March 11th, 1798

Captain Francis and major Luckner were sitting up on their saddles, waiting for their signal to come out of their hiding spot in the river banks and charge towards their enemy, in complete silence.

Munsch had told them that one of his field trumpeters would start playing his instrument when the surviving enemy troops from the castle campsite arrived, and so, both leaders were dead quiet, patiently waiting for the brassy notes to reverberate through the thick woods around them.

As he had told Francis before, Luckner and his team —the Black Skulls— would move first. But it wasn't only because he "wanted to have fun", as the major had previously joked around. They actually had a pretty good excuse to be deployed before the captain: Camouflage. Since they were all clad in dark uniforms, they would be harder to spot in the shadows of the twilight. They would appear out of nowhere, strike the enemy with all of their strength, and once their damage was done, move towards the base of the hill where the cannons had been set up, to protect them. Then, the trumpeter would give Francis the next signal to lead the second charge, and give him permission to completely annihilate the Ruhmnians. If some managed to escape, Luckner had promised to chase after them with some of his riders, and to put them down before they could flee.

—Don't show any mercy tonight —the major said to Francis, only a couple of minutes before he was called into battle.

As the special team left, the young captain sighed and looked around at his own men. They all seemed tired and in need of a break, but none dared to complain about their exhaustion. Their uniforms were tattered, boots damaged, and weapons in need of repair. Francis would have to speak to Laupin about it. They were out of shape.

—Guys, I have surprise for you later —he decided to announce, out of the blue—. So please, try your damn hardest to stay alive.

—Surprise? —one of the men around him asked, as the others' interest spiked—. What surprise?

—If I told you right now it wouldn't make sense to call it so, would it?

—Monsieur, we could die in minutes —another hussar said, in a pleading voice—. Can't you tell us? Before it's too late?

—Yes, tell us at once!

—Please!

—Alright, alright! You win! —Francis smiled and looked around—. I spoke to our cooks, and I paid their chief a hefty three hundred coracs to buy you all dinner. We'll be having a feast later, with stuffed turkey as the main dish.

—You have to be kidding!...

—Stuffed turkey?! Where did they get...

—I can't believe I'll be tasting something other than friend onion!...

The excited riders started to babble with enthusiasm as their captain grinned. This was the exact effect he wanted to cause in his men. He wanted them to be awake, and energetic, and ready for the battle. They may have lost their faith in the future of the republic and in freedom, but their love for a good, hearty dinner was still intact. And they would fight hard for it. As the trumpet started to play, this fact became quite evident.

—ATTENTION BATTALION!... —Francis screamed, then made a small pause, to get his men mentally prepared for the fight—. GET READY!... —another pause—. CHARGE!

352 horses moving together through the banks made the ground shake beneath the Ruhmnian soldiers' boots, and the air vibrate around their ears. Stuck right in the center of the valley, caged between the Twin Mountains, the empire's forces were getting absolutely crushed by the revolutionary army. Between the heavy artillery fire coming from above, the higher number of men in the infantry striking them from one side, and the terrible blow that was major Luckner's first charge to the other, they had been left wounded, defenseless, and disorganized.

This final hit from Francis was the last thing they needed. It was the feat that would put an end to the battle, declaring the rebels as victorious.

And when they saw the two colorful calvary squadrons Francis was leading emerge in the distance, and come straight towards them, with their sabers held high in the air and their eyes lit up by rage, the Ruhmnians knew that continuing to fight was stupid, and useless. They would lose. That was all.

But no one seemed to hear their cries of surrender. No one felt bad about their generals' screams, begging for a truce, for a chance to live.

Francis wasn't an exception in the bloodshed. He didn't hesitate before shutting those cowardly officers up with a few hits of his sword.

He also delivered the promise he had made to Victor – the little boy who had showed him this campsite in the first place-. Once he heard a nameless man call another one his "Oberst", and noticed the scar on the commanders' wrinkly face, the captain knew what he had to do. He trotted towards him, roared in rage, and sliced his chest and neck in half, with one swift move of his saber.

—This is for the people in that village, you bastard —he whispered under his breath, as he saw the officer drop to the ground, chocking on his blood.

Try as he might, in that moment Francis couldn't feel an ounce of pity for any of the soldiers he killed. And from that day on, he never even thought of them again. That's how little he cared.

When they all returned to the citadel, once the battle was done and they had won, he celebrated and cheered his good luck with a cup of wine in his left hand and a roasted turkey leg in the other.

He carried no regrets.

Because he had lived, and their enemies had died.

That was all that mattered.