“Sometimes, what people wanted was not even things like riches and glory. Sometimes people just wanted acceptance, to be welcomed as who they are, and to find a place that they could truly call their home in this wide world.” - Saying attributed to Dahlia of Freehold, scholar and philosopher, circa 68 FP.

“First rank, retreat, second rank, forward!” Alvaro yelled over the din of the battlefield. At the moment he was acting as the commander of his platoon, safely absconded in the center of their formation while his men held the line against the far more numerous Podovnian soldiers they faced. It was not a situation that required his martial skills as of yet, and his people needed a commander more than a warrior at the moment.

Under his command, the frontmost line of Warforged disengaged from their foes with a near-synchronized push of their shields, and swiftly pulled back as those behind them took up the positions they vacated. Alvaro had split his forces into three groups for this battle, so that one group would be fighting, a second would be on standby and prepared to replace them when needed, while a third rested at the same time.

His own platoon had nearly doubled in size compared to when they had first joined the Free Lances years ago in Posuin. During the last years of the company’s stay in the region, some other former Warforged who for some reason or other did not wish to serve Algenverr had found the mercenary company to be a refuge, partly thanks to Alvaro’s platoon’s presence there. As a result, they had gained another hundred or so former Warforged who signed in as support staff when they left Posuin.

Over the years since, some of those former Warforged chose to take up arms once more and to make a living with their training. Reinhardt naturally folded in such new recruits into Alvaro’s platoon, where they quickly adjusted to the slight alterations in tactics and equipment used. That trickle of new personnel was what allowed the platoon to grow larger over the years.

Fortunately, even after a year or more of working as support staff, the former Warforged that later joined the platoon had not lost their touch. Since they had a long history of training in the same method of fighting, integration was fast and seamless for the most part. Given the growth of the mercenary company, it allowed the platoon to remain relevant, something they would have more difficulty in doing had they stayed at their original size.

The difference in quality was obvious.

Where the Podovnian soldiers worked together in rather rudimentary ways and at times even made things harder for another of their own due to poor coordination, the Warforged moved and fought almost as if they were all part of a single entity. It was a rather intimidating and unnerving sight for those who had to fight against them.

The way the former slave-soldiers fought and coordinated their movements with one another also greatly troubled the Podovnians. There, in a pitched battle against other human soldiers, the Warforged were in their element. They were doing what they had trained to do all their lives. Meanwhile, most of their opponents were not professional soldiers. They might train every once in a while during peacetime, but most of the time they did other things for a living.

As the battle was joined, the Warforged regularly used their shields to help cover the ally to their left, while their spear strikes often coordinated with another’s to take down an enemy soldier together. Most of the time, the Warforged even aimed to wound their enemies rather than go for the kill. They allowed the wounded soldiers to be retrieved by their comrades, on purpose.

After all, a dead enemy would just be another corpse to be stepped on by friend or foe alike. On the other hand, an injured but living enemy was a constant drain on the enemy’s resources. One injured soldier often needed one to two others to carry them away from the battlefield, and from there they would require the aid of medics and healers, all while contributing nothing to the war effort.

While Reinhardt planned for this battle to be the decisive one, there was no reason not to plan a bit for the long term when it was convenient for them to do so anyway.

The Warforged stood tall and strong against the waves of Podovnian soldiers that broke on their spears and shields like a tide before a reef. They themselves kept retreating in order to keep up with the rest of the mercenaries, who were still pushing forward, and did so without a hitch. Alvaro looked at the men and women under his command with obvious pride.

There wasn’t even any need for the blademasters like himself, Njeri, or the three elders – they gained another from the group that joined later – to charge into the enemy lines in order to relieve pressure on their frontlines. Their discipline and coordination was clearly more than enough to carry the day for them, and had he possessed a larger unit, Alvaro felt that his people might have been able to just directly crush through these Podovnians they were fighting.

He shook his head to clear that wistful thought. His platoon were what he had, and so he would do the task his commander had entrusted to him even if it cost him his life. The Free Lances had long since become a true home for those former Warforged who chose to join them, a place where they were simply accepted for who they were, without any prejudice or discrimination.

The mercenaries were an often brash and straightforward group of people. What mattered to them was whether the people they would be fighting alongside could be entrusted with their side or not, and Alvaro’s people had proven themselves trustworthy over the years. As such, the mercenaries simply welcomed the former slaves into the fold as one of their own, without a care for what they used to be.

It was a home that Alvaro would give his life for, without a second thought.