Joint High Command Headquarters, Prussi

  The room was exactly as it had been three months ago. Maps lay unfurled across tables, cigarette smoke curled lazily through the air, and tense faces surrounded the perimeter.

  General Antonio Pérez stood before Marshal Friedrich von Helheim. Behind him, two Venez officers clutched thick folders stuffed with documents. Before him, six Prussi generals wore expressions that had shifted dramatically since their entrance.

  "Marshal." Antonio's voice carried no plea. This was not a request—it was a statement of fact. "Republic of Venez contingent has completed its three-month tour of duty as stipulated in our agreement. We will begin troop withdrawal effective today."

  Marshal Friedrich slowly set down his pipe. His eyes locked onto Antonio without so much as a blink. "General Pérez. You're well aware of the situation on the Southern Front. We're launching a major offensive next week. Your men have gained invaluable experience now. They're needed."

  "Three months." Antonio emphasized each word deliberately. "That was the agreement."

  "Agreements can be renegotiated." Friedrich rose and walked to the massive wall map. His finger traced the red markers indicating enemy troop concentrations. "Look at this. The Rusky have amassed 300,000 men in this sector alone. If they break through, our entire defensive line could collapse. Your forces—"

  "—are Venez forces." Antonio's interruption came not harshly, but with unmistakable finality. "They were sent to learn, Marshal. Not to die defending Prussi soil."

  "Learn?" General Klaus von Stahl—the same man who had once dismissed him with such contempt—now spoke in an entirely different tone. Softer... almost pleading, like someone trying to persuade a reluctant friend. "General Pérez, you know what's happening out there. Your men have learned more than enough. They've proven themselves on the battlefield. Now they could be the difference between victory and defeat."

  Antonio studied him. Klaus, once so arrogant, now bore the marks of sleepless nights—shadowed eyes, a slightly rumpled collar. War did that to everyone, sooner or later.

  "General." Antonio's voice dropped lower. "I understand your situation. I recognize what's at stake. But I have my orders."

  "Orders from whom?" Friedrich turned sharply. "Your President? I can speak with him directly. I'm certain—"

  "Orders from Mateo Guerrero."

  The name carved silence into the room.

  Friedrich stared at him. "That boy?"

  "The President's Special Advisor." Antonio showed no offense at the dismissive term. "He drafted this agreement. He determined its timeline. And he—" Antonio paused, selecting his words with care, "—does not take kindly to broken agreements."

  Klaus watched with barely concealed unease. They'd all read intelligence reports about what happened to those who crossed "El Arquitecto."

  Reports about businessmen who vanished into thin air. About ministers arrested in the dead of night. About newspapers that suddenly changed their editorial stance overnight. That boy was the troublesome type...

  Friedrich retreated to his chair. His fingers drummed against the desk. Tap-tap-tap. The sound reminded Antonio of the clock in his study back home.

  "How much time do you need for the withdrawal?" Friedrich asked at last.

  "Three days for heavy equipment. One week for all personnel."

  "And if we delay your ships' departure? Technical difficulties at the port?"

  Antonio allowed himself a thin smile. "Marshal, I've already ordered our captains to depart on schedule. If anyone attempts to forcibly delay them... it will be considered an act of hostility."

  Friedrich held his gaze for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Not a joyful sound—a bitter, dry chuckle, like a man who'd just lost everything at the gambling tables.

  "You Venez—small, impoverished, without even a proper navy. But you've got guts." He shook his head, still wearing that rueful smile. "Fine. Take your soldiers home. But remember this, General Pérez—"

  Antonio waited.

  "—someday, the Prussi Empire may not look kindly upon friends who abandon her in her hour of greatest need."

  Antonio nodded once. "I'll make note of that, Marshal. But for now, an agreement remains an agreement."

  He offered a crisp salute—respectful enough, but not exaggerated—then turned and left the room. Behind him, the heavy door closed with an echoing thud.

  Inside, Klaus von Stahl faced the Marshal. "We're simply letting them go?"

  Friedrich retrieved his pipe, relighting it with slow, deliberate movements. "We have no choice. That boy in Caraccass... he's playing a different game entirely. Not war, but something far more slippery." He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "And we've only just realized it, far too late."

  ***

  2:00 PM. Rear Lines, 3 Kilometers from the Trenches.

  The rain had stopped. For the first time in weeks, patches of blue peeked through the gray clouds overhead. Perhaps an omen. Perhaps mere coincidence.

  Captain Sánchez stood atop an overturned ammunition crate, clutching a message just delivered by courier. Surrounding him, hundreds of soldiers had gathered. Their faces—dirty, gaunt, eyes hollow—stared back with expressions ranging from apathy to faint curiosity.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Attention!" Sánchez's voice emerged raspy but carried nonetheless. "I have an announcement from high command!"

  Silence fell. Some still clutched their rifles. Others sat directly in the mud. All waited.

  "In accordance with our original agreement, the Venez contingent's tour of duty on Europania soil has concluded." Sánchez paused, sweeping his gaze across his men. "We're being sent home!"

  Silence.

  Then—someone laughed. Not normal laughter. Something strange, half-hysterical, like a man who'd just realized he wouldn't face the firing squad after all.

  Others joined in. Some shouted. Some wept. A young soldier collapsed to his knees in the mud, hands covering his face, shoulders heaving with silent sobs.

  "QUIET!" Sánchez roared, though without real anger. He waited until the commotion subsided. "Don't celebrate yet. We haven't reached the ships. There's still a long journey ahead, still risks to face."

  Juan Martínez stood in the back ranks, Carlos beside him. He didn't shout. Didn't cry. But deep in his chest, something that had long been dead—or merely dormant—began to stir again.

  "Home." The word felt foreign on his tongue. For three months, home had existed only in dreams. In the President's radio speeches. In worn photographs tucked into pockets. Now the word had become real.

  Carlos gripped his arm. His hands trembled. "Juan... we're going home. We're actually going home."

  Juan looked at him. Carlos, the eternal cynic who'd once said "my mother's dead, so no one's waiting for me"—his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  "Yeah," Juan whispered. "We're going home."

  ***

  6:00 PM. Temporary Assembly Point, 10 Kilometers from the Front Lines.

  The evacuation process unfolded... strangely.

  They gathered in an open field surrounded by military trucks. Not an official base—just empty farmland in the middle of nowhere, encircled by forest. Officers bustled about, counting heads, checking names, ensuring no one got left behind.

  "Why here?" a soldier beside Juan wondered aloud. "Why not the main base?"

  "Shut up," another replied. "We're going home. That's all that matters."

  But Juan noticed things. The arriving trucks bore no unit markings. Their drivers—men in plain uniforms without insignia—moved quickly, efficiently, and barely spoke. Not ordinary soldiers. Something in the way they moved set them apart.

  "They're like ghosts," Carlos murmured, reading Juan's thoughts.

  Juan nodded but asked nothing.

  One by one, soldiers climbed into the trucks. Canvas covers plunged them into darkness—hot, cramped, suffocating. But no one complained. No one questioned. Home was all that mattered.

  Inside the truck, Juan sat wedged between Carlos and an unfamiliar soldier. The vehicle lurched over rough roads. Engines roared. Outside, artillery grew progressively fainter.

  "Juan." Carlos nudged him. "You still have that photograph?"

  Juan's hand automatically touched his pocket. Isabella's photo remained there, carefully folded, stored in the safest possible place. Next to the picture of his mother and sister.

  "Still."

  "Going to return it?"

  Juan didn't answer. He didn't know yet.

  The truck kept bouncing along. Night began to fall. In the darkness, no one spoke. But Juan could feel it—in every crowded body, in every exhaled breath—a sense of relief so profound it bordered on disbelief.

  They'd survived.

  They were going home.

  ***

  11:00 PM. Harbor, Northern Prussi Coast.

  Not a major port with stone docks and electric lights—a modest harbor, neither large nor small—three ships waited. Ordinary cargo vessels, flying no flags, bearing no markings.

  Soldiers disembarked from trucks in small groups. No shouting. No harsh commands. Only quick, silent movement, like a covert operation.

  "Why all the secrecy?" Carlos whispered again. "We're Prussi allies, aren't we?"

  "Maybe because we're allies who are leaving," Juan replied softly. "Not everyone likes watching their allies depart when problems remain unresolved."

  Aboard ship, they gathered in cargo holds converted into makeshift barracks. Thin mats on metal floors. Buckets for sanitation. Hard biscuits and drinking water. No one complained.

  Juan stretched out on his mat. The metal beneath him radiated cold. Around him, dozens of other soldiers did the same. Some had already fallen asleep, exhausted beyond measure. Others sat up, staring into space—perhaps still unable to believe.

  Carlos settled beside him. "You know," he said quietly, "when we first left, I thought it was all nonsense. The President's speeches. The promise of three months. The ships that would supposedly come for us. I thought we'd die here, and no one would care."

  Juan stared at the metal ceiling. "And now?"

  Carlos fell silent for a moment. Then—"Now I don't know what to feel. Relief? Anger? Guilt for surviving when others didn't?"

  Juan thought of Diego. His shattered face. Isabella's photo still in his pocket.

  "Maybe we don't need to know," he said finally. "Maybe it's enough that we're still alive."

  Outside, the ship's engines rumbled to life. The vessel slowly pulled away from the dock. In the darkened cargo hold, no one cheered. No one shouted.

  But in every heart, something loosened its grip. The weight they'd carried for three months began, little by little, to lift.

  They were going home.

  ***

  2:00 AM. Joint High Command Headquarters, Prussi.

  Marshal Friedrich stood at his office window, gazing at the distant sky.

  Klaus von Stahl entered without knocking. His face was flushed, his breathing heavy. "Marshal! They've left! Those ships—"

  "I know." Friedrich didn't turn. "I've seen the reports."

  "We should—"

  "Should what?" Friedrich faced him, eyes weary. "Sink their ships? Declare war on Venez? For what? A hundred and fifty thousand troops who barely affect our front-line strength?"

  Klaus fell silent. His hands clenched at his sides.

  "We've already lost at the negotiating table, Klaus." Friedrich turned back to the window. "That boy—Mateo Guerrero—he knew exactly when to enter and when to withdraw. He used us to train his forces, equipped them with our weapons, then pulled them out just before the situation truly deteriorated."

  "So we simply accept this?"

  Friedrich sighed deeply. "We don't simply accept it. We... acknowledge a minor defeat and learn from it. Next time, we won't craft agreements with such gaping loopholes."

  He sipped his cognac—long since gone cold, though he hadn't noticed. "Besides, we still have a major war to win. The Rusky remain out there. Brittonia still blockades us. No time to rage at minor allies who choose to go home."

  Klaus's jaw tightened, but he nodded reluctantly. "Yes, Marshal."

  "Go. Rest. Tomorrow we still have that hill to take."

  Klaus left, closing the door slightly harder than necessary.

  Friedrich remained at the window, watching the ship lights recede into darkness. Three tiny points slowly fading on the horizon.

  "Sly boy," he murmured to himself. "May our paths never cross on another battlefield."

  ***

  Three Weeks Later. At Sea, 200 Miles from the Venez Coast.

  The sun rose in the eastern sky, painting the ocean in shades of orange and gold. For the first time in three months, Juan felt warm sunlight on his face.

  He stood on deck among hundreds of other soldiers. No one spoke. Everyone simply gazed eastward, toward where—sooner or later—the Venez coast would appear.

  Carlos approached, carrying two cups of coffee. He handed one to Juan. "You know the first thing I'm doing when we disembark?"

  "What?"

  "Hot shower, until my skin peels off." Carlos smiled—the first genuine smile Juan had seen in months. "Then sleep on a mattress that doesn't smell like mud and corpses."

  Juan sipped his coffee. Bitter. But better than trench coffee.

  "You?" Carlos asked.

  Juan thought of the photograph in his pocket. Isabella. Diego. The promise he'd made to a dead man.

  "I need to go somewhere," he said at last. "Return something."

  Carlos looked at him with understanding. "Be careful, Juan. The people in that palace... they're different from us."

  "I know." Juan gazed at the sun-painted sea. "But a promise is a promise."

  The ship pressed onward, leaving the battlefield behind, drawing closer to a home that might have changed—or perhaps they were the ones who had changed. On deck, thousands of soldiers wept silently, smiled, prayed.

  They were going home. Not all of them, but the living were coming home.

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