August 12th, 1587 - Horb, Holy Roman Empire I originally wrote this journal to catalog information about the Beans in hopes of finding a way to defeat them or, at the very least, put up the slightest semblance of a fight. And now, trapped within the very walls built to protect us, I have finally lost the hope that I will survive to see a day where we defeat them.

Barry,

It is nice to hear from you again! I was beginning to worry; you are usually so punctual about sending your letters. At first I thought that something had happened, but I know Uncle Humbert would tell me if something did happen, especially if you did it to yourself.

You should not resign yourself to an early death, you dummy! There is so much for you to live for, and it makes me terribly upset that you cannot see it. I do not want to hear stories of my brother; I want to talk to him! I do not want nor do I need my brother’s money or possessions, either! They are yours. You earned them, so enjoy them yourself! And yes, I do mind if you die, no matter how much flair you add on. Put enough flair into a fight to stay alive and tell me the story yourself! I would not mind that.

Ugh! You always get me so riled up. I need to go clear my head so the rest of this letter is not me yelling at you, dummy!

I have returned! I am sorry to hear about having to walk that far. Three weeks of just walking?! It must have been miserable! I can barely stand the walk between home and the market, and that is only an hour or so. My sympathies go out to you and your friends.

I do not understand why you feel the Empire is invading France. Uncle Humbert told me that you are providing aid to French civilians while the situation in the rest of the kingdom organizes itself. It is a perfectly plausible story, seeing as it is the truth. Not everything is a big conspiracy, Barry!

Do not worry about me. Joseph and I will be able to take care of ourselves, no matter what happens in France. And I agree; the world is far too big for us to spend our whole lives in Rohrdorf. When we do leave, I may even invite you to come along with us. If you are not dead in some godforsaken French field, that is! That includes a fancy suicide on the bayonet of a French soldier, no matter how many friends you save!

All jokes aside, please do not die in a field.

I hope you have a great day!

Sofia.

Schmidt muttered one word to himself when waking up on the morning of November 8th. “Finally.”

“Everyone up, now!” Lieutenant Markus Dietrich, Captain Bösch’s second in command, shouted as he walked through the soldiers’ sleeping tent. “You were supposed to be up for the captain’s briefing ten minutes ago! You idiots could sleep through an earthquake, I swear to God! I want you out and doing your jobs in two minutes! Those of you still in your cots will be considered deserters to the Empire and tried accordingly! Hurry the hell up!”

Schmidt considered staying in his cot just to spite Dietrich, but the idea of a battle was irresistible. He slid his covers off and stood on the earthen floor.

“Hey, Barry,” Rob said. “You got any idea what in the fresh hell is going on?”

“Nope,” Schmidt replied. “But I’m not complaining.”

“You wouldn’t, you suicidal maniac.”

“Hey,” Jakob said. “No one’s dying today.”

“I mean, we might not even be under attack,” Rob said.

In the distance, a bell began to ring. The only bell in Dijon, the one above Saint Gotthard’s Chapel near the center of town, was only to be rung in the event of an attack.

“Well, then,” Rob said. “Guess that answers that.”

The camp outside was much more chaotic than Schmidt had anticipated; the entire area was lit by the flickering light of torches, both carried by soldiers and set in sconces around the camp. Other soldiers carried crates of supplies— filled with ammunition, rations, clothes, medical equipment, and weapons— to and from the many sets of waiting horse drawn carriages, which were heading through Dijon to the western countryside. That was the same direction where, as far as Schmidt knew, no one had come from in his entire time patrolling the town.

That was also the direction the Empire didn’t want anyone to go.

Lieutenant Dietrich organized the soldiers in the camp. Unlike Bösch’s practiced, confident shouts, Dietrich screamed commands as though he were attempting to be as loud as possible. Schmidt made it a point to avoid Dietrich as often as possible, but it didn’t seem like he would be able to do that this morning.

“Look who finally decided to join the war effort!” Dietrich shouted at the soldiers exiting the tent. “Get the hell to work loading these crates onto the carriages! All of them need to be at our second camp within the hour! Go, go, go!”

“Second camp, sir?” Jakob asked. “Why are we—”

“Did I say you could speak?” Dietrich pointed at Jakob. “If you were awake for the captain’s briefing, you wouldn’t be asking questions. Now, less talking, more cart filling!” He grabbed a musket and began waving it around. “The next person to talk will be considered a traitor to the Empire!”

No one questioned Dietrich, and they began to help the other soldiers. The soldiers that hadn’t missed Captain Bösch’s briefing kept their heads down, their faces unreadable.

And so they loaded the carriages.

From the east, twilight slowly formed, the stars disappearing into the early morning sky. Schmidt felt numb as he worked, his mind blank, his body moving on its own.

Eventually, the carriages were loaded. Lieutenant Dietrich gave the order for the soldiers to head to the western camp as he hopped onto the final cart.

Schmidt, Rob, and Jakob stood for a moment, glancing at each other, before they each grabbed their muskets and made their way west.

The main street of Dijon bustled with movement. The horse drawn carriages took up a majority of the street, making it difficult for the soldiers to walk. Down the side roads, Schmidt noticed soldiers still arguing with civilians, unable to communicate through the language barrier. The women were crying, the children screaming.

The western gate was open, the last of the carriages exiting Dijon. Armed soldiers became more frequent the farther west they walked. The French men forced to assist the Empire weren’t nearly as prepared, many of them with nothing but the clothes they wore.

Schmidt thought about the coming battle as they walked. He knew he had to wait for the perfect moment for his sacrifice, though he didn’t want to wait until it was too late to turn the tide of battle. There was no point in heroically sacrificing himself if there was no one alive to recount the story. He hadn’t actually been in a battle before, so he didn’t know how to read the battlefield. All he knew was that he would have to wait until sunrise, so everyone would be able to see him.

There was no point if no one could see him.

It was quiet. The only sounds were the footsteps of the soldiers over the muddy road, still slick from the early morning dew. No one spoke. No birds sang. No squirrels chirped.

It was quiet.