Dusk fell on the battlefield as the sun slowly hid beneath the horizon. The scent of blood and gore permeated the air along clouds of dust and smoke from the countless small fires spread around the plains. Rotting carcasses of numerous diverse beasts were piled up in mounds while the soldiers were setting them on fire.

Maria stood on a small hill overlooking this macabre painting of human struggle and misery. The constant days of fighting took a toll on morale. Injuries and death were aplenty. Half of her Knight Order remained, while even fewer were fit to fight. Her armour was battered and bruised, pieced together from the remnants of her fallen comrades. Her once lustrous silver hair was now covered in blood and dirt, while her face was marred with soothe from the constant fires. In this deranged battlefield where life was worth less than dirt, she had no time for vanity; only victory mattered.

She looked momentarily at the large plumes of smoke heading toward the heavens before making sure of the state of the night watch. Her only comfort was that the beasts' night assault had waned recently, allowing her company a small respite. Once her orders were given, she retired to her tent. As the battlefield commander, her dwellings were located next to the Count.

She greeted him in passing. The Count was just as exhausted as she was. His face showed listlessness and uncertainty, yet she didn't have the energy to concern herself with his well-being. She entered the small home only to find Richard waiting for her inside.

His expression was just as grim as her own. As a medic, he had spent the last week bathed in blood and entrails, trying desperately to save whatever life he could, yet, in most cases, he was powerless. To watch life slowly slip away from his fellow man gnawed at his conscience. Although he knew in his brain that he was no god, something in his heart told him he was responsible for their deaths.

Maria removed her armour before nonchalantly throwing it in the corner of the tent. She then slumped in a nearby chair while a long and heart-wrenching sigh escaped her lips. She tilted her head backwards, letting her long hair flow to the ground before closing her eyes. Vivid scenes of her men being ripped apart by countless beasts flashed in her mind, preventing her from getting any rest. The memory jolted her from her lull. She rested her elbows on her knees, cupping her forehead within her palms in dejection.

“Don't blame yourself," Richard said, raising her chin with his hand while squatting beside her. "We can only do so much. We all made the choice to be here. Our life and death are always in our own hands.”

“If only my heart could believe so," she said while looking into his eyes.

A sad smile graced his lips before he rose to stand behind her chair, massaging her wary shoulders.

“How much longer can we last?” he asked after a moment of silence.

The question extirpated her from the comfort of his touch. She frowned, calculating the answer. However she did, the answer was always the same, grim.

"I wish the Princess would return soon," she said at last.

“Although she may seem like a beacon of hope, she is still just a young girl. Isn't it harsh of us to thrust this reality onto her?"

“This is her fate as one born into royalty... her duty."

“Sometimes, I wish she wasn’t. A smile is best suited for her lovely face instead of this harsh battlefield.”

“Oh," she said, raising a delicate eyebrow. "You mean, this place is where I belong then; that blood, gore and dirt suit me?"

“You are always beautiful, whatever the circumstances,” he replied with a mischievous smile.

“Hmph! You are quite the charmer. Be careful not to be found dead in a ditch, stabbed by a vengeful woman for your comments.”

“Don’t worry, you are the only one for me.”

“What about the Princess, then?”

“She feels just like my little sister.”

“Isn’t that lèse-majesté? It seems your death is closer than I thought. Speaking of Claire. Is it not about time for her to be engaged?”

“Father is very protective of her. He still hasn’t found someone suitable.”

“Haha! She will die of old age before that doting old man resolves himself to let her go."

Small banter with this man always seemed to ease her worries. She felt a small flame of warmth slowly illuminate the coldness of her heart. Richard used a bucket of water to wash her hair slowly while she rested on the chair, making small, unimportant talks. Any urgent matter would be best left for the following day. She felt her fatigue slowly melt away, along with the blood and dirt of her hair.

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Once he was done, he attempted to leave the tent, hoping to cleanse the bucket's content, yet Maria gently held his hand while only the word "stay” escaped her gorgeous lips. Richard felt a blaze rise within his heart at the sight of this small moment of weakness from this otherwise superwoman. They spent the night cuddled against each other, feeling each other warmth on this otherwise cold night.

The next day, Maria rose with the birds singing, refreshed. The night had been peaceful for once. No alarms from the night watch rang for the first time in days. She spent the first hour of the morning cleaning her armour as best as possible while Richard fetched breakfast for the both of them. She regretted not doing so sooner as the blood and dirt had hardened overnight. Once she was done, she ate the warm meal brought to her before donning the bruised metal and making her way toward the Count’s tent.

The Count was still the same as always, slumped over countless reports from the surrounding region. His cheeks were slightly sunken in from days of exhaustion and malnutrition. Dark circles hung below his eyes. Many officials came to and fro, carrying even more paperwork each time. Maria wondered what could warrant such an excessive amount of reports.

She stood in front of the desk, watching the Count work while a nervous silence from the officials hung in the air as if two predators faced others. Without lifting his head, the Count was the first to break the silence.

"How's the front line?" he asked curtly.

"Holding... for now, but our resources are wearing thin, whether manpower or supplies."

The Count's head rose from the documents before tilting it back in exhaustion. He softly massaged the corner of his eyes, trying to fight the fatigue that assaulted him.

"That's the problem, isn't it?" he said, more to himself than others.

"Something wrong with our supply line?" she asked before taking a seat and sipping on the offered cup of tea.

"There's been..." the Count paused, choosing his following words carefully, "...discrepancies in the numbers. Something more than a simple filling error."

"Embezzlement, you mean?" she replied with a dark expression. "While we are dying on the front line, trashes intend to profit from it? It seems the Princess will have a lot of work to do once this is over.”

“Is this related to her Highness’s trip to the north?”

“Quite well informed, aren’t you? Sorry, but you aren’t cleared to know.”

“No matter. Our supplies take precedence."

“How long do we have?”

The Count paused once again, recalling all the information he had received in recent days.

“Two days at the current rate... maybe a week if we ration them.”

“We can’t,” she said with a calmness that froze the entire room. "Soldiers need to eat to fight. We are already asking them to die. I won't ask them to go hungry as well.”

“Then we can only retreat back to the fort.”

“Can your granaries even sustain our numbers?”

“Not for long, I'm afraid. Since we signed the armistice, most of the supplies stored in the castle have been transferred away."

“On your order?” she asked.

He shook his head before raising a single finger to the sky.

“Those bastards...” she muttered before adding out loud, “Don’t they know that we can’t trust the Empire to abide by those terms? The war could start anew at any moment.”

"For now, that seems unlikely. My spies have reported that trouble is brewing on the Empire's side."

“Something resembling our situation?”

"No. Apparently, there is dissent within the Empire's court. Something concerning the armistice. That is about all my spies could find for now.”

“I trust you have informed her Majesty?”

“Of course.”

"Then I should be going if there's nothing else. This is shaping to be another gruelling day on the front line."

The Count looked conflicted, which made Maria pause. After a moment, he finally resolved himself.

"There's one last thing, last night I..." but before he could finish his sentence, a sentry stationed at the edge of the camp rushed into the tent while panting heavily. His clothes were soaked throughout with sweat. The Count frowned, wishing to punish the young man for his lack of decorum, but Maria waved her hand, allowing the man to speak.

“There are riders at the southern gate,” the man said while catching his breath.

“From the fort?” the Count said while frowning. “How many are there? Any coat of arms?”

"Over two hundred, from what little I could count. They come bearing the White Tiger!"

Maria and the Count both looked at each other, knowing what the other thought, but before they could put their doubts into words, a young man barged into the command tent, shoving the sentry aside with a blow from the back of his hand.

The sentry lost his balance and tumbled to the side, his head spinning while blood flowed from a cut above his eyelid. Maria frowned at the flagrant display of barbarism. She wondered which idiot had the nerve to act so arrogantly in her presence.

“Make way!" the man said, shoving the other officials aside while making his way toward the Count's desk. He was accompanied by another young man and a contingent of guards.

It turned out to be the man she had met previously at the castle on a hill, the Count's own son. She turned to face the father, but his expression couldn't be more ugly. His face was a mixture of red and blue, a mix of shame and anger. She chose to take a step back and simply observe the situation before making any move.

The man accompanying the son felt out of place on this battlefield. He wore a white uniform lined with golden threads while precious stones adorned his cuffs. A cloak rested on his shoulders, with the image of a white tiger embroidered on the back. His black hair with strands of white was coiffed backwards, exposing his forehead, making him look elegant yet delicate, unfit for the battlefield.

“Father!” the son said. “Rejoice, for I have brought you reinforcements!”

The Count's expression grew even uglier somehow. He even wished he could slap some sense into him, even in front of everyone. His only solace was that the Princess wasn't here to see this disgrace. Before he could reply, however, the young man spoke first.

"I come on my father, the Western Duke's behalf, to relieve you of your duty, Count Burnwood."

The Count was livid. He had toiled day and night since the start of this stampede. He wouldn't let some young upstart with no authority push him around. He opened his mouth to speak, but Maria stopped him first.

“On what grounds?” she asked.

The young man turned toward her, scrutinizing her up and down. She felt as if he was licking her with his eyes. She felt nothing but disgust but reigned it in.

“Who might you be?” the man asked after a moment of silence.

“Maria Valeria Campbell,” she replied with a coldness that permeated the room.

The man smiled.

“I must say, you look dreadful, my lady," the man said.

“I should hope so,” she replied indifferently. “I dressed for the occasion since this is a battlefield and not a soirée in the capital.”

Unfortunately, her sarcasm was lost on him. The more she looked at the man, the more she felt that something was wrong.

The timing of their arrival is much too convenient, she thought. This cannot be a coincidence.