"Well done! That's Letho for you!"
At the front lines of Cintra's army, in the central command tent.
Though Nilfgaardian troops stood poised just ten kilometers away, facing off against Cintra's forces, the mood inside the tent had already become celebratory.
The news brought back by Letho had stirred too much excitement.
Marshal Vissegerd was practically glowing with energy as he began rearranging the miniature formations on the tactical map.
"Nilfgaard's largest granary has been destroyed. They'll have no choice but to contract their forces."
"Their supply lines were already on edge thanks to guerrilla attacks. According to our intel, all their field units are pulling back southward, regrouping around Joachim de Wett."
"The only problem is that guy's been holed up inside Fort Ortagor as the Western Command officer. With our current strength, a direct siege would be incredibly difficult…"
"No, Marshal," said Lann with a smile, "With our 'strength,' a siege is actually the easiest part."
Fort Ortagor was the largest stronghold in southern Cintra. Back when Cintra's territory wasn't as vast, this fortress had served as a border defense post, standing guard against several neighboring nations.
A small town had grown around the fortress, capable of accommodating tens of thousands of civilians, soldiers, and merchants.
Now, the stronghold was filled with Nilfgaardians—what had once been Cintra's strongest wall had become Nilfgaard's shield. For the Cintran officers, it was a thorn in their hearts.
Even Calanthe at her peak—with twenty thousand troops—might have failed to take Fort Ortagor back from Nilfgaard's hands.
But hearing Lann's words now, a gleam lit up Marshal Vissegerd's eyes.
"Don't tell me… the armor Mahakam forged for the ice giant is ready? Are Cintra's war beasts finally ready to roar at the Black Sun?"
The marshal was thrilled—but Lann shook his head.
"It's almost ready," Lann nodded. "But I don't plan to deploy Myrhyff here."
"The ice giant's size puts him at a disadvantage against high fortress walls, and defensive war machines would still pose a threat to him. I intend to save him for the final battle against the Central Army. That will be his true stage."
"Then what are you suggesting?"
Faced with the marshal's question, Lann turned his gaze toward Saskia, who was focused intently on the sand table.
The little dragoness seemed particularly enamored with military theory and had been devouring everything she could learn over the past few weeks.
"When confronted with towering walls and fortified cities, most people focus on building stronger, more advanced siege engines," Lann said with a smile. "But isn't the best solution simply... to fly over them?"
"It's perfect if they're all cowering inside the fortress…"
As Marshal Vissegerd listened to Lann's plan and stared at the black sun tokens placed on the sand table, his expression kept shifting—until finally, all doubt vanished.
"Lann, could you replicate the tactic you used against the Eastern Army?"
Suddenly struck by inspiration, the marshal blurted out an idea: "That one… the one you came up with—decapitation and flag capture?"
"In a siege, if the enemy's commanding officers are suddenly assassinated, the blow to morale is far greater than in an open battle."
His eyes sparkled with ambition. It was a greedy thought—but one shared by all Cintrans.
Yet unexpectedly, Lann shook his head.
"No, Marshal. I'm not planning to do that this time. In fact, quite the opposite—I intend to let Duke de Wett escape and return to Nilfgaard."
The marshal was stunned, but quickly caught on. "You want to extend the war into the political arena?"
Lann nodded. "There's something that's never sat right with me. When I fought the Eastern Army, they had far more diverse units and equipment—even a full battalion of mages led by high-ranking sorcerers. But the Western Army here..."
He spread his hands. "They've got nothing. It's like the war has regressed to a primitive state."
"That's normal for the Northern Kingdoms," Lann continued, "but not for Nilfgaard. It's highly unusual."
Marshal Vissegerd's breath caught—'Northern Kingdoms' seemed to include the old Cintra too.
Back then, war had been more traditional, even naive. Battlefields were seen as places to win glory, and officers and nobles typically believed using mages was a sign of weakness.
"So it's not that I want to politicize the war—I suspect Emperor Emhyr has already done so."
"His true forces lie with Marshal Menno's Central Army. Duke de Wett is merely cannon fodder. He wants us Cintrans to destroy de Wett for him. The Western Army is his 'gift' to us—a gift we can't refuse. But in accepting it, we'll bleed away much of our living strength..."
Marshal Vissegerd looked shocked. "To use tens of thousands of troops as cannon fodder—that's…"
"Not just them. We're cannon fodder too," Lann said calmly. "The only difference is—we've hidden far more strength than the emperor ever anticipated. That gives us the confidence to accept this 'gift.'"
"So many Nilfgaardians. So much Black Sun blood... it'll be enough to wash away Cintra's shame." Lann narrowed his eyes. "And as a return gift, I plan to send his duke back to him."
"Because de Wett resents Emhyr? A man like that is more useful alive than dead. That's your thinking?" The marshal's own political instincts quickly caught up.
"But as I understand it, Emhyr is notoriously ruthless. What if he executes de Wett for returning in defeat?"
Lann chuckled softly. "Then that's even better, isn't it? Either way, we lose nothing."
...
Rain pattered relentlessly, tapping against the taut leather stretched over the tent.
This was Upper Sodden.
The Battle of Sodden Hill, fought two years ago, still felt fresh in memory. The falling rain seemed like the weeping of the dead.
Unfortunately, after that battle, the soldiers of the Northern Kingdoms returned to their homes—yet the Nilfgaardians had stubbornly remained, establishing well-fortified military positions and continuing to eye the North with predatory intent.
"Marshal?"
The Emperor's emissary stood behind the towering man and spoke with cautious respect.
Marshal Menno had not removed his armor. Even within the tent, he wore his full suit of chainmail and plate. His once meticulously styled mustache had long gone untrimmed, the toll of constant war leaving little room for grooming.
Peter, the emissary, gazed upon the marshal's back with reverence—for that was the back of a Nilfgaardian legend.
To speak frankly, even if Marshal Menno Coehoorn were to drop dead this very moment, he would still be worthy of the title 'one of the greatest commanders in imperial history'.
If he could carry out even half of the emperor's war plans for the North with unwavering loyalty—then the words 'one of' might be dropped altogether.
But at this moment, the great imperial marshal's brow was furrowed.
"This sealed letter—His Majesty specifically instructed you to deliver it to me? Even though he already sent mages for support, he still made you travel here to bring this in person?"
"Yes, Marshal."
Hearing the emissary's reply, Menno's face remained stoic—but inwardly, he sighed deeply.
The emperor had already dispatched mages to the front, yet he also sent an emissary to hand-deliver a letter. What did that imply?
—It meant that the Emperor valued the battlefield capabilities of mages, but still did not trust them fully. He didn't want them getting access to classified intelligence.
"Three full mage battalions, and they've all been assigned to us here in the Central Army—none to the Western Army?"
"Yes, Marshal."
Another deep sigh echoed silently within the marshal's heart. After so many years navigating both battlefield and court, how could he not see the Emperor's true intentions?
If Lannister's victories with the Eastern Army were real—no matter how he achieved them—then the Western Army's situation was likely several times more dire than their own.
And yet, the Emperor had ordered every mage unit be sent to the Central Army.
Your Majesty... why bring politics onto the battlefield? With so many tools at your disposal within the court, why sacrifice the lives of front-line soldiers to achieve your aims?
Was His Majesty planning to bury the entire Western Army along with Duke de Wett?
Menno clenched the letter in his hand. Waves churned within him, though none of it showed on his face.
"Before delivering the sealed letter, did His Majesty also give you a verbal message?"
The emissary straightened at once, mimicking Emperor Emhyr's tone and expression with uncanny precision.
Only those with exceptional memory were ever chosen to carry royal orders. As Menno closed his eyes, it felt as though the Emperor himself stood before him: "Tell him, I am not angry. I am ashamed. Therefore, I want him to send the remaining Ard Feainn and Alba regiments to Lyria, along with the mages I have assigned him. I want him to cleanse the empire's shame, rebuild the army's right flank, and ensure our campaign can continue."
Message delivered, the emissary resumed his deferential posture. "That is His Majesty's command."
The marshal gave a noncommittal nod. "Understood."
But the problem had just deepened.
The verbal order called for the Ard Feainn and Alba regiments to be sent east—but the written letter requested the deployment of the 7th Cavalry Brigade of Daerlanian and the Nauzicaä Regiment instead.
The distinction was significant.
The Ard Feainn and Alba regiments belonged to the 3rd Legion. The Alba were a mixed unit of heavy cavalry and heavy infantry, while the Ard Feainn, though composed entirely of heavy cavalry, had already lost most of their strength during the battle in Lyria.
The 7th Cavalry Brigade of Daerlanian and the Nauzicaä Regiment belonged to the 4th Cavalry Corps—pure cavalry units, outfitted with lighter equipment, greater mobility, and superior numbers.
Deploying these units involved an entirely different operational plan.
There was no way Peter, the imperial emissary, had simply remembered the orders incorrectly. Anyone promoted to the position of emissary would never make such a mistake.
That left only one possibility—the Emperor didn't even trust his own emissary.
And it wasn't just the army assignments that were different. Even the military objectives were not the same. In the sealed letter, the Emperor clearly stated that the primary goal of this operation was to pressure Lyria and Aedirn, forcing Lannister to once again come to the aid of the Eastern front.
If Lannister did appear—summoned by that strange magic of his—then the Marshal was to send the entire 4th Cavalry Corps, along with all the mages, eastward to capture or eliminate him.
If Lannister didn't appear—or if he fled—then they were to fall back on the secondary objective: occupy Lyria and Rivia, and rebuild the right flank of the Imperial army.
From a tactical standpoint, it was almost absurd—the Emperor had elevated Lannister's value to that of a quarter, even a third, of the entire Northern theater.
But after reading the sealed letter again and thinking it through carefully, Marshal Menno ultimately decided to carry out the Emperor's orders exactly as given, no matter how illogical they seemed.
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