CHAPTER 101: CHAPTER 100. WAR IN EISENWALD

Eisenwald Border

The morning mist clung to the Eisenwald valleys, the border of the territory, as two great powers prepared for war. Emperor Dietrich of Erengard had declared his intention to burn down the south under the guise of betrayal, and the Duke of Eisenwald had no choice but to answer with steel.

From the capital, the Erengard Empire marched forth with 10,000 imperial knights, their armor gleaming like a sea of sapphires beneath the morning sun. These are the emperor’s personal knights, trained from youth in the imperial academies, the best of the best in the capital.

Their formations stretched across the southern approaches to the border, arranged in perfect geometric lines that spoke of absolute discipline and confidence.

Commander Thaddeus de Harte led the imperial charge, his banners snapping in the wind as his cavalry units moved into position. The rectangular blue formations on the battle map represented thousands of mounted warriors, arranged in waves designed to overwhelm through sheer force.

Thaddeus de Harte’s strategy was simple and brutal: establish dominance on the high ground, then sweep southward like an avalanche, crushing anything in their path. But he missed one fact, the Wyndham and Borgia forces alongside the Duke of Eisenwald’s knights.

The imperial knights moved forward, each unit responding instantly to trumpet calls and flag signals. Their horses, bred in the imperial stables of Erengard for generations, are larger than common cavalry mounts, capable of bearing armored warriors and delivering devastating charges.

Thaddeus positioned his forces with calculated plans; if one cavalry wave failed, three more waited behind it. He had never known defeat, and his confidence was always matched only by his competence.

The combined forces of three alliances stood against this tide. Duke Gerhard de Eisenwald commanded 5,000 of his finest knights, hardened veterans who had fought in a dozen smaller conflicts.

These aren’t the polished imperial cavalry, but they possessed something the Erengard knights lacked: desperation. Their land is at stake. Their families depended on victory.

The Eisenwald knights formed the backbone of the defensive line, their banners snapping in the cold wind as they arranged themselves across the southern ridges of the Eisenwald border. Each squad was marked by the deep red of their armor, the color of their oaths, of the blood they’d sworn to spill in the name of their house.

Gerhard de Eisenwald rode along the front, his dark cloak brushing the mud, eyes sharp and calculating. His formation wasn’t a wall but a web, flexible clusters of troops that could bend and constrict, designed to anticipate and counter imperial tactics.

He followed Red Vossler, the commander of Borgia’s forces, a man known for his ruthless efficiency and firm loyalty to Roxanne de Borgia. The knights of Eisenwald would operate under Vossler’s coordination, linking the defensive bulwark of Borgia’s army to Wyndham’s riders.

The Eisenwald men knew this terrain as if it were etched into their blood. They had hunted these woods since boyhood, fought border skirmishes in these same valleys, and buried brothers beneath these stones. The forests of Eisenwald were cruel and familiar, and that made them the perfect ally.

On the western flank, Rose de Wyndham led her forces with a calm, steady hand, her gaze fixed ahead. Her knight, light-armored, swift, and sharp, is a living storm.

Two thousand riders moved as one, their formation breathing, shifting, and flowing with her command. Wyndham’s cavalry were famed across the continent for their speed and precision, striking where enemies are weakest and vanishing before retaliation could reach them.

Their role was clear: to keep the imperial army from encircling the line, to sever supply routes, and to strike fast and disappear faster. Where Eisenwald would hold, Wyndham would move, one rooted in steel, the other in wind.

Gerhard met Rose’s eyes across the expanse of the field as their troops took position. No words were exchanged, but the understanding was mutual. He would hold the line; she would protect it. Between the red shields of Eisenwald and the swift blades of Wyndham, the southern front would not fall easily.

Yet the true wild card lay with the one hundred knights of House Borgi, a name that carried both reverence and dread across the realm. They were legends whispered in every barrack and tavern, soldiers born not merely of noble blood, but of something far older and far more dangerous.

The mixed-blood knights, werewolves, demons, or beastmen were said to possess strength that shattered steel and endurance that mocked death itself. They were too few to form a wall, too precious to scatter across the field. But that was never their purpose. The Borgia knights existed for moments like this, to strike where others faltered, to turn the tide with a single, brutal charge.

At their head rode Commander Red Vossler. His armor bore no scratches despite decades of war, and his blade glowed faintly in the dim dawn, not polished metal, but enchanted steel tempered by the blood of monsters. He had been with Roxanne since the earliest campaigns, and his name alone is enough to silence a legion.

When Duke Eisenwald demanded reinforcements, Roxanne’s answer had been simple, one hundred knights. A number that at first seemed an insult, until one realized what that hundred truly meant. A single Borgia knight was said to be worth fifty of the empire’s best; together, they were equivalent to an army.

Their warhorses, colossal beasts with veins of silver and eyes burning like embers, snorted clouds of mist into the morning air. They’re far bigger than the empire’s precious horses, far stronger, with skin hardened like a dragon scale. Each one radiated an aura that made lesser soldiers step aside.

If Eisenwald is the shield that would hold and Wyndham the wind that would encircle, then Borgia is the storm. The tip of the sword, forged to cut through the ten thousand imperial knights.

And as Vossler raised his blade, the hundred behind him moved as one. The air trembled. The earth shuddered. The monsters of Borgia are ready.

-

As the morning advanced, the air over the imperial knight’s tent felt heavy, like the breath before a storm. Inside the imperial command tent, Thaddeus de Harte stared down at the war map as the scouts burst in, mud-spattered and wide-eyed.

"They have the Borgia’s knights," the lead scout stammered, voice trembling. The tent fell into silence, every officer turning as if the very name carried a curse.

"And Wyndham at their sides," another added, his tone hollow.

Thaddeus froze. His knuckles whitened as his gauntlet clenched into a fist. Every plan, every formation he had devised, rendered meaningless in an instant. "How could they be here faster than us?!" he roared, slamming his fist onto the table so hard the inkpots jumped. "We cut every pass through the valley, every bridge, every outpost!"

Thaddeus stared at the map spread across the command table, but for the first time in years, it felt like he was staring into the abyss. The ink lines representing his formations, his flanks, and his reserves—all seemed meaningless now that those names had been spoken aloud. Borgia. Wyndham. Names that were not simply banners—they were forces of nature.

"Yet they came," murmured Captain Elric, grim and low. "And if they march under Borgia’s banner... they’ll come for blood."

Thaddeus swallowed hard. The tent seemed smaller suddenly, the air thick with tension.

They had all heard the tales of how the Borgia knights had stood at the borders for years, where men turned to ash and beasts the size of towers clawed through fortresses like they were made of paper. The Borgia never lost.

They didn’t retreat. They were the wall that kept the rest of the empire safe. Make the North rich by fighting with the monsters daily. But to see them in war, against men instead of monsters? None of the imperial commanders had ever lived to describe it.

And then came the other name, Wyndham.

Their legend was different. Not of strength, but speed and precision. Wyndham knights struck like lightning, fast enough to tear through formations before the enemy even raised their shields. Their numbers were small, their armor light, but every man and woman under their banner could outmaneuver ten imperial soldiers without losing breath.

"Who’s leading the Wyndham?" Thaddeus asked, his voice rough.

"The second born, Rose de Wyndham," one of the scouts replied, eyes downcast. "At least she’s not as strong as her brother, Ian de Wyndham."

Thaddeus froze. Then a bitter laugh escaped him, short and humorless. "Rose de Wyndham means they’re serious," he muttered. "She’s faster than her brother and more ruthless. She doesn’t stop once she begins. She breaks the enemy’s rhythm, cuts into the densest battalions, and leaves nothing standing behind her. Rose de Wyndham didn’t think, she just charged. That’s what makes her more dangerous than Ian de Wyndham."

The captains around him exchanged worried glances. Even the veterans, hardened by years under imperial banners, shifted uneasily.

"Then what should we do, Commander?" One finally asked, his face pale with dread.

Thaddeus gritted his teeth, his breath ragged. "Then we’ll meet them with everything we have. Form the Trident Wall. Place heavy cavalry in the center, place lancers on both flanks, and position mages behind the first line. Archers, pull back to the ridges. We hold the plains, no matter what."

The horns blared the new orders. Within moments, thousands of imperial knights moved into position, steel on steel, shields interlocking, spears set like a thousand iron thorns. The sound is thunderous, disciplined, and terrifying.

But then the horizon began to shake.

At first, it was faint, like a tremor beneath the earth. Then it grew louder, deeper, until the very ground quivered beneath the weight of something vast.

From the mist rose the Borgia knights, small in number but terrifying.

Thaddeus’s eyes widened. These were no horses. The beasts that thundered across the plain are closer to monsters, massive, armor-plated creatures with eyes that burned red and smoke that rose from their nostrils like embers. Their muscles bulged beneath black steel barding, their hooves striking the ground with the sound of cannon fire.

And atop them rode the mixed-blood knights, towering figures whose armor gleamed with runic fire, whose eyes burned with inhuman intensity.

"What in the gods’ name..." Thaddeus whispered.

The front ranks of the imperial cavalry began to falter, some even taking a step back as the warhorses screamed, the sound inhuman and primal, echoing through the fields like the roar of a beast.

"They’re not horses," one knight muttered. "They’re monsters."

"Hold your ground!" Thaddeus barked, drawing his sword. "They bleed like any man or beast!"

But when Red Vossler raised his blade, the battlefield itself seemed to bow before him. The warhorses reared, their mouths foaming, eyes blazing with killing intent.