Chapter 13 – The Long Road to War

The morning fog clung to the ground like a ghostly shroud, swirling between the legs of horses and men alike. Adrian stood at the edge of the camp, his breath visible in the cold dawn air. The night had been restless—whispers of approaching conflict lingered like a storm on the horizon. Every man could feel it.

After the recent assassination attempt, tension gripped the camp like a vice. Every soldier carried their weapons even as they slept, their nerves frayed. The reality of their march had shifted—this was no longer just a journey to reinforce a distant stronghold. Someone wanted Adrian dead, and they had come terrifyingly close to succeeding.

Klaus approached, his heavy boots crunching against the frozen grass. "Scouts report movement in the east," he said, voice low. "A group, but not large. They're keeping their distance."

Adrian exhaled, his gaze locked on the treeline in the distance. "Could be spies. Or another ambush waiting to happen."

"We should send men to flush them out," Otto suggested as he joined them. His sharp eyes scanned the landscape, fingers resting on the hilt of his sword.

"No," Adrian decided. "We can't afford to lose men chasing shadows. Have the scouts keep an eye on them, but unless they make a move, we march as planned."

Otto nodded, though his expression remained grim. "As you say, my lord."

The march resumed as the sun broke through the mist. The road was treacherous, winding through thick woods and across uneven terrain. The men walked in formation, their armor clinking, their faces set in hard determination.

Adrian rode alongside them rather than at the head. He needed to be among them—to see their struggles firsthand. He took note of the men who limped, those who bore old wounds that slowed them down. Every mile weighed heavier on them.

Fatigue settled over the column like a heavy fog. Blisters formed on the feet of the infantry, and horses showed signs of exhaustion. Supplies were dwindling faster than anticipated, and a gnawing hunger crept into the bellies of even the most disciplined soldiers.

At midday, they stopped for a short rest. Adrian took the opportunity to walk among his men, speaking with them, sharing in their burdens.

"How are the supplies holding up?" he asked a quartermaster, who was checking the contents of a battered wagon.

"We're still good for another few days, my lord, but the rations will start thinning after that."

Adrian frowned. "Make sure the men get what they need. I'll see about securing more supplies when we reach the next town."

The quartermaster nodded, but Adrian could see the doubt in his eyes. They both knew food wouldn't be easy to come by.

Nearby, a group of younger soldiers struggled to adjust their armor. Adrian knelt beside them, tightening straps and adjusting padding where needed.

"You're not used to long marches, are you?" he asked one of them, a boy barely old enough to wield a sword.

"No, my lord," the boy admitted, shame in his voice. "My legs feel like they're made of stone."

Adrian clapped him on the shoulder. "It gets easier. But only if you learn to push through the pain."

The boy swallowed hard and nodded, determination flashing in his eyes.

By late afternoon, the column reached a small town nestled between rolling hills—Hohenwald. It was a modest settlement, its wooden palisade weathered but sturdy. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air.

A few wary townsfolk watched from a distance as Adrian and his men approached. A group of militiamen, armed with spears and makeshift armor, stood at the entrance.

"We're here on the duke's authority," Klaus called out, stepping forward. "We require supplies and shelter for the night."

The militia leader, an older man with graying hair, frowned but nodded. "You'll find no trouble here, but food is scarce."

"We'll pay," Adrian assured him. "And we'll leave at first light."

The townsfolk were reluctant, but they allowed the soldiers to enter. As the men settled in, Adrian met with the village elder, an old woman with sharp eyes and a shrewd mind.

"The road ahead is dangerous," she warned. "Rumors of mercenaries and thieves. And worse—men disappearing without a trace."

Adrian leaned forward. "Who would be behind this?"

The elder shook her head. "Only the dead know."

As the evening deepened, Adrian found himself once again staring into the fire, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The road to war was not just paved with steel and blood—it was lined with shadows, watching, waiting.

His thoughts drifted back to his old life, to moments that seemed like a dream now. The hum of neon lights, the sound of laughter in a diner, the scent of fresh coffee mixing with greasy food. He could almost hear his friends arguing about meaningless things, about sports teams and movies, things that no longer held any weight in this brutal world.

He could still taste the cheeseburger he had eaten that night, the last meal before his world changed forever. The warmth of the restaurant, the distant buzz of a jukebox—it was all gone now, replaced with the cold grip of war.

A crackle of the fire snapped him back to the present. He clenched his fist. There was no going back. Only forward.

The wind howled outside the town's wooden walls. Adrian sat in silence, listening to the faint rustling in the trees beyond. The scouts had reported no immediate threats, but something still felt off.

Klaus joined him by the fire. "Rest, my lord. We still have many miles to go."

Adrian nodded but didn't move. His mind was too restless for sleep. His eyes lingered on the shadows beyond the firelight, waiting, watching.

War was coming. And he had to be ready.

The morning fog clung to the ground like a ghostly shroud, swirling between the legs of horses and men alike. Adrian stood at the edge of the camp, his breath visible in the cold dawn air. The night had been restless—whispers of approaching conflict lingered like a storm on the horizon. Every man could feel it.

After the recent assassination attempt, tension gripped the camp like a vice. Every soldier carried their weapons even as they slept, their nerves frayed. The reality of their march had shifted—this was no longer just a journey to reinforce a distant stronghold. Someone wanted Adrian dead, and they had come terrifyingly close to succeeding.

Klaus approached, his heavy boots crunching against the frozen grass. "Scouts report movement in the east," he said, voice low. "A group, but not large. They're keeping their distance."

Adrian exhaled, his gaze locked on the treeline in the distance. "Could be spies. Or another ambush waiting to happen."

"We should send men to flush them out," Otto suggested as he joined them. His sharp eyes scanned the landscape, fingers resting on the hilt of his sword.

"No," Adrian decided. "We can't afford to lose men chasing shadows. Have the scouts keep an eye on them, but unless they make a move, we march as planned."

Otto nodded, though his expression remained grim. "As you say, my lord."

The road twisted through dense forests, the towering trees swallowing sunlight and casting eerie shadows over the path. The cold was biting, gnawing at the men's fingers despite the thick gloves they wore. The ground beneath their boots was hard, frozen solid from the previous night's frost.

Adrian rode at the heart of the column, his gaze scanning the landscape constantly. The march had been uneventful so far, but an uneasy feeling settled in his gut. The weight of responsibility bore down on him. Every decision he made could mean the difference between life and death for his men.

The army moved with disciplined efficiency, but even the best-trained soldiers could not escape the exhaustion creeping into their limbs. Some leaned on their spears as they walked, others muttered complaints under their breath.

"Keep your heads up," Klaus barked at a few lagging soldiers. "We're not on a leisurely stroll!"

Despite the grumbles, the men obeyed. But Adrian knew that morale would soon fray if they didn't get rest.

By late afternoon, the column reached a small town nestled between rolling hills—Hohenwald. It was a modest settlement, its wooden palisade weathered but sturdy. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air.

A few wary townsfolk watched from a distance as Adrian and his men approached. A group of militiamen, armed with spears and makeshift armor, stood at the entrance.

"We're here on the duke's authority," Klaus called out, stepping forward. "We require supplies and shelter for the night."

The militia leader, an older man with graying hair, frowned but nodded. "You'll find no trouble here, but food is scarce."

"We'll pay," Adrian assured him. "And we'll leave at first light."

The townsfolk were reluctant, but they allowed the soldiers to enter. As the men settled in, Adrian met with the village elder, an old woman with sharp eyes and a shrewd mind.

"The road ahead is dangerous," she warned. "Rumors of mercenaries and thieves. And worse—men disappearing without a trace."

Adrian leaned forward. "Who would be behind this?"

The elder shook her head. "Only the dead know."

As the evening deepened, Adrian found himself once again staring into the fire, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The road to war was not just paved with steel and blood—it was lined with shadows, watching, waiting.

His thoughts drifted back to his old life, to moments that seemed like a dream now. The hum of neon lights, the sound of laughter in a diner, the scent of fresh coffee mixing with greasy food. He could almost hear his friends arguing about meaningless things, about sports teams and movies, things that no longer held any weight in this brutal world.

He could still taste the cheeseburger he had eaten that night, the last meal before his world changed forever. The warmth of the restaurant, the distant buzz of a jukebox—it was all gone now, replaced with the cold grip of war.

A crackle of the fire snapped him back to the present. He clenched his fist. There was no going back. Only forward.

The wind howled outside the town's wooden walls. Adrian sat in silence, listening to the faint rustling in the trees beyond. The scouts had reported no immediate threats, but something still felt off.

Klaus joined him by the fire. "Rest, my lord. We still have many miles to go."

Adrian nodded but didn't move. His mind was too restless for sleep. His eyes lingered on the shadows beyond the firelight, waiting, watching.

War was coming. And he had to be ready.

The silence of the night shattered as a shrill whistle echoed through the air. A second later, the twang of bows and the sharp cry of men being struck followed.

"AMBUSH!" someone roared.

Adrian shot to his feet, drawing his sword as chaos erupted around him. Shadowy figures darted between the trees, loosing arrows into the camp. Soldiers scrambled for their weapons, some still groggy from sleep.

"Form ranks!" Otto bellowed. "Shields up!"

The men obeyed, though the confusion was palpable. Adrian found himself at the center of the defensive line, shield raised, heart pounding. An assassin lunged at him from the darkness, blade flashing. He barely managed to parry, the impact jolting his arm.

Before the assassin could strike again, Klaus intervened. With a brutal swing of his axe, he sent the attacker crashing to the ground, motionless.

"My lord, fall back!" Klaus barked. "You're the target!"

Adrian clenched his teeth. He hated the idea of retreating, but logic won out. He allowed himself to be pulled back toward the center of the formation as his men fought off the attackers.

The battle was brief but brutal. When the dust settled, several of Adrian's men lay dead, and the attackers had vanished as quickly as they had appeared.

Adrian turned to Otto. "Who were they?"

Otto wiped blood from his blade. "Professionals. This wasn't a simple raid."

Adrian's fists clenched. The enemy wasn't just waiting for him at the battlefield—they were hunting him before he could even get there.

The road to war had never felt so perilous.