Siesta awoke to the confusion downstairs. The maid hastily switched out of her nightgown and descended to the saloon to find the entourage of servants huddled by the wine racks, worry prevalent in their faces.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked.

The Barman's apprentice jerked his head at her then relaxed. "We deeply apologize for the trouble, fräulein. We are currently…having a small meeting concerning staff."

"I see." She looked around. The sun had barely risen and Der Feueratem was half a day away from opening. "Where is Monsieur Simon?"

All attention snapped to her causing Siesta to step back.

"Ah…I…was just curious…"

He sighed. "I'm sorry, frau. But I'm afraid none of us know either."

"Monsieur Simon is gone?"

The tavern's cadre replied with humble nods. "We fear that he was taken by the partisans who had come last night," a barmaid said.

Siesta felt her heart leap. "Partisans?"

"Ja. They gathered here in a hurry and seemed to have been talking amongst themselves," she continued, "We try our best not to pry too much as this is a matter for Herr Simon only."

"But it seems that they may have caught onto him," the apprentice concluded with a nervous shake of the head. "I worry about myself. I've eavesdropped on some conversations…"

"Don't say that! You're scaring us," a servant urged.

Siesta eased her way into the group. "Did they take a box with them?"

"Pardon, frau? A box?"

"Yes. A wooden box wrapped in paper." The only Tristainian present gestured with her hands, shaping a rectangular form that took on the size of a small pallet.

"I didn't notice… Why? Is it something important?"

Siesta nodded. Simon's instructions were to take care of the Der Feueratem when they had gone. They were explicit when he knocked on her door in the middle of the night. Now that he had disappeared along with his ensemble, the reality of taking charge over a group of her fellow servants finally clicked. So it wasn't a dream.

"I think it's best if we leave Monsieur Simon's departure to speculation," she began, landing her arms against the varnished surface of the counter.

Since her trek from Des Ornièlles, it was revitalizing to finally exercise some authority. After all, being the personal maid to Monsieur Saito meant unwarranted dominion over the other servants.

The apprentice eyed her. "What makes you say that?"

Siesta looked at the barred doors that were the main entrance to the tavern. "I have a gut feeling it might…make things worse."


The first piece of reality that registered in Saito's senses was the muffled voice of his wife screaming at him to wake up. This was followed immediately by Karin's forceful grip on his arms that sent a strong enough charge to place him back on his feet.

"Saito! Get a hold of yourself!"

Duke de Ornièlles felt his reflex, pushing Karin and Louise down just as a bolt of fire raced over their heads and incinerated the beam supporting the porch; half the mansion's façade consequently came crashing down.

"Take cover! They're preparing another volley," Bidashal yelled from behind the ruined fountain.

Beyond the barricade towards the horizon stood a file of uniformed infantrymen taking practiced aim at the scattered crew of the downed Ostland. Their knees folded and their muskets steadied in their arms. At the order, they fired.

Saito felt numb when the muzzles flared. Though the pops of the guns resounded around the courtyard, it was not until the smoke cleared that everyone registered the stunning sight of twelve musket balls forming a dotted line six feet above the ground inches from Saito's face.

Wardes saw the hand that caused it and wasted no time to exploit the distraction. "Matilda! Now!"

Two golems burst from the ground on both flanks of the Germanian musketeers. Fouquet was quick to maximize the element of surprise; to the horrors of Saito and the Undine Knights, the golems proceeded to voraciously maul the hapless musketeers, tearing through the fabric of their tunics and using the tassels that decorated their uniforms to strangle them alive.

"Fouquet, that's too much," Louise began, frantically tugging at the thief's sleeve.

"Then what is!" she barked back.

"Matilda, that is enough," Wardes said. "They're dead now."

As though breaking from a trance, the thief found herself staring dumbly at the mutilated remains of a Germanian musketeer squadron. The mage leading them was already at the mercy of an iron juggernaut, his neck ready to be pierced by its bladed arm.

"Bitte! Bitte!" he screamed. His wand was thoroughly out of reach.

To Matilda, the act of murder was a crime too far from her modus. Her grand raid at the Tristain Academy of Magic a few years ago had come close to that and she was personally thankful that the severest damage she inflicted was a few broken limbs. She felt slightly guilty but the thought that they were for a greater cause had silenced her nagging conscience. It was not until the events that began with the Site that ultimately her ethical considerations were pushed over the limit.

As she held the fate of this pathetic mage, her mind deliberated furiously on whether to enact her vengeance or spare this man a punishment reserved only for the true culprits who she knew were already dead. Her hand shook until the warm touch of her liege rested on top of her palm.

"Bitte, fräulein! Erbarme!"

The mage found his arms suddenly free as the juggernaut compacted into a heap of steel and metal at his feet. He collapsed onto his knees, shaking from the trauma of a near-death experience. Bidashal approached him. Saito followed, picking Derflinger from the ground. Guiche pointed at the epaulettes on his shoulder.

"He's a lieutenant," the senior elf noted, "probably a fresh officer from how he's conducting himself."

"Dankedankeschön, fräulein…" The ashen lieutenant kept on repeating his thanks, having forgotten that his wand had rolled to the tip of his knees.

"He can't cast magic because he's been silenced," Karin began, stepping towards him and holding up his chin, dragging him to his feet. With an icy glare she asked her first question in Germanian.

The lieutenant nodded erratically. However, before he could speak, the edge of a blade burst from his neck, nearly cutting into the duchess before retreating out of his body. The officer dropped like a sack of potatoes. Eyes darted upwards at his executioner holding the bloodied sword…wearing the royal tunic of the Marshal of Tristain.

The din of the light from the Sun that was rising above the forested hills behind him greatly overshadowed his façade.

"Marshal!"

"Gorian!"

"What have you—"

Karin was cut off when the face that she saw was one that she had often looked up to when she was a teenager. This man who was adorned in sullied monarchical regalia was not Gorian. Actually, he is…

"Gorian…?"

"Surprised? Well, so am I," the Marshal retorted, his notoriously gruff voice sounding far intoned.

"No way," Saito breathed.

"Founder above…"

Louise caught up with her mother as they both visually measured him from head to toe. "What is…this magic?"

"'Binding of Youth,'" Bidashal echoed, "It's an old powerful arcane spell that could restore the physical and mental capabilities of anyone it is casted upon, often to aged veterans. Very few are known to have the potential to conjure it, not even the greatest among us. And if they could…such a necessity is questionable."

"Greatest? Necessity? Don't you mean?" Saito gaped. His finger dropped as he finally understood the significance of the Saharan Elder in this whole ordeal. Alosh himself stood passively still under the shade of the frontless residence. His wrinkled hand rested atop his cane. The Elder watched them indignantly.

"I get it now," Montmorency remarked, toting her eyes across the yard to the musket balls that rested on the grass. "He blocked their fire…and silenced the mage."

Saito turned to the Marshal. "This is…"

Gorian shrugged. "Unbelievable. I know." A man of sixty years who now bore the body of a thirty-year-old, he was inwardly delighted that he hadn't lost his sense of cynicism. In addition to the restoration of his lost strength was the sharpening of his wits. And all because of this pair of dog tags—his own—that treated his body like a mummy: ripped apart his skin and replaced them with fresh threads. It was immensely excruciating but amazingly effectual.

"You…didn't have to kill him…" Kirche muttered hesitantly.

"Kid, he's as useful as a rock at this point."

The fire mage, now clearly and visibly bothered, was persistent. "But…he could have had—"

"Information?" He shook his head. "He did something he knew nothing of. A family?" She stared at him. With the return of his youth came the return of his detrimental temper. "What? You expect mercy for this piece of shit? Huh?"

The offense rippled like a shockwave. Karin raised her palm. "Gorian…"

"He took a chance and paid for it with his life! You should know that! Sacrifices like these are what these soldiers should fully accept. If they can't give up their life voluntarily then they are like nothing but a worthless pot of cowards who deserve nothing more than to be target practice for executioners!"

"Gorian, that is enough!"

The Marshal now found himself at the end of every wand in sight—Derflinger's fore end, Tabitha's staff, Luctiania's bow—most prominently Karin's own, directed exclusively to the piece of skin between his eyes.

"That is enough, Marshal."

Gorian exhaled, feeling his breath rifle through an absent mustache and a cleanly cut brown beard. His stare wandered passed his aggressors to the elder standing passively over the battered porch. "Are you willing to waste your energy on annihilating me or are you going to save your friends from the hussars down below?"

Among the whole group, Saito was the first to pick up on the brevity of the situation. He bolted down the path towards the wreckage of the Ostland just in time to see a Germanian light cavalry regiment engage Tabitha and Sylphid along the only traversable path that led towards Richard, Gimli, Malicorne, and Professor Colbert who were by then caught under a hail of fire from the line of mages perched across the ravine.


All it took were a few lies and a few bribes for the strange-looking group of men to be allowed free uninterrupted access to the materials contained within the storehouses. The sentries were young enough not to bother themselves with the disconcerting fact that the storehouses held the technological wonders excavated from the East.

Oleg had sealed the main doors of the warehouses they occupied upon arriving the previous night. With the gullibility of the recruits stationed here—coupled with their inability to cope with the constantly changing day-and-night shifts—they would have no problem in restoring the old Soviet equipment just in time for the coordinated assault to begin against the Kaiser. The overseer's quick return to his tinkering ways of army engineering was bolstered by the physical vigor of their transfiguration. His stock knowledge of modern-world weaponry had significantly expanded upon receiving the design blueprints for the T-80 main battle tank complete with a mechanical toolkit. As to how those holy men got a hold of this, I have no fucking idea… At least they can't read Cyrillic.

"You need this?" Dima asked.

Oleg emerged from the driver's compartment, snagging the rag and wiping it across his face before slapping it back into his assistant's palm. "Spasiba, tavarisch."

Dima grunted. "You're welcome."

"Where's Vassily?"

"He's still getting rid of the bodies."

"He's taking a while. I hope he burns them."

The native from Kiev shrugged. "As long as we don't have to see their faces again, I'm happy. We are ending this as quickly as possible."

The engineer hefted himself back inside. "Semyon doesn't want to see these in action against our friends across the Ardennes."

"Nope. But he sees fit that we use these against the mudaki over here. About time we showed these nobles what 'petty commoners' can do."

Oleg chortled. "I'm in this just to see these babies back in action one more time."

"Brings back memories, eh, comrades," Dima replied, fiddling with his identification tag as he hammered off the dents on the turret of the adjacent tank. The three other men who were working with them amusedly grunted back.

"Damn right they do," the engineer concluded.


Across the yard, in the overseer's office, Vassily sifted through the personal effects of the dead regimentals over Oleg's desk—dented dog tags, faded photographs, torn journals… The identification papers of Senior Sergeant Arkadiy Raznikiy contained within them a folded copy of the executive orders that were handed to their commanding officer. He skipped the formal introductory of the documents, his lively brown eyes settling instead on the sentence underlined and encircled in red ink:

Transfer of the missiles to the airbase in Batumi will be handled exclusively by the 186th Motorized Guards Division under the command of Major General Tarlan Dubrovich Razachno.

"And unmentionably supervised by yours truly," Vassily mused, recalling brightly the faces of Tarlan and the rest of the uncooperative officers as they were summarily shot like dogs under a moonlit night three decades into the past.

Yakov entered. The sight of the printed documents sprawled across the table disturbed him. "Vassily, don't you think we should burn these too?"

He shook his head. "V etam nyet nyeabhadimastee." It is not necessary.

"But they are evidence. Who knows how much the Germanians have learned from these."

"Not unless they understood what we were writing. Cyrillic is near non-existent in this realm," Krazov rebutted. "As far as the both of us know, the tribes towards the East could be our Slavic forefathers."

Yakov did not like what he heard but nonetheless settled for it anyway. "We counted all the bodies. So far, the only people who aren't among the dead are us…and Yegor."

"Then that leaves no room for error. Get rid of them. We'll need all the fuel we could find exclusively for the tanks." I already have what I need right here.

"Got it," the former unit captain replied, hastily making his way towards the fifth building surrounding the square. He barely made it through the rear entryway when he gave a nod at the four men sweeping through the orderly lined corpses. They nodded back and began reorganizing the dead into a single pile in the middle of the interior which they then enclosed with the barrels of gunpowder taken from the Imperial firearms reserve right next door.


Semyon pulled back on the handle of the rusted Kalashnikov. It resounded with the familiar metallic snap meaning the gun had a good chance of firing. Sure enough, Oleg's assessment had been marred with age. Out of the several modern-world firearms that lay on the tables in this building, about half were still operational including one of the severely corroded Dragunov sniper rifles.

"Choma, how is the Pulemyot?"

Choma barked back without looking up from his work space. "Still cleaning it out, comrade. I think it might still work. I just hope the belts aren't as rusted as this shit."

Lubrov dropped the appropriate ammunition box beside his head. "They're still good."

"Okay, so the PKM would last us by how much?" Semyon continued.

Choma pulled the lid open and withdrew the first of a couple hundred bullets. "About as much as we have seven-six-twos or until the barrel would melt or the gun would come apart…whichever comes first."

"Suits us just fine. We wouldn't have to be firing it much if it comes to that."

"A few bursts from the Kalash and they'd be shitting their pants," Lubrov laughed.

The Barman shared his joy with stern warning, "I wouldn't underestimate the Germanian soldier. They maybe all draftees but that doesn't mean they're too inexperienced."

"You do have a point."

"Besides, we're not the only threats to Der Kaiser," he added much to the amusement of his two companions.


Today's session in the Imperial court rebounded off of the recent report about the sudden troop movements along the Tristainian and Gallian borders. The added sighting of a beam of light bursting into the sky from the southern mountains within the Brandenburg March highlighted a possible hostile element of immense magical proportions so close to the capitol. This did not bode well for any of the military commanders involved in Albrecht's reformations. To the Emperor, it was getting too close for comfort. His decisions were growing alarmingly erratic.

"Kaiser, this cannot happen now!" the Field Commander insisted.

"The Reichsflotte lacks half its strength! I beg of you to reconsider," the Grand Admiral pleaded.

"Don't tell me you're ignoring the enemy moving towards our borders," Albrecht retorted.

"I beg your pardon, Kaiser, but we mustn't be brash—"

"We cannot rely on the strength of hordes! The commoners would be demoralized—"

"Beginning so early would be insane—"

The Emperor threw his hands into the air. "Enough!"

The court grew silent. No one dared to speak. Albrecht recomposed himself over his throne, his wrath boiling like a bubbling kettle. The courtesans who were present—each a noted square mage—feared the Kaiser's power. Himself a master of the element of fire, he was highly schooled in the art of combat, having inherited his father's strength as much as his short temper.

The Field Commander stretched his collar, feeling the heat rise inside such a massive hall. He turned to the Grand Admiral who did his best to remain impassive despite the copious drops of sweat trickling down his forehead.

Albrecht cleared his throat, his face contorting back into a controlled expression. When he opened his eyes, the determination they displayed instilled a great dread among each Imperial representative present. His voice was calm and he emphasized his order word per word:

"Germania must move now."

A dead quiet permeated the court.

The Emperor relaxed against his throne. "Mobilize the army. Norde and Süd are to commence their offensives now."

The Grand Admiral cleared his throat. "The Reichsflotte, Kaiser?"

"Put them to the skies. The ships under maintenance will reinforce them as soon as they leave port. I want our Central and Southern Fleets to coordinate with both army groups. North Fleet will remain over our seas until they are needed."

All around the court, heads turned, eyes shifting from place to place. The direction of this session was veering dangerously close to the inevitable.

"Kaiser…" The Field Commander gulped. The time had finally come several months premature. "What are your orders?"

"Commence land and air offensives. It's about time we redeem our defeats."


Matilda landed on her rear after an uncomfortable slide down the gravelly slope of the mountainside. She found Wardes launching a barrage of lightning at the colored dots across the ravine. With a few mumbles, the earth shook. The intensity was enough to move the debris of the airship around, sending a few pieces tumbling down to the gully. Below, the horses of the Germanian light cavalry reacted admirably—the hussars' push up to their position had been so far halted.

It was enough time to recover.

Saito waved at Sylphid and pointed at the assaulting mages. "Tabitha! Take them out!"

Charlotte nodded. Sylphid ascended higher, barely dodging the flak that came from below. Clearly the mages were either line or triangle. Their accuracy was poor enough to reveal that much. She caught a shape manifesting to her right—

"Your Highness!" Karin bellowed. The duchess raised her wand. "Ready on your mark!"

Tabitha nodded.

On the ground, Saito saw the canopies of the trees across the ravine sway violently as a massive cloud of dust erupted from within. Louise knew exactly what was going on and curiously imagined the grisly fates of the Germanian mages who were—by now—scrambling for their lives…if anyone survived.

The subsequent cracks of musket fire echoed against the gorge's rumbling. The metal sheet covering Malicorne's head flew with a ping, causing the chubbiest member of the Undine Knights to scurry away.

Guiche sufficiently swatted the back of his head. "Get a hold of yourself!"

"Sorry!"

"Look alive, people!" Montmorency hollered.

The subsequent shouts of Germanian grew more audible beyond the edge of the plate that carried the crash site. From above, the view was reminiscent of ants assuming trench lines in and around a downed ark with broken metal wings. Karin swooped immediately to tree height in order to throw the advancing hussars off. She did little to break their resolve.

The horsemen continued upwards, forcing their steeds to trudge higher until they ultimately leaped over the fracture that elevated the plate from the unobstructed mountain trail.

"Vorwärts!"

Kirche quickly acted on the word. "They're going on the offensive!" she screamed.

Karin landed instantaneously behind her, brandishing her wand as she leapt off her manticore. She eyed the salamander beside the redhead.

"Work aside your familiars, people! We can hold them back!" the duchess orderedThen she strode into the open, ready to meet the enemy threat. Her hands tightened around her wand as the adrenaline flowed; she found the rush tastefully nostalgic. The first words of her mighty windstorm began at the tip of her lips.

"Don't leave me out of the fun, Karin!"

Out of all things to break her concentration, it had to be that cocky bastard with that smirk on his face. Said bastard was haphazardly marching dandily towards her from the underbrush.

"Marshal Gorian?" Colbert called.

Vorovian nodded at his entourage. "Keep your heads down. I haven't had this kind of exercise in awhile."

"What are you doing?" Karin demanded. She quickly reacted to a bloodied claymore tossed her way. "What is—"

Saito caught a gleam emerge from Gorian's back pocket. He held himself back enough to see a serrated army knife materialize out of his sleeve. The deafening battle cries of the Germanian cavalry quickly stole his and everyone's attention. By the time he leaped into the fray, he had borne witness to one of the most elegantly violent displays of coordinated swordplay he had ever seen in his whole life.

The hussars swiftly closed the gap. Their charge was ultimately dulled by the spires of solid stone that broke out of the soil, startling the horses and sending their riders flying. Gorian swung his bladed arm upward, cutting open the chest of a rider and subsequently ending his life before his body landed.

"You're fighting with a dagger!" Karin cried.

The Marshal smiled. Specs of fresh crimson ran from the edge of his chin up to the ream of his eye. "It's not just a dagger, kid!"

From the rear, Bidashal, Lucitania, and Ari dispatched a separate unit attempting a flank. Across from them, Professor Colbert led the Undine Knights in blunting the attacks of the horsemen alongside Saito, Louise, Kirche, and Montmorency not far ahead. Above, Tabitha whispered a succession of chants that culminated into a pressure ball whirling around the tip of her staff. Sylphid dove into the melee between Karin and Gorian. The Marshal saw the move. Cupping the duchess' scalp, he pushed downwards, giving Charlotte enough space to take safe aim.

"Air hammer."


The far seer opened his eyes.

"What do you see?" a captain asked.

The mage turned to his secondary. "Funston's cavalry platoon…has been annihilated."

The captain paled. "You can't be serious!"

The far seer scowled. It would be complicated to explain to this thick-skulled commoner exactly what he had seen: armed men decimated by a motley group of teenagers led by some well-trained teachers; weakened, and ultimately swept away by a single powerful blast from a girl on a dragon. The sight of the bodies flying was gut-wrenching.

"Alert the fürsten and the archdukes," he advised him. The captain silently agreed, calling up a runner and dictating to him the worrisome report that undoubtedly involved the fugitives who had escaped not too long ago.

Shortly after they had sent him on his way, another had arrived from the capitol. The far seer and the captain both gaped at the news that came from the messenger's lips: the Fourth Germanian Expedition was already underway.


NOTE: Err, sorry it took a bit long.