Chapter 444 Garden

Chapter 444: Chapter 444 Garden

The sun was already high in the sky, its merciless heat beating down on the camp.

Everyone had long since finished eating and stocked up on what little supplies remained.

Crates stood half-empty, waterskins felt lighter than they should have, and no one bothered pretending otherwise.

What unsettled her the most, however, was how quiet the camp felt compared to the day before.

The number of knights and soldiers had dwindled considerably overnight.

Tents had been abandoned, bedrolls left behind, and familiar faces were nowhere to be seen.

Whether they had deserted, fled in the darkness, or simply never made it back, no one knew for certain.

It quickly became the hottest topic of the morning.

"How many left?" a veteran knight asked as he leaned against a crate, his armor scratched and dull.

Another man snorted. "More than half, I bet."

"Half?" a third soldier muttered. "You’re being generous. There’s only a few hundred of us left now."

A rough laugh followed. "Well, shit. Why aren’t you leaving then?"

The veteran took a swig from his flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"And go where?" he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I’ve got no kids, no wife waiting for me back home. No farm, no warm bed. Might as well die here and get it over with. Hahaha!"

His laughter was loud, forced, and empty. No one joined in, but no one contradicted him either.

Conversations like this echoed throughout the camp.

Some men sat slumped against barrels or wagons, staring into nothingness.

Others argued in hushed voices, weighing their chances of survival as if it were a bad gamble.

A few had already started drinking, passing around cheap liquor despite the early hour.

They drank not to celebrate, but to forget—to numb the fear clawing at their chests.

After all, many of them were convinced that this would be their last day in the world.

A huge horn blared across the camp, its deafening call rolling over the tents and supply wagons like a death knell.

The idle chatter died instantly. That sound could only mean one thing. It was time.

The remaining knights and soldiers moved without hesitation, lining up out of long-ingrained discipline.

Armor clinked, boots crunched against the dirt, and weary horses were led into position, their breath steaming in the morning air.

Carriages loaded with supplies were drawn up behind the formation—food, weapons, spare arrows, medical kits—far more than enough for the men who had chosen to stay behind.

No one spoke about it, but everyone knew why there was surplus. Too many had already left.

They did not wait long.

Soon, a ripple passed through the ranks as figures emerged from the direction of the inner camp.

At the forefront was the duchess herself, her posture straight and composed despite the weight of the situation.

Yet what drew the most attention was not her—but the old man she was pushing in a wheelchair.

He looked frail, almost painfully so.

His back was slightly hunched, his hands thin and veined as they rested on the armrests.

Even from a distance, he seemed more like someone who belonged in a sickroom than on a battlefield.

"Who’s the grandpa?" a knight whispered, craning his neck.

"Who knows?" another replied. "And how the hell would I know, you fucker?"

A third soldier clicked his tongue. "That old man looks like he’s already dying. One strong wind and he’ll be gone."

Quiet chuckles rippled through the line, though they carried more unease than humor. The sight simply didn’t make sense.

More people followed behind the duchess.

Evelyn appeared next, her expression calm but alert, eyes sweeping over the assembled troops.

Trailing her were the three maidservants—Sarah, Grace, and Ivy—walking closely together.

Their clean clothes and composed appearances stood in sharp contrast to the dirt-stained soldiers and battered armor around them.

"Wow..." someone breathed.

"They look fine," another muttered, eyes widening.

A few men straightened unconsciously, others nudged their companions, and some forgot to hide their stares altogether.

It was a natural reaction.

Riley had rarely left his home over the past several years, and the same was true for his maidservants.

To most of the soldiers present, this was their first time seeing them in person, and the unexpected sight briefly pulled their minds away from fear and impending death.

Valery was notably absent.

She had decided her help wouldn’t be needed here and had chosen to stay behind.

Instead, two young boys—Dale and Francis—stood among the group.

They tried their best to look steady and brave, though their stiff posture and tightly clenched hands betrayed their nerves.

As the duchess and her companions approached, the murmurs gradually faded.

Whatever doubts, jokes, or fear the men carried, they swallowed it all.

Every eye turned forward.

Something was about to happen—and whether it meant salvation or the beginning of the end, none of them could tell.

Monique’s eyes moved calmly across the assembled ranks, counting heads with effortless precision.

Where once more than a thousand knights and soldiers had stood shoulder to shoulder, now only about four hundred remained.

The gaps between formations were impossible to miss.

Empty spaces marked where fear, doubt, or the instinct to survive had claimed their share.

She had already spoken with Riley about this. In truth, the numbers mattered little.

These men were here largely for appearances—to give structure, to maintain morale, to serve as witnesses.

If it came down to it, they could erase the savages from the face of the land with Monique alone taking the field.

Still, she respected those who had chosen to remain. Courage, even when born from desperation, was worth acknowledging.

Monique stepped forward.

The moment her boots touched the open ground before the formation, the last lingering murmurs died away.

Her presence carried weight, an unspoken pressure that forced every man to stand straighter.

"I know that many of you left during the night," Monique said, her voice steady and cold as steel. "They abandoned their posts and forgot the vows they swore."

A few soldiers clenched their fists. Others stared straight ahead, unwilling to meet her gaze.

"They have no honor," she continued. "But no punishment will be given to those who fled. Cross their names from our lists and be done with them."

The men exchanged brief glances, surprised by her leniency. Monique did not dwell on it.

"To those of you who chose to stay," she said, her eyes sweeping over them once more, "you are brave men. You stood your ground knowing full well what awaited you. And brave men will always be rewarded."

Her words echoed across the camp, carried by the wind.

"From this day forward, your salary will be tripled," Monique declared. "And when every savage that threatens our lands lies dead, I will personally see to it that a feast is held in your honor—one that will be remembered for generations."

The speech ended, but no roar of approval followed. No cheers rose into the air.

Monique had expected this. These men were not thinking about gold or celebrations.

In their minds, this march led only to death.

Promises meant little to those who believed they would not survive the day.

Still, something subtle changed. Spines straightened. Hands tightened around weapons.

Even if they expected to die, they would die as soldiers.

Monique allowed a brief silence to settle before turning sharply.

"We march," she commanded.

The order rippled through the ranks. Boots struck the ground in unison.

Horses were urged forward, banners lifted, and supply carriages began to roll.

Without looking back, Monique led them onward—toward the battlefield, toward the savages, and toward a fate that none of the soldiers could yet comprehend.

The city lord’s forces arrived not long after, their banners fluttering as they joined the column.

Their presence boosted the total number of troops to a little over five hundred—but even that felt painfully insignificant.

Five hundred men facing thousands of savages.

The sheer disparity alone was enough to predict the outcome, and every soldier marching forward knew it.

Still, no one turned back.

Boots pressed into the dirt, armor clinked, and the long line of soldiers advanced toward a battle that seemed unwinnable by all conventional logic.

Some marched in silence, others whispered prayers under their breath, while a few stared blankly ahead, already resigned to their fate.

Among the city lord’s men, tension ran especially high.

"Are we really going to join the fight later on?" one knight asked in a low voice, keeping his eyes forward as he spoke to his commander.

The commander clicked his tongue and spat onto the ground. "We’ll stay back and watch from afar," he said flatly. "All of us here are archers. That’s our excuse."

He adjusted the strap of his bow, his jaw clenched tight. This entire operation reeked of madness.

Charging headfirst into thousands of enemies with such a pitiful force went against every lesson he had learned in warfare.

His eyes drifted toward Monique riding ahead.

To him, she looked less like a confident leader and more like a reckless lunatic—someone blinded by pride or delusion, willing to gamble with lives for the sake of bravado.

"This is insane..." he muttered under his breath.

Yet, despite his doubts, he continued marching with the rest.

Orders were orders, and fear alone was not enough to make him abandon his post—not yet.