His arm was getting tired. Kurt was backed against a barn where he had been hacking and slashing at the odd Dalton soldier who would make it through the lines and come towards this building where Quinn had set up an auxiliary hospital.

The dead lay around him, most from his own sword, but a couple were allies who had fallen helping him protect the barn. He was exhausted, covered in his own sweat, the blood of others, and dirt. His usually well coifed hair flattened against his head with the weight of the sweat in it. He had given up his helmet ages ago to a medic who had been originally assigned to help in the barn but was called upon to help in the front lines.

Kurt couldn't tell if things were in their favour or not. Every now and then a stretcher would be run back to the barn from where the major fighting was occurring. On it was his own troops, but also wounded Dalton soldiers. They found out early on that Dalton didn't help its fallen and he had made the call to help them. Quinn hadn't been too impressed because that meant more work for her medical brigade, and he had to remind her of the medical oath she had taken - to preserve life regardless of whose life it was.

Now he had found himself in a lull. No Dalton troop had broken through the lines in over ten minutes. His arm now had the chance to burn with the ache of being used so much, with so much force. Kurt called back into the barn, "I need a messenger!"

Within a minute Ryder was at his side. The aptly named boy was probably the fastest footed messengers in existence. He had been helping inside until he was needed. "Yes sir." He saluted.

Kurt waved off the salute, "Stand down." He pointed out with his sword towards the fighting that was ahead of them, starting in the next field over and extending to the edge of the town. "Do you think you can get yourself to the front lines, see how we're doing, and then report back here without getting hurt?"

Ryder looked out and bit his lower lip. He was fast, he could probably do it. He just needed to make sure that he didn't get too panicked or he might not see danger coming. "Yes sir. I can sir."

Kurt nodded. "Well. Don't waste any time."

Ryder started running off then, and Kurt watched as he became just another body among hundreds of bodies in the distance.

Another stretcher came into view while he was looking out and as it came closer he recognized one of the men holding it up, "Mike!"

Mike looked over at Kurt and nodded. Once he had helped bring the stretched into the barn he came back out and joined Kurt at his side. "We're being helped..." the taller, lithe, and darker man started.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Helped? By whom?"

Mike unsheathed his sword. There was no one coming, but he knew from experience it was better to be on the safe side. "The nobility apparently. They somehow managed to coordinate some troops of their own and help us flank the Dalton soldiers. I've never seen anything like it."

Kurt took a minute to consider that bit of information and realized that in the last hour, the soldiers being brought in for medical treatment were, at a large majority, from Dalton. "Do you think we're winning?"

Mike shrugged, "I was just trying to stay alive. I was in the middle of it all so I couldn't tell much of what was going on." He glanced back at the barn a moment, "Is... Tina in there?"

Kurt smirked a little, another "perk" of romance - getting distracted from bloodshed and chaos by the possibility of seeing one's spouse. "Yes. She's up in the loft last time I checked. It looks like I'm alright out here for a bit if you want to see her before heading back."

Mike gave a quick nod and ran back inside the barn before Kurt might change his mind. Tina was Burt's personal secretary and usually would stay back at the main camp, but insisted on coming out for this campaign in case Mike was the one coming in on a stretcher.

Kurt turned his sights back to the battle ahead. It would be dawn soon. He would be better able to see what was going on and maybe even by that time, an outcome would be determined.

As the sun crept up, the fighting died down. More and more stretchers came and eventually they had to set the wounded in front of the barn doors for lack of space.

Ryder had returned with only a nick to the cheek and had reported that the fight was in their favour. He had spoken to Burt and confirmed that the nobility was indeed supporting their efforts in the field. Apparently some peasants had even come out, using pitchforks and hoes to help bring down the Dalton soldiers.

Ryder had then gone on to recount how Santana and Brittany had been running into any massed group of Dalton soldiers they could see and making short work of them. Ryder was clearly star struck as he spoke about how Santana had cut through several soldiers with her greatsword. Kurt shook his head when he heard that. Santana loved her big, over the top sword which was nearly as long as she was tall and required both hands to wield.

Brittany had been using her dual-wield stilettos. Using them with ease to cut into the spots between the armor plates of the soldiers. Ryder rapidly told Kurt about how a soldier had come up behind Santana and Brittany had thrown one of her stilettos in the soldier's head.

Once Ryder had finished his lusty recount of the exploits of Brittany and Santana, he managed to inform Kurt that, as a last ditch attempt, a small batch of elite guard had been sent to the field to fight. No one had told these guard though about the help from the nobility and the peasants, and on their way through Westerville to aid in the fighting, they had been attacked by a mob and brought down.

The message from Burt was to expect to call a victory within the hour and be ready for the march through the streets to the castle.

Kurt nodded and dismissed Ryder. He swallowed and tried to not focus on the smell of rotting bodies around him, or the general disgust for his present state.

His dad was alright and things were in their favour. All he had to do now was wait.

In the end they had lost roughly one hundred men and women, and most of those were in the early hours of the fighting. That number would have been unheard of anywhere else, but today it was cause to celebrate. That was much less than they originally thought and the Dalton soldiers left were few and far between, most were wounded beyond being able to fight back.

As they marched through the streets of Westerville, the nobility rode up beside his father to discuss next steps and try to sway his opinion of what needed to be done. The citizens cheered their march on, throwing ribbons and bits of confetti along their path.

Most of the troops revelled in this part of the campaign. This was the part where all their work was appreciated and the part that gave them strength and motivation to continue. Kurt never enjoyed it however. In his mind, it was sad that the sight of troops was what made people happy. If people ruled justly and responsibly, this would never be necessary.

When they reached the castle, Jeff helped them by showing them the side passage into the walls and he, with the help of several volunteers, opened the gates.

The courtyard they entered was empty and the scouts who ran ahead said there was no one to be found. One of the nobles suggested that the royal family probably escaped through passages that were rumoured to exist all over the castle and into the town.

Burt raised his hand to indicate that his troops should pause and he walked a few yards ahead of them to turn and speak. "My brother and sisters in arms! Today..." and Kurt started to tune him out at this point because he had heard this before, in many various iterations. He looked at the battle weary around him and then back to his father, who was pacing back and forth in front of them, every now and then raising a fist to the air which garnered a cheer from the crowd.

Kurt took a few steps backward and then walked himself into one of the side doors of the castle. He exhaled. He hope he hadn't been seen because that would obviously look bad to everyone, but he needed to escape. Escape the crowd, the stench of death that coated all of them, the celebration of conquering. He hoped his father was serious about retirement, because Kurt refused to retire himself until he knew his dad was really done.

Kurt looked around the room he found himself in. It was a huge hall. The largest he'd ever seen. At the end of it was a series of steps that led to a throne. The throne was ornately decorated with gems and strips of gold. The seat looked incredibly comfortable as it was covered in a very plush, however tacky, red velveteen.

He bit his lower lip, suddenly enraged. How could people be starving when there was enough richness in that chair to buy food from other empires to feed all the people in Westerville and beyond?!

Another cheer erupted outside and he looked behind him to see if anyone had followed him in. He thankfully found himself still alone and so he continued his exploration, going up the stairs on the left side of the hall.

Kurt noted the exquisite rugs he was walking on, the elaborate paintings that lined the hallway he found himself in at the top of the stairs, the jeweled candelabra chandeliers that were hinged to the ceiling to provide light in the evenings.

The castle was the total opposite of what existed outside of the walls. People in Westerville could barely afford to a shelter of any sort. The small homes were often packed with multiple families. The streets were lined with human excrement and garbage. At one point in the march after being given yet another grin of gums from a peasant woman, he had wondered if the people purposely pulled out their teeth, or if the nutrition was really that bad that they were losing teeth so young, so often. And teeth aside, they were all so skinny. Even the nobles, who in other realms were usually the ones with a little bit of girth.

Kurt walked down the hall slowly, pausing to look at the paintings, which were mostly of what he assumed were Anderson men in combat.

He paused at one painting in particular, this one had a caption on gold tile below it - Elias Anderson. This was the king. Kurt studied the face in the painting. It was pale, with gaunt cheeks and lines that were drawn out from amber eyes and a small mouth. His hair was black with the odd grey highlight and it was kept long, pulled into a ponytail.

Kurt had never seen the king, only heard descriptions. The painting was done to instill fear, not respect. It was of a man who bore frown lines with pride, whose eyes were cold and hard. This was the man who starved his people so his family could live in luxury. This was the man who commanded death, and who had been responsible for the orders that killed his grandfather and mother. This was what hate looked like.

Kurt felt a hard, pointed object press into his shoulder between his sections of armor at that point and he hissed, realising that he had been caught off guard.

A voice behind him commanded, "Drop your sword, raise your arms, turn around."

Kurt quickly weighed his options, but the press of what he assumed was a sword in his back aimed at his heart didn't give him a lot of choice. His hands unbound his belt and he let it drop to the ground with his sword still sheathed in it. He lifted his arms up to level with his head and slowly turned, the blade on his back following the line of his armor as he turned so he was always at risk of being cut.

When Kurt saw the unarmored, slender man in front of him, he had to stifle a chuckle. Surely this couldn't be the last attempt at a Dalton victory?

The man gritted his teeth together and pressed the sword in a little harder, cutting the fabric of Kurt's tunic. His eyes were wide and glazed with... tears? "What's so funny?!"

Kurt let his expression go flat. This wasn't a soldier. The man before him was too well dressed, his hair pulled back in a short mess of black curls, and his eyes... amber eyes, not unlike the picture now behind him.

"What are you doing here?! Who are you?!" the man demanded, shaking a little.

"I'm Kurt. I'm part of the Hummel army. We've taken Westerville. You need to understand that the army is in the courtyard and nothing will be served by killing me." Kurt kept his voice calm and steady, watching this... was this a relative of the king?

"I'm dead either way." the man spat, "You'll kill me because I'm part of the royal family and my father will kill me for refusing to support him."

So he was royalty, "We won't kill you. That's not what we do. However if you do kill me I can't account for what my family might do to avenge me and I don't think you've ever killed anyone before. I don't think it's something you want to do."

The man bit his lip and Kurt watched his eyes as he considered his words. Before he could respond, Kurt asked, "What's your name?"

The man trembled a little and let the sword drop, falling to his knees in front of Kurt and hiding his face in his hands, "Blaine... I'm Blaine Anderson."