"Go home! Go home!"
"Go home! Go home!"
"Go home! Go home!"
The chants outside the tent grew louder. Mitridas's face turned deathly pale as he gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles went white.
His most trusted aide — the one who had just gone out to try and calm the mutinous soldiers — now lay at his feet. The head had been neatly severed.
Mitridas took a deep, shaky breath and stepped out of the tent.
"Everyone… if you have any demands, speak them. I will accept them all!" he called out to the furious crowd, forcing the words through gritted teeth.
He had already given up any thought of resistance or commands. The only option left was the most humiliating surrender.
"Go home! We want to go home! We're done with this shithole called Perfume Bay!" one soldier shouted. "We've lost enough men already!"
"If in three days we still haven't taken Perfume Bay, I swear on my honor we will withdraw immediately! How about that?" Mitridas tried to appeal to their sense of duty and glory.
"Look, we've sacrificed so much, bled so much — victory is right in front of us! Think of Myr's history and honor! Think of your families and the glory of the city-state! Bring back victory from Perfume Bay and your—"
"Your city-state, sir!" a soldier interrupted with mocking laughter. The crowd roared in agreement. "Let the important people go die for their own damn city!"
"Well said!"
"It's your city-state!"
"We don't want to die! Let the big shots charge into the fire!"
"Respected General, since you crave glory so much, why don't you lead the charge with us?" the chiliarch sneered. "When we were getting shot by arrows and crushed by rolling stones, where were you? Sitting a few miles back, watching through a spyglass?"
Several soldiers raised their spears high. On the tips were the heads of Mitridas's personal guards and aides. Far from angering the crowd, the gruesome display drew thunderous applause.
Mitridas's face turned from white to green and back again. He finally understood the brutal truth: his wealth, his dignity, and his very life were now completely in the hands of these starving, war-weary soldiers who only wanted to go home.
The reality was simple. The men no longer believed any promises. They no longer cared about glory or history. The only thing they wanted was to leave this graveyard alive.
In the end, Mitridas was forced to announce: within three days there would be no further attacks, no movement at all — they would simply maintain the siege. How about that?
Even that demand was cut down. The soldiers gave him three days of total freedom — meaning he could no longer order them to do anything except hand out food and prepare to retreat.
[Finally… it's over!] Mitridas thought as he watched the soldiers disperse. His pounding heart finally began to calm, like a frightened kitten being stroked by a gentle hand.
---
The fifteenth day of the siege — the final day Mitridas had agreed upon with his men for the assault on Perfume Bay.
[Sigh… we're really withdrawing?] Mitridas felt deeply unwilling. In his eyes, Perfume Bay was already in the bag. One more hard push, one more massive assault, and the seemingly impregnable walls would come crashing down.
But after these past few days, he had to face the bitter truth: his control over the army had collapsed completely.
Which meant there was only one choice left — retreat.
"Has the city still given no reply?" he asked his aide, clinging to one last shred of hope. "Not even a single message?"
On the second day of the mutiny, he had shot an arrow into the city demanding surrender.
Of course, the letter made no mention of the mutiny, the lack of supplies, or his inability to continue the siege. Instead it read:
"…Considering the fatigue of the troops after many days of siege, the suffering of the civilians, and the ruin of local industry, I cannot bear to see further bloodshed. I therefore request that you open the gates and surrender, sparing both sides further violence. For the next three days, my forces will take no offensive action as a sign of good faith…"
It sounded better than a Lysene opera singer, but the truth was Mitridas couldn't have launched an attack even if he wanted to. His orders (except for distributing food and preparing to retreat) no longer left the command tent.
The so-called "no offensive action" wasn't out of mercy — it was because he had lost all authority over the army.
Now, any command (even simple requests to maintain basic order) was treated as "the bed-warming general's little schemes" or "trying to make us obey that ass-selling idiot."
"Sir, the city has given no response at all," the aide replied, lowering his head to avoid his commander's gaze filled with both hope and fear.
Mitridas took a deep breath.
"Then… we withdraw," he said bitterly.
"Tell the soldiers."
"We are retreating!"
[Still… when you think about it, it's not a total loss,] he told himself as his slaves and personal guards packed up his gilded wine cups, silverware, and carpets. A strange, self-soothing sense of satisfaction rose in his chest.
[At least my earlier victories were real, right?] he comforted himself. [Pebble Slope and Stridar! Those are solid achievements! No one can take them away!]
Of course, he carefully ignored the inconvenient facts — like why there had been no major field battles so far, and why they had never once encountered the main Volantene legions.
He also remembered how, before the war, he had cleverly maneuvered at the alliance council. Using the excuse of "securing the rear" and "eliminating flank threats," he had pinned the Tyroshi down to garrison Stridar and sent the Lyseni south along the lower Disputed River toward the estuary. Thinking back on it, he almost hummed with satisfaction.
[Those fools — the Tyroshi spice merchants and the Lysene fishermen — in the end they still had to listen to me! With this campaign, Myr has proven who is truly qualified to lead the Three Daughters!] The corners of his mouth curled upward as he imagined the immortal glory he had brought to Myr.
[When I return to the city, with these "victories" and my political maneuvering to sideline the other two, not only will I receive a huge reward and become a wealthy man… I might even be able to secure a governorship — a real one with actual power! Or perhaps… a permanent general's position!]
---
Noon. The scorching sun hung high, baking the cracked earth around Perfume Bay. The steam rising from the Bitter Weep mixed with the heat, turning the entire Myrish camp into a suffocating steam oven. The soldiers, who had looked numb from hunger and exhaustion, now all lifted their heads at once. Their dull eyes filled with instinctive terror.
The first thing they felt was the ground trembling. Not from war drums — but from the synchronized thunder of thousands of feet and hooves striking the earth, as if a giant beast on the horizon had just awakened.
Then, in the faint morning light, one Volantene legion banner after another appeared on the crest of the hills — second, third, fourth — quickly forming an endless, suffocating forest.
The first banner was purple with silver trim, bearing the crest of a lightning-wreathed eagle claw — the Third Legion, the Un-crowned Princes. Most of their soldiers came from Volantene noble families.
The Un-crowned Princes' troops arrogantly commanded their private retinues: archers, spearmen, sword-and-shield men, and elite slave warriors… all formed into neat ranks ready for battle.
Every soldier in the Un-crowned Princes wore magnificent armor inlaid with silver thread and gold, studded with jewels. In fact, each member was a miniature command center. They wore purple cloaks or had attendants carrying long poles topped with small purple flags — the fluttering purple symbolizing their noble blood and unquestionable authority.
Then the Myrish heard the sound of weapons striking shields. At first it was chaotic, but it quickly became perfectly synchronized — like ten thousand axes hammering shields, or waves crashing against rocks.
Gray field with red trim, crest of a helmet with blood streaming from the left eye — the Twelfth Legion, the Gladiators. Most of their members were former arena fighters or heavy criminals from the prisons. Volantis had promised them freedom and even honor if they survived.
Marching alongside them was the Sixth Legion, the Executioners. Their banner was iron-white with a blood-dripping greatsword. Their discipline was stricter than the Gladiators', and their officers treated the Gladiators more like hunting dogs than comrades. But the bloodlust and fanaticism in their eyes burned just as brightly.
Then came the sound of hooves. From the woods on the left, a pale-faced knight with jet-black hair raised a pure black banner — the crest a perfect silver scale — the Eighth Legion, the Justiciars. They were Volantis's elite military police, and their tactical skill matched their legal expertise.
Beside the Justiciars were the men of the High Tower Guard. This legion wasn't made of pure warriors but of staff officers, geographers, scribes, diplomats, historians, religious scholars, and legal experts. They handled negotiations, diplomacy, mapping, recording campaigns, drafting treaties word-for-word, and giving the war its "legal justification."
From the south, a dust cloud blotted out the horizon. First came the moving iron walls of the Death Cult super-heavy cavalry. Every rider wore three layers of heavy plate; even their horses were armored in padded or leather barding. The horses panted heavily under the weight while their riders lowered their visors and leveled their lances, ready to charge.
But the most terrifying sight came from the northwest — the slow, unstoppable advance of the true pride of Volantis: the war elephant legions.
They flew banners embroidered with red dragons and towers. The elephants wore heavy chain-and-plate barding, their trunks fitted with spiked bronze tips. On their backs, archers and javelin throwers in howdahs reached for arrows and spears while mahouts guided the massive beasts. These war elephants announced Volantis's overwhelming military might, especially when their advance alone made the earth tremble. No one could look at them without feeling despair.
And it still wasn't over.
Just as the Myrish were paralyzed by this display of destruction from three directions, the gates of Perfume Bay — which had remained tightly shut — suddenly groaned open with the screech of winches.
Three fresh, perfectly equipped Tiger Cloak legions poured out like a flood ready to burst.
The left wing flew the banner of the Fourth Legion, the Iron Totem — iron helmet and shield.
The right wing bore the banner of the Ninth Legion, the Fist of Volantis — a fist wrapped in lightning and thorns.
And right behind them came the Seventeenth Legion, the Zealots — their banner a burning eye.
Not only had they refused to surrender or stay trapped as Mitridas had hoped, they now emerged in their most elite form to deliver the fatal stab into the Myrish back!
Seven full legions — including the finest Tiger Cloaks, powerful professional troops, devastating super-heavy cavalry, and war elephants — closed in from four directions, completely encircling the starving, exhausted, and morale-shattered Myrish army at the foot of Perfume Bay.
The morning sun now fully lit the land, illuminating the endless fear and despair on the Myrish soldiers' faces. The earlier unrest and complaints were replaced by deathly silence. General Mitridas stood in the center of his formation, staring at the endless enemy lines, his face as white as paper, his body swaying as if he might collapse at any moment.
The Volantenes did not attack immediately. They simply stood in perfect formation like a steel forest, silently spreading the breath of death. This brief silence was more suffocating than any war drum or battle cry.
But the silence was soon broken.
Mitridas's pupils suddenly shrank. His eyes locked onto a banner slowly unfurling behind the Justiciars — black field, crest six solemn wings encircling a sword piercing the heavens.
"The First Legion… the Six-Winged Heavenly Army…" Mitridas whispered through gritted teeth. Any last spark of resistance died inside him.
The First Legion, Six-Winged Heavenly Army. The eldest and most honored of all Volantene legions, with the longest history and greatest battle record. This legion had witnessed how Volantis rose from a mere Valyrian colony after the Doom to become the undisputed superpower of Essos.
They were the true backbone of Volantis — living history itself.
Before the solemn ranks of the Six-Winged Heavenly Army, Warlord Marcus Varos Velerion rode forward on a calm horse, moving through the formation with the casual ease of a farmer strolling through his own wheat field. His relaxed posture created a bizarre contrast with the deadly tension in the air.
Looking down at the trapped Myrish army below, he gave the order in a light, almost bored voice.
"Attack."
He paused for a moment, then added a more specific instruction, as if giving a trivial command.
"Crush them."
---
We must admit the Myrish were not a weak opponent. Volantis had its legions, and Myr had its own ancient, well-equipped centurion companies and chiliarchies.
In terms of weaponry, backed by Myr's coal and iron mines in the hills and the skill of Myr's craftsmen, their arms were equally fine. They also possessed the only repeating crossbow in Essos capable of firing three bolts in quick succession — a unique black-technology advantage.
In terms of combat experience, through endless skirmishes with Tyrosh, Lys, and the Dothraki, the Myrish were no strangers to war. Among the three cities, Myr faced the most conflicts due to its central location in western Essos. Their tactical level was undeniably high.
However, reality was cruel. The twelve days of futile siege at Perfume Bay had completely drained the Myrish soldiers' strength and spirit. Hunger, disease, and total loss of faith in their commander had hollowed out the army from within. Their leader, Mitridas, had proven himself mediocre at best and incompetent at worst. At the critical moment, instead of organizing any effective defense or retreat, he ordered his personal guard to protect only himself as he tried to flee.
Thus, the seemingly powerful Myrish formation was torn apart from the inside by Marcus Varos Velerion's precise and ruthless orchestration.
When the war elephants and super-heavy cavalry smashed through the last surviving chiliarchy and their banner fell, the remaining discipline of the Myrish army completely collapsed. The instinct for survival overrode all orders and honor. The soldiers fled like a panicked herd, abandoning heavy equipment and wounded comrades, with only one thought left in their minds — run! Run back across the Bitter Weep to the south bank!
They fled madly along the road they had come, as if the roaring of Volantene war elephants and the thunder of heavy cavalry hooves were chasing right behind them. When the murky Bitter Weep and the single pontoon bridge they had built — and never destroyed — appeared in their sight, a faint, desperate hope reignited.
If we cross the river, we'll be safe!
The soldiers surged onto the narrow, swaying bridge like a breaking dam. Curses, screams, and the sound of men falling into the water mixed together. Order vanished completely. Soldiers shoved and trampled each other; some even pushed their own comrades and officers into the river to get ahead. The bridge groaned under the chaotic weight, its surface slippery with mud and discarded gear.
Just as roughly half the routed troops had crossed the pontoon bridge and stepped onto the soft southern bank, gasping with relief, believing they had temporarily escaped death —
Hoooooo—!
A deep, piercing horn blast — like the sigh of the Grim Reaper — suddenly erupted from the hills on both sides of the south bank!
---