Prologue

Brussels, the Confederal Kingdom of Batavia.

Thursday, June 15th, 1815.
The Duchess of Richmond's ball was in full swing. Officers of the Edenite Army, officers of the
representative Coalition Armies and local aristocracy and nobility were in attendance of this splendid
event. The Duchess, ever the charming, wily diplomat that all ladies should be in high society, had
managed to convince a local Batavian aristocrat to allow use of his splendid home for the event.
The Gordon Highlanders, were currently on the ballroom floor, dancing in fours in a traditional
Caledonian dance. They were split up in fours, young, broad shouldered, with swishing kilts and their
special uniform consisting of a much better variation of their traditional redcoat that all Edenite
soldiers over the course of the long conflicts with Francovia and indeed, since the start of the
seventeenth century. They took turns, dancing while their feet leapt across the gaps, in the crossed
swords on the floor. It was fancy footwork, almost as elegant as ballroom dancing itself. The pipers
were blaring a jaunty tune to accompany the start, of the festivities.
Every known commander of the Duke of Wellington's staff was in attendance, Lieutenant-General Sir
Thomas Picton, Major-General The Honourable Sir William Ponsonby, Colonel Alexander Gordon, 4th
Duke of Gordon, with tartan swung over his shoulders like a toga, he wasn't in a kilt (it would have
been unseemly for the commander of the regiment) and Lieutenant-General Henry Paget, 2nd Earl of
Uxbridge in Hussar Dress.
On another side, Charlotte Lennox, Duchess of Richmond, the hostess of this grand event herself,
stood watching approvingly with her daughter Sarah, and one of her sons, dressed in a black uniform
with green collar and cuffs. Sarah Lennox was positively entranced by the Gordons dancing.
In another part of the crowd, William Howe de Lancey, another officer on Wellington's staff gave his
wife a smirk as they watched on.
"Uncle Gordon, paraded his entire regiment for my…inspection this morning." The Duchess Richmond
told her children with almost a small hint of smugness. "So I just rode up and down, in and out, and
picked my fancy."
"Mama, you chose such big ones!" Sarah gushed to her mother giddily as she watched the Gordons
dance. Indeed, they were quite big, they had been chosen from the Gordons Grenadier company, the
tallest men in the regiment!
The Duchess turned to her daughter, putting one gloved finger on her lip to check for any
imperfections in the makeup and not finding any, returned the smile and looked back onto the
proceedings. The music had changed to a more energetic tune. Sarah's eyes looked across to where a
group of younger officers stood, making eye contact with one Lord Hay. The young gentleman even
smiled in her direction.
By now, the dancers were crisscrossing, going into circles before the music abruptly stopped, and the
men stood still. There was applause from the audience at the performance, and the ball's conductor
waited for it to die down before going on to the next event. Gordon clapped especially the loudest,
these were his own boys after all, whilst Ponsonby and Uxbridge had certain individuals pointed out by
Picton, the two cavalrymen looking on in pleased approval before conversing in hushed tones with him.
The duchess applauded along quietly, as a lady was supposed to as the drums beat again.
The pipers began to play the Cock o the North, a Caledonian song, and Highlander march. Everyone
watched as the dancers in their fours, bent down to grab their Highlander broadswords, deadly cut-
and-thrust weapons to be used in close combat when one's musket became useless. There was a beat,
and they were upright again, another and they were walking and forming straight lines of fours in
formation. They raised their blades at attention, before returning them at ease in a more relaxed
position to their arms. Before about turning and slowly marching out. Behind them, the bandmaster in
his distinct yellow tunic began to twirl his massive conducting baton before placing it in his right arm
and leading the pipers out. It was perfectly choreographed, better than any opera in Edinburgh.
The attendees began to be ushered onto the dance floor soon, talking in excited tones about the
magnificent performance they'd seen. Sarah Lennox was bursting from excitement internally. She had
managed to maintain eye contact with Lord Hay during the entire thing, and the other had done the
same, his smile was growing bigger even now, lighting up his handsome face.
The band struck up once more with "See the conquering hero comes", causing the attendees to turn
their heads, everyone turned their heads towards the door as Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington
himself, arrived, striding through the double doors, a large white cloak worn over his shoulders, with
two bareheaded redcoats trailing behind as ad-hoc "pages" He handed his hat to one of them while a
brown uniformed footman took his gloves and cloak before he began walking down the stairs, the Star
of the Order of Bath glittering on the breast of his jacket while he also had the blue sash as well. The
Duchess and Sarah shared a look before the Duchess strode out to meet him.
He kissed her hand when they met in the middle, giving her a dazzling smile. "You really are the best
of my generals." He commented cheerfully.
The duchess gave a polite laugh as she looked around the ballroom. "We ladies just have to follow the
beat of the drum. This season, soldiers are the fashion." She commented playfully, turning back to look
at Wellington.
"Where would society be without my boys?" the Duke responded drolly, before giving another smile.
The duchess waved her hand, and the conductor began to lay again, and she took Wellington's offered
arm as they began to walk.
Wellington gave an imperceptible nod to his four main officers, Gordon, Ponsonby, Picton, and
Uxbridge, who had small smiles of their own.
"They are the salt of Eden, Arthur." The Duchess was saying, looking at the Redcoats standing on the
sidelines.
"Scum." Wellington blurted out bluntly as he looked at the same men. "Nothing but beggars and
scoundrels, all of them. Gin is the spirit of their patriotism." His lips returned to their smile.
"And yet you expect them to die for you?" The Duchess inquired. Wellington just hummed and nodded
his head, looking around.
"Out of, duty?" she asked.
"Mhm." He nodded again and grinned as they began to resume their walk. The Duchess raised one
eyebrow indignantly.
"I doubt if even Bonaparte could draw men to him by duty."
"Oh, Boney's not a gentleman." Wellington replied, looking at his hands."
"Arthur, what an Englishman you are," Richmond said drily.
"On a field of battle, his hat is worth 50,000 men. But he is not a gentleman." Wellington's lips quirked
into a small, smug smirk as he turned to look at her. Before they walked to where the Lennox's waited.
Sarah offered him a hand, which he took, and she curtsied.
"Your grace." The Duke of Richmond greeted. By now, couples were walking around and talking in
conversational tones. Wellington could see the Prince of Orange entertaining observers from the
Vostokvakians, while a couple of Brunswickers in their black uniforms listened, enraptured as
Ponsonby conversed with them.
"When we get to Paris." Sarah Lennox said suddenly beside Wellington. "Let me look at Napoleon. I
promise won't go too near. Mama admires him" she leaned in close as if to tell a secret.
"I am a little bit of a Bonapartist." The Duchess admitted unashamedly with a wry smile. Sarah soon
leaned in close again.
"Is it true what they say that he's a monster?" she asked with a wide-eyed gaze and in a hushed voice,
as if the Corsican might be hiding behind a column.
Wellington gave an exaggerated, paternal hum. "He eats laurels, and drinks blood." He nodded to
Sarah expectantly, as if giving a cautionary tale.
"And when, my dear Arthur, will you venture into his lair?" the Duchess interjected, even her son
leaned in to listen.
"Hmm? Well, he hasn't given me any idea, it all depends on...

Batavia-Francovian Frontier, Hestrud, Wallonia,Kingdom of Batavia, Near Charleroi.

Before Dawn, June 15, 1815.
It was raining a veritable downpour as thunder rumbled overhead. Napoleon felt his hat grow drenched
under the sheer force of the raindrops. The only other thing he could hear aside from the thunder and
raindrops, was the sound of boots. Ney was beside him on his own steed. "Cross the river, and
tomorrow, we dry our boots in Brussels." Bonaparte mused aloud.
"God willing Sire." Ney responded, steadying himself.
"God has nothing to do with it." Bonaparte retorted brusquely as he pulled the reins to turn his horse.
The Old Guard marched in this horrible weather towards the river, and so did the rest of the Army of
the North that he could muster up at such short notice for this hopefully short campaign. The
Guardsmen's bearskins were waterproof, so they weren't as sodden as the rest of the army's
headwear. Oh well, he was no God, or he wouldn't have to be marching through this weather! By Jove
he could barely see the banners or Imperial Eagles that were supposed to be in the very head of the
column. But his grumblers marched on out of sheer spite of the rain, and out of loyalty and love for he,
Napoleon, Emperor of the Francovians. Perhaps, since there was a coup, he heard from the grapevine,
that in Ulraznavia, Ferdinand, had once again returned to power and removed his brother Karl Müller,
that he might allow Marie Louise and his son to come back. Ferdinand was a man he respected, both
as a ruler and as a General, and as a reformer too, for he had copied many of Napoleon's own reforms
and ended the old ways in his country, before Karl Müller had been put on the throne and he, exiled.
Perhaps, Napoleon hoped, that his old friend might even order Blücher and his army to let him pass
unheeded, for Blücher too, had been a close friend of Ferdinand's and had been the most outspoken
critic at his forced removal.
His artillery and cavalry creaked along the bridges his engineers and sappers had constructed quickly
in these unforgivable conditions. Horse's hooves clip clopped as they dragged along his guns, his
Grande Batterie. The rest of the army, the line infantrymen, forded the river, holding their muskets
above their heads as they shivered through ice cold water. More and more artillery was transported
across, the crews running alongside the carts. Some of his lancers from the 1st light regiment of the
Imperial Guard, the ones from Maszowia, forded the river as well, followed by the second regiment
(ironically) made up of Dutch Lancers. Both units wore Czapka, the high, four-pointed cap synonymous
with the Ulhans in Maszowia in their respective regimental colors. Dark blue (almost black) and with
red for the 1st and red tunics with blue facings for the Dutch Lancers. They forded the river safely,
arriving on the other bank in record time.
Yes, Bonaparte thought, he would indeed dry his boots in Brussels. He indeed could imagine the image
quite clearly. He just couldn't have thought of how different the circumstances would be. For he did not
know what was happening to Blücher at Ligney. He may have heard the thunder of guns in the
distance, but he wrote it off as thunder.

Brussels.
Back in Brussels, the dancing continued unheeded though, for they didn't know that Napoleon had
crossed the Frontier.
Sarah Lennox had Lord Hay as her waltz partner, and she was enjoying herself very much. His lordship
was a fine dancer and led her quite easily through the steps. They were dancing at quote a slower,
relaxed pace whereas the others were at a much faster one.
The dancers soon got into rings, and would spin, holding their partners by the arm as well. She nearly
laughed at the utterly solemn expression he made, which caused him to break into a smile as well as
they walked daintily in circles. She detached herself to grab onto some of the ladies for this part of the
dance, spinning yet again in a circle. Wellington and the Duchess watched her progress, Charlotte
looking on in maternal pride. They looked at the two of them, Hay and Sarah, once again dancing
together as one. She saw how she smiled at her Sarah as he led her through the dance, with so much
sincerity, that her heart felt light with joy, but also quite heavy, as if someone had placed a newer
burden onto her.
"Don't let young Hay get killed." She said suddenly, looking at the two of them.
"An engagement?" Wellington questioned curiously.
"I don't want Sarah to wear black, before she's worn white." Charlotte stated simply. They watched as
the two young adults ran through the crowd, Sarah leading Hay and weaving through the throng of
attendees like dolphins in a stormy sea. Wellington saw De Lancey step back, pulling his wife
Magdalene so as to avoid a collision course. The two thundered along like elephants before finally
exiting and coming in front of Wellington and the Duchess, and the four major officers of his staff, who
had just joined them.
"Mama, Dickie's promised to get me a cuirassier's helmet as a work basket!" Sarah announced giddily,
pulling the young man close. Charlotte raised one delicate eyebrow, raising her fan slightly.
"Without any blood mama." She added, turning to look at Hay with a smile.
"And one for me, young man." Charlotte ordered lightly. "With the blood."
"Where do you intend to stick your Frenchman, Hay?" Ponsonby asked casually but was quite curious
as well.
"Under the right arm sir." Hay answered instantly.
"See Mama, he has it all planned." Sarah gushed beside him with pride.
"When you meet a cuirassier." Picton began, leaning forward. "You'll be lucky, to bring away your life."
He didn't seem to notice how Hay seemed to stiffen. "Never mind his helmet, boy. You'll learn the art
of fighting, from the Francovians."
Even Sarah seemed to have lost her smile, not that it was noticed by Picton either. He turned and
bowed to Charlotte, "Madam, by your leave." And walked off, joined by Ponsonby, who gave a knowing,
indulgent smile.
"I've never seen such a set of sprats." He growled at Ponsonby, as he glared at the dancers and at the
ballroom as a whole.
"General Picton doesn't even seem to know how to walk in a ballroom." Sarah said indignantly as she
looked at her mother and Wellington. The two older ones shared a knowing look. It seemed she was
already getting protective.
"But he's very good when he's dancing with the Francovians."
"But one dances with them in the field, she said in exaggerated faux solemnity. Before her face broke
into a peal of laughter and she pulled Hay back into the fray with her. Wellington looked at Charlotte,
but the Duchess was smiling widely. He looked at Charles, but he too was grinning, as were Sarah's
sisters. Everyone it seemed, had given their unanimous approval of Lord Hay.
Meanwhile, Picton waved over a footman for champagne, and Gordon and the others joined. Him
Ponsonby took two flutes and handed one to Uxbridge. Everyone was dancing. Magdalene De Lancey
William, Hay and everyone else soon just lost themselves in the dance. This was a celebration. A
celebration celebrating the end of war and the return of peace on the continent. It was to this
atmosphere, that a squat, solidly built Ulraznavian with a rounded face, one Friedrich Karl Ferdinand
Freiherr von Müffling, nicknamed Weis, the Ulraznavian commissioner and liaison between Blucher and
Wellington arrived, intruding upon, with his mud-stained jackboots and white riding breeches. He was
wet and pale, having ridden through the night to Brussels in the terrible rain and was currently
descending the stairs to the ballroom in search of the duke in the throng of dancers. Such was his
haste, that he hadn't bothered to take off his oilskin cloak, and his plumed bicorne.
He blundered into the event like a bull in a China shop, dazed and confused like a child, causing many
staff, and some guests to look on in bewilderment and raised eyebrows at his black uniform tunic and
the few medals like the Iron cross hanging on his chest. He seemed greatly agitated, looking round and
round, that he was noticed by Picton, Gordon, and the others, and already, whispers were beginning to
flow.
"That's an Ulraznavian officer, Prussian if one is going by the medals." A young cornet whispered to his
partner who looked alarmed.
"What's he doing here?" she whispered as she watched him jump headfirst and disappear into the
crowd, and onto the dance floor, causing dancers to give him a wide berth. The clamor was shaking up
the ball so much that the Duchess Richmond finally noticed. "That gentleman will spoil the dancing."
She said in a dismayed as she and Wellington danced. tone as she watched the poor old fellow look
around quite lost. Wellington recognized him at once. The wretched man looked utterly worried, and
Wellington and the duchess found themselves walking up to meet him. Upon spotting the Duke,
Müffling walked over and removed his bicorne revealing whitening blonde hair, looking very
apologetic.
"It's Napoleon sir, he has…" Müffling informed in his heavily accented voice.
"I'm aware, Müffling." Wellington cut in curtly before the man could continue. "Napoleon has crossed
the border." He began to walk, and think, as Müffling and Charlotte began to follow, both looking very
concerned.
"With all his forces." The Ulraznavian continued. "He has come between both our armies."
"Where?"
"At Charleroi."
Wellington slowly turned, a grin lighting up his features. "Charleroi." He breathed.
"Do you wish me, to stop the ball, Arthur?" Charlotte fretted.
"No no no, I want no alarm," Wellington replied, holding a hand on her arm to calm her. "All officers
obliged to the ladies will finish the dance."
The Duchess looked torn as the music began to end, but raised her hand, snapping her fingers as she
walked to the conductor's box. The music began anew, causing him to smile before he turned to find
Gordon and the others standing behind him.
"Uxbridge, move your cavalry immediately towards Charleroi. Picton, your division will march out
tonight." He rattled of the orders discreetly. "Charleroi." He muttered again with a sight smile. There
was a bang as a pair of windows swung open, footmen advancing upon the error at once. He smirked
again as the wind whistled and shrieked through the ballroom, causing several of the ladies present to
gasp and cry out.
In a secluded corner, Magdalene and William De Lancey were discussing their own problems. "May I go
with the army, William?" she asked softly. She was a pretty young woman with dark hair and doe-like
eyes. "You can ask the Duke. He allowed ladies in Iberia. We've had so little time together."
De Lancey shook his head, having already made up his mind. "Magdalene, a battle is no place—"
"I'm frightened." She breathed. "I fear I may never see you again!"
Wellington passed Hay and Sarah as he exited the ballroom, they had been staring into each other's
eyes and hadn't noticed him leave. Behind him, the rest of his officers followed. They all entered a
bedroom repurposed as a makeshift meeting room. Picton brought over a lamp, while the Prince of
Orange, a key corps commander under Wellington, brought over a highly annotated map, while
Uxbridge, Ponsonby, and Müffling filled in. The two redcoats stationed at the door dutifully closed it,
giving the men in the room some much-needed privacy.
"With Blücher on his right…"
"He should be there by now sir."
"He should have come through Monloge, sir."
"What could be simpler than Charleroi?" Wellington cut in, silencing the voices. "He has humbugged
me. In a night's march he has made his piecemeal. Let us concede that he has gained a victory. At the
cost of bootlaces. If Marshal Blücher stays in Batavia. I stay too."
"On that promise, Lord Duke, Blücher would tie his men to trees if necessary. But we have a much
larger problem see." Müffling leaned over to point at two areas, one near Ligney, and another on the
Quatre Bras road. "Lord Duke, do you remember the dispatches that Blücher's headquarters sent you?
The one about the two mysterious gateways, one not far from Ligny and another at some other
location I can't recall?"
"Yes, what about them?" Wellington had seen those reports, some mysterious stone "gates" had
materialized near Ligny and another Batavian village somewhere near the frontier with Ulraznavia.
Farmers had been puzzled and had petitioned the government in Brussels. Wellington had never
actually visited these places personally, but several aides had, and so had Blücher and various ladies
who had picnicked in its vicinity and a good many artists and poet had composed poems and paintings
on its mystique.
"Well, just last night, these gates "activated" and armies not unlike those of the Reman Legions of the
Reman Empire of antiquity marched out, armed with witchcraft, and dragons."
"Dragons?" Gordon inquired skeptically. "Like the ones from fairytales?"
"Yes, the very same ones. They attacked Blücher and the Army of the Lower Rhine at Ligny while
similar reports are coming from the second one. Now, Blücher was forced to retreat, but we can
assume safely, that Bonaparte's Army of the North will march into them, thus eliminating the force
there. However, even if these are eliminated, our scouts are already reporting more and more…
legions of these people marching out of these gateways, and god knows what else! I saw it all myself
as I rode from Ligney when I was running to give you, Blücher's message. These Remans are in Ligny.
And Napoleon might even be skirmishing with them!"
"These four roads here…"
"Quatre Bras, both armies will go for them."
"If we can't hold them there." Wellington gestured at the map. "Then I guess we shall stop both here."
He circled the tiny municipality, Waterloo.
Everyone was dead silent. The die had been cast then, for the fate of Euronia it seemed, the thunder
rumbling outside ominously. Many stared at the map, and the place chosen for the battle. This was the
crux. Here, they would have to choose between Bonaparte, and these "Remans". Wellington nodded
his head grudgingly at the tactical brilliance the Corsican had utilized. "Charleroi." He rasped. "By god
that man does war honor."

Saderan Imperial Legion.

The New World.
Marius Co Septima, Imperial Legate, and commander of Sadera's expedition to the new world, shivered
as he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. I should have been more responsible, he thought. And
brought some warm clothing and my oilskin cloak as well. He grit his teeth. Behind him, legions that
made up the expeditionary force formed up. He'd already sent the 8th to what the scouts had said was
a hamlet, and what seemed like some sort of enemy headquarters for "blackcoats" as they had
referred to the enemy that was stationed there. A messenger had soon ridden back after hours
informing him that Legatus Serva had succeeded in causing the barbarian army to flee, but with large
amounts of damage to his own legion, and no prisoners, for the enemy had been so swift, that they
barely had a chance to take any, and worst, no slaves, for the barbarians had also helped the hamlet's
population flee.
"Go back to Legatus Serva, and inform him to hold position, and find warm clothing for Hardy's sake or
there will be an outbreak." He told the young pimple-faced youth, who nodded with wide eyes.
No contact had been made with Prince Maximus's force that was coming from the third gate that had
materialized, though they had seen the dragons fly in the sky for a short time, massive things they
were, he had sent wyvern riders ahead who had reported fire and smoke spreading farther inland.
Whoever these black coats were, they were burning everything as they fell back. They also reported
the existence of a few more barbarian armies in the garb of various colors, redcoats, bluecoats, none
of them wearing armor but carrying long "rods" and horse carts lugging what looked like cannons of
some sort.
"By Hardy, what kind of world have we come to." One of his young officers swore, shivering loudly.
"What kind of God is weeping for it to rain so?"
"Swearing by the goddess, Julius Gracchus? My my, you've been well and thoroughly corrupted."
Another older man sardonically quipped.
Most of his main force had assembled itself, the demi-human auxiliaries, the ogres, and the trolls that
pushed the heavy sieging equipment and his legion's supply and baggage train. The other legions that
he'd sent out had already assembled and thus were the first to go forward as a result, while he and the
main thrust of his own legion, the twelfth, assembled.
He dismounted from his steed, wincing as his boots sunk into the mud. His page helped him trudge to
his tent where he lit a lamp and sat down. The rest of his officers, commanders of the other legions,
and important staff as well as his own command staff soon arrived. A slave poured them all wine, a
good vintage from Italica. He then respectfully disappeared, leaving the men to their devices. And the
business of leading this campaign of conquest could begin.
"Have our scouts found any map or any other topographical source?" Septima inquired. "Even if it's
centuries old from a dusty tome in some library if the barbarians have any."
The scout captain cleared his throat, stepping forward to place a damp, crumpled roll of parchment
onto the table. The ink had run in places, smudged by the rain, and the edges were frayed and muddy.
But the faint lines of a map were visible, accompanied by a strange script that none of the officers
immediately recognized.
"This is what we found in a ruined structure near the hamlet," the scout captain explained. "The
barbarians must have left it behind in their haste. It's no world map, but it appears to detail this region
—what they call 'Batavia.' It's old, though. The ink is barely legible in some areas, and the rain hasn't
helped."
Marius leaned over the map, squinting at the faded lines and symbols. He gestured for one of his staff
officers, a scholar named Cassius Verius, to step closer. "Verius, can you make sense of this? What
does the script say?"
Verius adjusted his spectacles, peering closely at the map. His lips moved silently as he traced his
finger along the symbols. "The language shares similarities with the scripts we've encountered before,
but it's archaic. Here... this name... Quartier Brase? Or perhaps Quatre Bras? It's difficult to tell with the
ink so smudged."
"What is it? A town? A fortress?" Marius pressed.
Verius frowned, his brow furrowing. "I can't be certain. The map seems to indicate that it is a crossing,
perhaps an intersection of major roads. It may be strategically significant, but without further context,
it's hard to say."
Another officer, Legatus Aurelius Corvinus, leaned forward, his armor creaking with the movement. "If
it's a crossroads, it's vital. Control the roads, and you control the flow of troops and supplies. The
barbarians would be foolish not to fortify it."
Marius nodded thoughtfully, his mind already working through the implications. "And the barbarians?
What of their movements?"
The scout captain answered quickly, his tone grim. "They're retreating, but not in disarray. It's
deliberate, controlled. They're burning everything behind them—crops, buildings, bridges. They're
denying us resources."
"They're more cunning than I gave them credit for," Marius admitted, his voice tinged with frustration.
He turned back to the map, his finger tracing the faded lines. "If this Quatre Bras is indeed a
crossroads, it may be their next rallying point. We can't let them regroup there."
"What about their armaments?" Corvinus asked. "The 'rods' the scouts mentioned, and their strange
cannon-like devices? Have we learned anything more?"
The scout captain hesitated before answering. "The rods... they're weapons, of that there's no doubt.
They spit fire and magic at an alarming rate, faster than any bow or ballista. Our men have reported
heavy casualties in the few skirmishes we've had with them.
Murmurs rippled through the tent, the officers exchanging uneasy glances. Marius raised a hand to
silence them. "Then we must adapt. Our tactics must be swift, unpredictable. If we can't outmatch
their weapons, we'll outmaneuver them."
He turned to Verius again. "This Quatre Bras—do you think the rain will slow their movement as much
as ours?"
Verius shrugged. "It's likely. The roads will be treacherous for any army, even one as unconventional
as theirs."
Marius straightened; his decision was made. "Then we march for Quatre Bras. If they intend to hold it,
we'll take it from them. If it's undefended, we'll use it as a staging ground. Either way, we can't let
them dictate the pace of this campaign."
"Legatus, the men are restless," one of the younger officers interjected. His face was pale and drawn,
his voice hesitant. "They grumble about the lack of spoils. No women, no slaves, not even decent
plunder. They say this land is cursed, that the gods themselves oppose us."
Marius fixed the young officer with a steely glare. "The men will hold their tongues and follow orders.
We are not here to indulge their desires but to conquer. Discipline must be maintained, or we will find
ourselves overrun by these so-called barbarians."
Before anyone could respond, the flap of the tent was pushed aside, and a wyvern rider entered, his
armor streaked with mud and his face grim. He saluted sharply. "Legatus, I bring urgent news from the
skies."
"Speak," Marius commanded, his tone curt.
The rider stepped forward, his voice steady despite the urgency of his message. "The barbarian armies
are on the move. We have spotted columns of men marching through the night, their numbers
obscured by the rain but significant, nonetheless. Their attire varies—some wear red, others blue, and
still others black. They are heavily armed, and their 'thunder rods,' as the men call them, have proven
deadly. However, our wyverns maintain an advantage in the skies. Their projectiles struggle to reach
our altitude, and we've inflicted casualties in several skirmishes."
A murmur rippled through the tent. The officers exchanged uneasy glances, the implications of the
report sinking in.
"And what of their organization?" Marius asked, his fingers steepled in thought. "Do they march as one
army, or are they divided?"
"They appear divided, Legatus," the rider replied. "Their formations are disjointed, and they seem to
lack coordination between their forces. It may be possible to engage them piecemeal if we move
swiftly."
"Good," Marius said, a glint of determination in his eyes. "If we strike at 'Quatre Brasse,' we can seize
control of the crossroads and disrupt their movements. From there, we will march on 'Brussels' and
take their capital."
Corvinus leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Legatus, if I may, the rain and the mud will slow our
forces, especially the ogres and trolls. Our baggage train is already struggling to keep pace."
"Then we travel light," Marius decided. "Leave behind anything that isn't essential. The ogres and trolls
will follow as they can, but the legions must move swiftly. The rain may hinder us, but it hinders the
enemy as well. We cannot afford to lose the initiative."
The officers nodded reluctantly, their expressions grim. They knew the challenges ahead but trusted in
their Legate's leadership.
"Prepare the men," Marius commanded, rising from his seat. "We march at dawn. Let the barbarians
and their gods weep all they wish. We will bring the might of the Empire down upon them."
The officers nodded their resolve hardening despite the chill in the air. Marius took another sip of his
wine, the warmth spreading through him as he prepared to lead his men into the unknown once more.
"May Hardy's will guide us," he said, his voice low but firm. "This land may be foreign, but we'll bend it
to our will, rain or no rain."

By now, the legion's baggage train had finally crossed over to the other side from Alnus Hill. Livia
Laelia Bamballio's first glimpse of the world beyond the Holy Gate on Alnus hill was disappointing. It
didn't at all differ much from any place on Falmart for that matter. The grass was still green, and she
could see oak trees nearby, nothing" extraordinary" as the officers in her husband's staff were
boasting it would be. It looked very much like a province in Sadera, or indeed, any other nation in
Falmart. Aside from the dark skies and the horrible flooding downpour
As the wife of the Legatus of the 1st Corps, Livia had no "official" position in the Imperial Army indeed.
However, she was the leader of the wives and children of the senior and junior officers of the staff, she
rode behind in carts with the luggage, but officers were instructed to treat her orders as if they came
from the Legatus himself... Officers could choose to avoid her "suggestions" at their own peril. And the
same time, she has to deal with the new wives, the young whiny ones who bit off more than they could
chew by accompanying their spouses on campaign out of newlywed love. these young women are the
daughters of senators and equestrians, they were handed everything on a silver platter and expected
the world to bend to their whims.
The wagons were well protected by the household bodyguards of each household. Several Warrior
bunnies also guarded her children, and in some case grandchildren. These came from a small warrior
bunny clan that Marius had taken captive during the Empire's war when he'd been a junior commander
under Prince Zorzal. The female demi-human warriors would protect their charges faithfully and with
all the ferocity and skill that their kind had.
Already, information had been trickling in about the victories. General Domitus's dispatch riders had
reported that he was seeing the same things everywhere, scorched earth. He also reported that he
was bringing his forces to meet with Marius after seeing that the seventh legion had been briefed on
its position and orders to hold the hamlet that his troops had captured. Meanwhile, Prince Maximus
had chosen not to report, though envoys from his headquarters did arrive to make their reports and
apologized profusely for their superior's rude behavior. There were some complications in setting up
camp, as the dragons were so big and that was the reason for the delay.
By now, most of the wives knew Livia enough to understand their roles. A few of the younger ones, the
aforementioned newlyweds would learn soon enough how to behave on a campaign as big as this. She
took personal interest in guiding the intelligent ones and tolerate the ones she could, the spoiled ones
for instance. She already had a few of these maidens working in charge of cataloguing supplies and
another in charge of the scribes. One such lady was Poppaea Claudine, the niece of a key senator. The
reason for her accompanying the campaign was to gain better pickings of the loot and parts of land
that would surely be handed out to veterans. The greedy little slattern had actually thanked her for
giving her the job. It would at ;east, have her out of Livia's way.
They set the train up in an abandoned settlement near the gate. The previous inhabitants had left in a
hurry clearly, for in several of the quaint little homes, the rooms of children still had toys and food still
sat in the cellars. Food that she would put to good use. Some of the legionaries had taken to looting
the alcohol cellars of the more well of villas and mansions and they had underestimated the potency of
the local liquid. Quite a few of them, were roaring drunk. It was utterly inappropriate behavior and had
her husband been there to see it, he would certainly have had them flogged or even decimated.
Dispatch riders soon arrived to direct siege engines and the slaves and laborer's required to set up
defenses and make the abandoned hamlet inhabitable to a degree, the same dispatch rider gave news
that her husband was well and would visit soon once he had set up the main camp up, which lightened
her heart greatly. Furthermore, many of the women soon discovered that the barbarians, had
boutiques of clothing! Sophisticated styles too, like those popular in Elbe that were becoming a trend
in the capital, even when most women preferred the revealing styles that they usually wore. Livia
herself being an older matron wore a much more loose fitting chiton with a shawl and cloak. Her
youngest daughter, yet to be married, had brought "liberated" dresses and fabric to her, Livia had
politely told her to keep most of it.
The campaign it seemed, would be a long one, she realized as she watched enslaved demi humans
push a trebuchet and ballista into position.
Even if it was, just beginning.