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Every autumn, the docks two or three kilometers from Hawthorn Village filled with ships from Hanma City. They left behind gold coins or the goods they had agreed upon, and carried away basket after basket of freshly picked hawthorn berries to be made into preserves and all kinds of snacks that could be stored for a long time.

This autumn, there were countless times more ships from Hanma City than in previous years. The people disembarking were not merchants, but soldiers from the Duchy of Mainz.

The docks were too small, so many transport ships let their passengers off along the riverbank. After disembarking, the soldiers in brownish-yellow uniforms looked curiously at the distant hawthorn orchards, the neatly scattered wooden houses in the village, and the hunters hurrying home from the woods.

Beyond the orchards stretched dense forest, and many villagers made their living by hunting, familiar with every inch of the land within.

The soldiers were looking at the scenery, and the people in the scenery were looking at them.

Sir Liber, lord of Hawthorn Village, stood atop the tallest wooden watchtower of his three-story castle—or perhaps it was better called a blockhouse—and gazed at the great army along the riverbank. He let out a helpless sigh.

But Liber's thoughts were seized by a blood-soaked name from deep in his memories: Hanma City Fortress. The disastrous defeat in that war, fought by the entire kingdom many years ago, came back to him with terrible clarity.

The full might of the Danma Kingdom's army had been like a raging tide crashing against a reef, smashed to pieces at the feet of the Fire-Breathing Behemoths stationed outside Hanma City by the Duchy of Mainz and the Duchy of Bayern.

That year, young Liber had been among the troops preparing to besiege