Franz's gaze swept over the corpses, and a complicated emotion welled up inside him. He too was from the Northern Border. He knew all too well the cruelty of war, and he knew that a game between those lofty figures became an unbearable mountain when it fell upon ordinary people. Those who sat in palaces issuing orders would never see the bodies lying by the roadside, never hear the cries of widows and orphans. They knew only power, only profit, only a struggle to the death.
He shook his head hard, casting aside those unnecessary thoughts. This was not the time for sentiment. He had a more important mission. If he failed to deliver the intelligence in time, even more people would die, and more families would be torn apart. He could not let these sights slow him down.
Toward evening, Franz stopped outside a small town. He needed to replenish his dried rations and water, and his horse needed a proper night's rest as well. He found an inconspicuous little inn, rented the cheapest room, and handed his horse over to the waiter, telling him to feed it plenty of fodder. After washing up briefly and eating something, he lay down to rest.
But he did not sleep deeply. Years of military life had bred a habit into him—he remained alert even while asleep. Any unusual sound would wake him at once. In the middle of the night, he heard a burst of hoofbeats outside. He immediately rolled out of bed, hurried to the window, and looked out. A troop of cavalry was galloping past from outside the town, their hoofbeats rapid and dense. Clearly, there was urgent military news. Franz silently counted himself fortunate that he had not chosen to travel through the night—if he had encountered that