One moment, the ground had been there, the next, it was gone. A crack of sound, much alike to thunder, the deafness, and ringing of his head. Ibrahov lay face down in the sopping mud, picking himself up to cough out a clod of dirt. Around him was a mess of blood, limbs, and gore. His head continued to beat, and he could only stare dumbfounded, as the sound of fifes filled the air. His Army had not been issued fifes. Blue coats filled his vision. His army wore green. He fumbled for his sword. It was not there. Stumbling, he almost fell but was caught. Lieutenant General Daniels assured him everything was alright, and that his men were still fighting. So where were they? The moans of tortured souls droned on, groans as men realised missing limbs and bloody garments. The bugle call for a disengage could be heard. The rain whipped on, a river of blood flowing downhill. Back down the hill. Back to square one. He had lost.

Daniels hauled his commander, even as his own lifeblood pumped out of him. Ibrahov was worse for wear, his right arm a tattered mess, blood dripping down his lips. The enemy rifles began again, and what men remained died in contortions, eviscerated by the sheer power. Daniels felt a jolt of pain in his right leg. Then his left, but still, he held onto the commander, and tumbled back to Headquarters. As attendants swarmed around Ibrahov, the lieutenant general bled out on the ground. The artillery had not fired, he had given strict orders not to fire at all, against Ibrahov’s orders, so what went wrong? Going numb, Daniels died as the Romanovs fled. His final thoughts were of his family, and in one hand he clasped a stopwatch.

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The mines had done their work, Frederick noted. The aftermath was not pretty, but it had decided the battle. The 1st and 2nd got to work rounding up prisoners, while the rest of the Legion chased after the remnants. Ibrahov was nowhere to be seen. The Prince noticed a sheen in the ground. In the stiff hands of an officer was an antique, a timepiece that had seen better days. Opening it up, the glass had been shattered, and the internal clockwork could be seen. A picture fell out. Curious, Frederick picked it up, and inspected it. A streak mark had damaged it badly, but he could make out the figure of a young woman. Her face had been struck off by the mark, but resplendent in a summer dress, a hat tipped ever so slightly, underneath a blossoming tree. But Frederick was awestruck by her hair, blowing in the wind, long and silver. The Prince pocketed his findings, and accepted a bottle of wine from Gridion, ecstatic with the victory. Today had been good to him, and he went to celebrate.

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