of the Emperor's banner.
It was excessively ornate.
Like noble butterflies adorning themselves, unlike the moths that sought only to hide and survive.
As Corsica I began to walk, members of his Imperial Guard immediately fell into step behind him.
The Emperor spoke in a low tone as he passed the side of the carriage.
"Move."
Inside the carriage, someone parted the curtain just a fraction.
Eyes met.
Those eyes did not hold the fire of loyalty.
They were the eyes of a coward—measuring the Emperor's intent merely to ensure their own survival.
Corsica I did not linger on those eyes.
The longer he looked, the more his rage boiled—a fury he feared might shatter his reason. He suppressed it with practiced effort.
He turned his head toward the Captain of the Guard.
"Send carriages like these to the very front. If they block the road, pitch them into the rear ditch."
The Captain of the Guard hesitated. His expression suggested that 'pitching' a noble into a ditch was a concept his tongue found difficult to process.
To this, Corsica I added:
"Do nobles exist before the Empire? No, the Empire must exist for the nobility to have a place. If the Empire dies, the nobility dies with it. Learn the proper order of things. Wretches like these are not the nobility of our Empire; they are parasites."
The Captain of the Guard bowed his head.
"By your command."
The Emperor did not return to the tent.
Instead, he summoned the messengers outside.
The messengers ran to him.
One looked as if his lungs were about to burst; the other's face was ashen.
Both were pale for the same reason.
The messenger knelt and reported.
"Your Majesty. To the east, from the direction of Leithanien... there is movement—"
Corsica I interrupted.
"Interference?"
The messenger nodded.
"Yes. Cavalry deployment. Securing of roads. Control of bridges. Scattered artillery has also been confirmed. It appears they are moving to pressure us."
The Emperor closed his eyes for a moment.
During that brief darkness, the entire retreating column was reorganized in his mind.
Which units to put at the front, which to leave behind, which bridges to cross first, where to spike the cannons, where to burn the ammunition, and where to abandon his people.
The moment he opened his eyes, the orders spilled out.
"Select only the elite for a breakthrough force. Cavalry, engineers, machine guns, and the veteran Guards. Keep the artillery light. Load the ammunition onto the horses. Stake everything on speed."
The Chief of Staff asked urgently,
"Your Majesty, then the rearguard—"
"The rearguard will buy us time. Tell them to hold for the sake of honor."
The reality was so cruel that the word 'honor' sounded vulgar.
Corsica I spoke of time, not rescue.
The delaying force was destined to die so the main body might live.
He reached out to the Chief of Staff.
"The map."
The Chief of Staff spread the damp map-cloth.
The Emperor's finger followed the route toward the homeland before stopping.
Broken road sections. Bridges. Plains. Hills. And finally, a terrain that opened like a gaping maw.
The Eden Basin.
The Chief of Staff spoke.
"Your Majesty, that area... all roads converge there. It's a bottleneck. If we enter the basin—"
Corsica I laughed very briefly.
"If it is a bottleneck, then we must pass through it faster."
The Chief of Staff opened his mouth and then closed it.
There were no words of rebuttal.
The Emperor did not fear the bottleneck.
He was fully prepared to abandon any soldier who fell behind.
The Emperor pressed his palm against the map.
The ink from the damp paper stained his palm.
He mounted his horse. The Guards clustered around him. A messenger asked one last time to confirm.
"Your Majesty, what is our course—"
Corsica I turned his horse's head and spoke decisively.
"To the basin. We will tear our way through there."
Hooves struck the mud.
The column moved.
The slow were left behind.
The fast poured forward.
Corsica I did not look back.
************************
Archduke Leopold did not care for the word 'pursuit.'
To pursue was to suggest that one was following in the wake of the enemy.
What he desired was to encircle them and crush the last sparks of Gaulish hope.
The Archduke stood before his map.
His finger rested on the road leading to the Eden Basin.
Terrain where options narrowed.
A place where troops would bunch together, supplies would jam, and panic would erupt once the exit was blocked.
An officer spoke up.
"The Gaulish main body is moving southwest. Their rearguard continues to wage a delaying action, and we've confirmed the destruction of several bridges."
Leopold nodded.
"Destroying bridges. A fine choice."
He spoke not in praise, but as a simple verification of fact.
It meant that because the Union forces had not yet finished the Gauls, the Gauls were still alive.
It was exactly what he had hoped for.
This was a golden opportunity to exact vengeance for the Leithanien Army, which had suffered nothing but defeats at their hands until now.
Just then, a reconnaissance officer burst in.
"Your Imperial Highness. Corsica I is personally reorganizing the retreat. We have confirmed the formation of a breakthrough echelon with Guards, engineers, and machine-gun units at the vanguard."
"Machine guns?"
"It appears they captured Union-made machine guns and ammunition."
A brief murmur rippled through the staff at that report.
After all, the name Corsica I was synonymous with terror.
But Leopold's expression did not change even upon hearing the name.
"A breakthrough echelon."
He spoke as if to himself.
"That man still clings to hope."
The Archduke had seen Corsica I in person once.
Unfortunately, it had been at a diplomatic table rather than the battlefield. A man with a smiling face and a soul as cold as a blade.
And now, that blade was attempting to carve a path home, even if it meant cutting through his own men.
Leopold looked at his Chief of Staff and spoke.
"Our objective is not to capture the Emperor."
The Chief of Staff tilted his head in confusion.
"Yes, Your Highness. However, if we capture the Emperor..."
"That would be a bonus. Do not ruin the plan for the sake of a bonus. Would you skip the main course just to reach the dessert?"
He cut the conversation short and pressed his palm onto the map.
"We take away the choices of the Gaulish army. We ensure the only path they can take is through this basin."
The Chief of Staff asked cautiously,
"Your Highness, the Union's Eastern Group of Forces is moving from the east. If they enter the Eden Basin area, there is a possibility of conflict with us—"
Leopold's gaze shifted sideways.
To the 'Union' marker placed on one side of the map.
"No, there will be no conflict."
He said.
"We shall take the back of the door, and they shall take the front, sharpening our blades together. It is a simple matter of ensuring our edges do not overlap."
The words sounded like cooperation, but Leopold's inner thoughts were different.
The Union was not an ally; it was an opportunity.
Once Gaul collapsed, whoever scavenged the bones would sow the seeds for the next war.
He began to issue commands.
His speech quickened.
It wasn't out of excitement, but the efficiency of a man who had already reached his conclusion.
"1st Cavalry Brigade. Pre-empt the northern ridge. Take the high ground overlooking the road."
The cavalry commander bowed his head.
"By your command."
Leopold tapped the map with his finger.
"Tell the artillery not to destroy the road entirely. Just spoil it enough. If we cut it off completely, they might abandon that sliver of hope. When pulling a carrot, it is far easier to pull one with the leaves showing than one buried deep beneath the dirt."
The Chief of Staff whispered,
"A bait, then."
Leopold nodded.
"War is always fought with bait."
At that moment, the field telephone rang. The officer who answered it stiffened immediately.
"Your Imperial Highness. In Lingones... the Socialists have succeeded in their uprising."
Silence momentarily claimed the tent.
Leopold was not particularly surprised by the report.
"I see."
He spoke curtly.
"That explains why Corsica I is in such a hurry."
The Chief of Staff added,
"Your Highness, then the Gaulish army has even more reason to return to their homeland—"
"Yes, they will be even more desperate."
Leopold interrupted.
"A desperate army is not bound by discipline alone. They are bound by fear. But fear does not last forever. Thus, we must funnel that desperation in a single 'direction'."
He pointed at the Eden Basin again.
"Toward that place."
As if it were a fate already decided.
Leopold stepped outside.
Banners fluttered over the fields, and the horses waited their turn.
And in the distance, a column of dust could be seen.
It was the Gaulish retreat.
Leopold did not smile at the sight of the dust. Instead, he spoke in a low murmur.
"Now you must run, Corsica I."
His army did not pursue.
From every side, they narrowed the paths, herding the fleeing army into a single direction.
Into the Eden Basin.
Into the place where the doors would close.
*****************************
On a map, the Eden Basin was merely a hollow in the terrain.
But on the ground, it was something else entirely.
Amfielice stood on a low hill at the edge of the basin and looked down.
The bandage around her shoulder felt stiff, and her side throbbed sharply with every breath.
Pain was a guest one never quite grew used to.
She draped her greatcoat over the bandages.
If blood seeped through, it would show immediately.
If it showed, the soldiers' eyes would waver—an allowance she could not permit.
Behind her, an adjutant reported.
"Marshal, the vanguard of the 72nd Infantry Division has arrived. The 34th Independent Machine Gun Regiment is scheduled to complete deployment within two hours."
"Good."
Amfielice nodded.
She immediately reached out to have the map spread before her.
The map showed the road cutting across the basin, dry riverbeds, low ridges, and a small village at the basin's mouth.
She pointed to the road with her finger.
"Starting from here."
"That is the entrance."
"Indeed."
"Shall we block the mouth of the basin immediately?"
Amfielice shook her head.
"Do not block it. Leave it open."
The staff officers' eyes darted back and forth in confusion.
Amfielice continued.
"If we block them outside the basin, they will scatter. To the forests, the ridges, the villages. Then we would have to fight dozens of small battles simultaneously."
She drew a line on the map.
Deep inside the basin, where the road narrowed.
"We catch them here."
The adjutant immediately took notes.
"The 34th Independent Machine Gun Regiment—dig them into this ridge and that ridge. Ensure the lines of fire create a crossfire. Set the nests low to the ground."
"And ammunition distribution?"
"Do not conserve."
Amfielice cut him off sharply.
"The coming battle is not one where we have the luxury of conservation. It is a battle where even exhausting all our stores may not be enough to hold."
She turned and summoned the regimental commanders of the 72nd Infantry Division, who had just arrived.
Faces stained with dust, eyes hollowed by fatigue.
Yet their eyes were still alive.
These were the faces of those who had held out until now.
Amfielice spoke briefly.
"Allow them into the basin. But once they enter, ensure there is no path out."
One regimental commander asked,
"But Marshal, if the enemy attempts a breakthrough—"
"They will certainly attempt it."
Amfielice interrupted.
"Especially if Corsica I is among them."
The air grew stiff at the mention of that name.
Her wrist tensed out of instinct, but her expression remained unshaken.
Amfielice pointed to a shallow pass at the rear of the basin.
"The Leithanien Imperial Army will close the door from behind. Archduke Leopold is one of the few reliable commanders among those puffed-up Leithanien generals. Therefore, we have only one task."
She tapped the mouth of the basin with her fist.
"Lure them in, then press them down."
Amfielice looked down the hill.
The soldiers began to move.
Shovels bit into the earth, stakes were driven, and barbed wire was unspooled.
Machine-gun mounts were dragged into position, shrouded in canvas.
Engineers felled trees along the roadside to create obstacles.
Amfielice paused to catch her breath, pressing her palm against her bandaged side.
A little blood had begun to leak; she needed to staunch it.
Just then, a scout came running.
"Marshal! Dust columns confirmed ahead! The column is long, and the rearguard is trailing. Machine gun units and engineers are interspersed at the vanguard!"
Amfielice narrowed her eyes.
"A bit faster than expected."
The adjutant asked,
"Shall we establish the criteria for opening fire?"
Amfielice looked down below.
At the mouth of the basin, the artillery observation post was signaling with flags.
Coordinates had already been sighted. The artillery units were waiting in silent anticipation further back.
She spoke.
"The first shot will not come from the artillery."
The adjutant paused, startled.
"Pardon?"
Amfielice raised a finger.
"The machine guns."
She pointed to the narrowest point of the basin where the crossfire would overlap.
"Once the column enters that zone, the machine guns will suppress them first. Then, the artillery will tear them apart."
Amfielice raised her head.
"And from that moment, no matter how many swords Corsica I draws, there will be no path forward."
The adjutant asked softly,
"Marshal... will you be heading to the front personally?"
Instead of answering, Amfielice gripped and released the hilt of her sword with her gloved hand.
Her wrist hadn't fully recovered. But the sword was still in her grasp.
"Won't my presence at the front give the soldiers a little more appetite for the fight?"
Amfielice began to walk down the hill.
Mud clung to her boots, but she did not falter.
As she passed, the soldiers stole glances at her.
They saw the bandages wrapping her body, and they saw her walking despite them.
And finally, in the distance, the vanguard of the Gaulish army appeared on the plain at the entrance to the basin.
Amfielice drew in a breath. Pain stabbed at her side, but her vision did not waver.
She spoke to the adjutant.
"Do not fire yet."
Amfielice's gaze remained fixed on the line she had drawn inside the basin.
"Further."
The Gaulish army advanced another step.
And another.
Only then did Amfielice smile and speak quietly, almost in a whisper.
"Open fire."
Dozens of machine guns spat fire in unison.
**********************************
The Eden Basin appearing in the work was inspired by Eden Valley located in Cumbria, England.
The blue line in the photo represents the Gaulish retreat route, the black represents the Leithanien Imperial Army, and the red represents the Union Army's defensive line.