The next few days were a haze.
Struggling to comprehend the workings of the darkened world around her, Sascha absently sat in the back of one of many overly populated horse-led carts heading to the front.
She was part of an entourage of around a hundred rejects and lessers, cast out and deemed unimportant enough to die for those who had higher standings than them.
She wore standard-issued clothing without any real protection to speak of.
To the wealthy city-state alliance which spanned across multiple provinces, including that of the Niedling, life came cheap but steel did not.
Yet to begin her training, she had no thought out plans on how to escape or survive the battlefield ahead of her.
The repercussions of desertion would be felt directly by her immediate family, and she had no intention of punishing them for her own failures.
Nor could she bring herself to harm others after the oath of pacifism she had sworn as a proud, former student of the Zusters.
Not to mention the sheer dread she felt of participating in a battlefield not dominated by numbers, but by spiritual might.
She had heard many stories about the front, and every single one was more disturbing than the last.
In comparison, while those around her were likely weak of aura due to their lack of social standing, she was a rare spiritual void.
It made socializing difficult, as even the weakest of minds sensed that something was off about her.
Not that she had put in a lot of effort towards befriending her fellow recruits, as her darkened thoughts kept her isolated from the happenings of the world around her.
She looked up and took note of her green surroundings.
To see the beauty of the deep forests and its lively fauna while being unable to feel the divinity within was a difficult reality she had yet to come to terms with.
She had heard rumours of the Legion she was being sent to, and they gave strength to Oswald’s earlier warnings.
An army of beasts and barbarians, driven by nothing but bloodlust, adrenaline and sheer rage, feared and barely tolerated by even their own allies.
Led by something that had shed its humanity long ago, this utterly despised Legion was known even to her.
It was the very posterboy of separatist propaganda, the ideal target to point at when it came to showcasing the many evils of the states.
And she was to be an unwilling part of it.
As they travelled, the landscape had changed to such a drastic degree that even her inner thoughts could not distract her from noticing the savagery that was enacted on the lands around her.
A windmill spun its blackened sails while overlooking the scorched devastation that was once the home of many.
For some buildings, only the foundation remained.
Others laid in countless broken pieces across the fields surrounding it.
The remains of the dead lay scattered and maimed, their bodies ruined beyond recognition by the touch of both flame and axe.
Whether the city-states themselves or their hated opponent were responsible for this travesty, she could not guess.
She did not want to.
At last, their destination was within the horizon.
In the smoldering ruins of an old city named Holten, the Third Legion had made its home.
The landscape surrounding the corpse city was scarred by burn marks, tree stumps and ash.
Sascha still remembered Holten from when she was a small child, passing through the lively city with her father on their grand journey heading towards the Needle.
She remembered being in awe of just how happy everyone seemed compared to where they had come from.
It felt like a kinder, gentler world, one she hadn’t left for so many years.
Now she stood in its ashes, brought about by a war Albert and many others deemed unavoidable.
Was it a war, even?
It had been rather hard to accurately ascertain the true scope of the conflict from behind the high, protective walls of Vendaal.
But given that the hostilities originated all the way from the Anderslanden, it was an absurd thought that the fighting had apparently reached all the way to the most-eastern part of the Niedling.
As they rode closer, Sascha was able to better observe the infamous Legion’s inner workings.
Used to the golden armour of Reumann’s Legion and vaguely familiar with the silver-blue of the Fourth, she was surprised to find this Legion lacked any coherency.
There was little in the way of shared attire between these men, and they clearly had none of the rigid discipline that the soldiers known to her all shared.
It seemed to be a place that encouraged individualism above all else, for better or worse.
Looking closer, she realized the cause of this originality as even some of the foot soldiers had decorated themselves with jewelry and wargear that would have taken a serf a lifetime to obtain.
Given the Legion’s infamy she expected to see brawls, infighting and other symptoms of such a disobedient, degenerate bunch, but it was nothing of the like.
It felt like a fraternic gathering of friends and brothers, and a very enthusiastically loud one at that.
She glanced at her fellow initiates and they looked as uncertain as she probably did.
A nearby shout startled her company, as the cart’s journey came to a sudden end.
A disfigured, sour looking man was waiting for them while they dismounted their carriages.
Hunched, his bald head bore a vertical scar separating his left half from what remained on the right.
Young of age, made old and brittle by the horrors of the battlefield.
Most of his remaining features were hidden behind his long and unkempt beard and the thick robe that dragged over the ground behind him.
While Sascha was studying his features, their eyes had met for a moment.
A chill ran down her spine, as in his one remaining eye she saw that this man knew her.
She quickly averted her gaze, hoping that she was mistaken.
‘Initiatiates!’ the man growlingly commanded.
Taken aback by the sheer strength in his voice, she subconsciously straightened her posture.
‘You all have been lucky enough to be assigned to the glorious Third Legion.
The strongest Legion, according to many, led by the undefeatable God of the Battlefield himself.
Whether by choice or due to other circumstances..’ he paused knowingly, as a devious smirk appeared on his face.
‘You are now one of us.
For those coming here from other Legions, I have this to say: disregard your previous teachings on how warfare is enacted,’ He pulled a broken half-smile.
‘As you all hopefully know, each of the Five Legions enjoys their own unique privileges, and we are no different.
Ours is that we may wage war as we see fit, unbound by the traditional rules of proper conflict or the scrutiny of those above us.’
He stepped forward, undoing his robe to reveal a myriad of silver and golden rings, expensive necklaces and sculpted armbraces scattered over his broken body.
‘Ours is the richest Legion, for we take what is within our grasp regardless of what hand holds the bounty.’ He pointed forwards to the newcomers and smiled wryly, ‘Perform well, and you will make your own fortune faster than even some of those stuck-up nobles can manage.
Do poorly however..’ as he moved his pointing finger to his disfigured half self, ‘..and this place can be very cruel to you.’
Satisfied with himself, he clapped his hands loudly, ‘So.
That is all.
Normally you’d receive a bit of weapons and survival training but given the circumstances we are rather short handed, and we need all the extra hands we can get.
Even if they are more than likely to be chopped off before they accomplish anything of worth.
So, form lines and every person takes one of the spears behind me and we’ll be off to do battle within the next hour.’
The notion seemed absurd to Sascha, as she had expected to go days, perhaps even weeks without seeing actual combat.
Her mind went in overture, attempting to process the reality of the hell she would be stepping into not too long from now, her inability to find a means of escape suddenly many times more pressing.
‘Who will we be fighting, Ser?’ an especially courageous young, male recruit loudly asked the decrepit.
The hunched man seemed to enjoy his bluntness, and answered without issue.
‘Don’t worry too much about that,’ the man lightly spoke while he made a disregarding gesture, almost as if the question was an unimportant one.
‘You’ll be in the presence of our Legion’s Lord soon enough, as he has already gone out to fight the enemy by himself.
And I promise you, his very presence will take away any and all sense of doubt or fear you might now experience.’
The scarred knight cackled to himself, as if he had just shared the funniest jest.
‘I am Ser Ezekiel, by the way.
Fourth in command, primary strategist of our Legion and one of the few that is still granted our Lord’s listening ear.
Remember my name, as it belongs to the person that will send you to your death one day.
But until then, we will revel in our Legion’s shared glory together, like brothers and sisters ought to.’
Lines were formed, as per Ezekiel’s instructions.
Sascha peeked forwards and past the other recruits to gaze in bewonderment at the so-called spears being handed out to the newcomers.
They were overly basic and made out of wood, lacking any semblance of metal or even the most basic of craftsmanship.
They were nothing more than long, wooden poles with their heads sharpened, and sometimes not even that.
She sincerely wondered how they expected her to meaningfully contribute at all with only a glorified stick as a means of defense.
Ezekiel was watching her again, halting her immediate thoughts.
A recognizing smile crept onto his maimed lips, and Sascha’s body froze as a response.
He grinned, gesturing at her to come closer.
Having no real choice, she meekly obeyed the hunched half-knight.
‘Walk with me,’ he spoke casually, his tone much less commanding than before.
They walked through the city’s rubble and ruins, past many smaller camps filled with soldiers gambling, drinking or just enjoying themselves with a good conversation.
None of them seemed to care that they might die in an hour’s time, Sascha felt.
Or were they just that confident in their own strength?
‘A bird came, asking for a favor of the Third,’ Ezekiel remarked, as he greeted some of his subordinates in a rather friendly, casual manner.
‘Then another came, asking much the same thing.’ He chuckled, the sound made rasped by his grievous facial wound.
‘Yet we have explicit orders to kill you, before you would even set foot on your first battlefield.’
Sascha froze in her tracks.
‘So will you?’ she asked with a half-cracked voice, tired of her life’s uncertainty and simply wanting the answer here and now.
Ezekiel laughed again, the action visibly paining him at the end.
‘Maybe.
It is a difficult choice, and none of my brothers are here to advise me on the matter.
The punishment for disobedience is great, Sascha.
The potential rewards however, even greater.
And the influentials asking for your survival are not easily denied, and tend to hold a grudge.’ He sleazily smiled.
‘I’m terribly biased, of course,’ Sascha began, hesitantly.
Ezekiel laughed at that.
‘But this Legion does not strike me as being risk-adverse, not in the slightest.’
‘We are not,’ Ezekiel admitted, seemingly entertained with the conversation.
‘Oh, but girl, the fury that would be unleashed onto us were they to find out we let you go..heaven’s wrath would pale in comparison.’
‘I won’t tell,’ Sascha half-joked, feeling that humour, strangely enough, might be her unexpected savior in that moment.
Ezekiel chuckled again, but only for it to turn into a solemn grimace seconds later.
‘I was hoping for some stronger arguments from your side, Sascha.
So no more jokes now.
Your life’s in the balance at this very moment.
Make the defining argument, or I will slit your throat here and now.’ He unsheathed his blade and put it against her neck, hurting her and drawing the slightest bit of blood in the process.
‘Live or die by your own chosen words, girl,’ Ezekiel demanded loudly, his pushing blade demanding a quick answer, to the great entertainment of those around him.
Sascha thought for seconds, her head spinning with panic and adrenaline, until finally settling on an answer that would as likely seen her slain as guarantee her survival.
‘Let me live, so I can attempt to recreate and preserve my father’s era-defining work.
Even you, here so far out in the fields of battle, surely must know someone once blessed by his gentle hands.
Consider this to be a favor repaid, if you’d like.’