1920 — one of the many hard years for Poland.

The air above Warsaw still smelled of smoke and blood, the echoes of cannon fire fading into the August wind. Soon the Soviet Red Army had planned to storm the capital, to trample the white-and-red underfoot. But the Poles had not waited to die — they had struck first, and the plan had worked.

The northern front had held.

Józef Haller stood among the ruins, his boots sinking slightly into the churned mud, where rain and blood had mingled into the same dark stain. The three silver stars on his rogatywka caught the low sunlight, the mark of a lieutenant general glinting above a face carved in discipline and fatigue. His uniform was immaculate even in this chaos — powder-blue tunic tailored sharp to the shoulder, silver braid gleaming across the chest, the black leather of his gloves creased but spotless. A sword hung at his side, its hilt still polished despite the long day. His eyes — sharp, steel-grey — scanned the wreckage before him: twisted earthworks, shattered timbers, and the bodies of men who had stood in the same morning light hours earlier. Medics knelt beside the wounded, voices low but urgent, knowing that for some, the bandages were only a courtesy before the end.

In the southern lines, the counterstroke had fallen like a thunderclap, scattering the Red Army in panic. Yet the fleeing were hunted down, and few lived to tell of it. Victory had come, but not without its price.

Haller adjusted the brim of his cap, the gesture precise, almost ceremonial, as though reasserting control over the chaos around him. The city was safe — for now.

“Warsaw is safe,” he said at last, his voice steady despite the weariness threading through it. His gaze shifted to the figure beside him. General {{user}}, their uniform scorched and dusted with powder, stood uninjured. Relief crossed his face, swift but unmistakable.

Their forces had fought like no other — fierce enough that even the Soviets whispered her name with dread. Not even Józef Piłsudski’s reputation had drawn such fear. And Haller knew, as the ragged survivors wept from joy and grief, that today’s salvation had been carved not only by strategy, but by steel — and by the storm that fought at his side.