The council chamber remained silent after Aldric's words. All those present exchanged glances—some skeptical, others surprised. The youngest son of Lord Renard had spoken not like a boy, but like a seasoned tactician. The shift in his demeanor, subtle yet undeniable, unsettled the room.
Lord Renard de Hautterre, hardened by campaigns and betrayal, studied his son with a furrowed brow. The old lord had expected obedience, maybe nervous silence, not strategy.
"You speak boldly, Aldric," he said at last, his voice low but firm. "You are young and untested. Your knowledge of war is theoretical at best. But... perhaps there is some sense in your words. Duke Vellmont is no fool. If he marches east, he doesn't come for a skirmish. He comes to claim."
Aldric met his father's gaze with calm intensity. This was his moment—his first political battlefield. Every second was precious. Every word had weight.
"The Duke moves because he sees weakness," Aldric replied. "We must show him we are prepared. Not with empty threats, but calculated readiness. Let him find a wall where he expects a door."
Some of the councilors—older men in fine cloaks and grim expressions—murmured softly. Not dissent. Not yet. Aldric took that as a sign to continue.
"We strengthen the northern border. We ensure the loyalty of our vassals. And we make it known—subtly—that Hautterre does not stand alone. Let rumors spread that we've made new alliances. Even if we haven't... yet."
Charles, the eldest, leaned forward. His jaw was clenched, his voice tinged with mockery. "And what would you know of alliances, little brother? Are you planning to charm the neighboring lords with poetry and smiles?"
A few chuckles followed, but Aldric didn't flinch.
"Alliances are built with promises, Charles," he said evenly. "Not brute force. Gold, trade, marriages... There are many tools beyond the sword."
"Tools for cowards," Charles spat.
"Tools for kings," Aldric countered.
That silenced the room again.
Lord Renard tapped his knuckles against the oak table. A faint smirk crossed his lips—amused, perhaps, or intrigued.
"You speak with confidence, Aldric. Very well. I'll test your convictions. You will ride north tomorrow. Inspect our defenses in the Barrow Hills. Speak with the garrison commander, Lord Amiel. He is a cautious man. Learn from him. Advise him—if you dare."
Aldric nodded slowly. "I accept the task, Father."
"You'll take Pierre and a small escort. Nothing flashy. This isn't a parade."
"Understood."
As the meeting ended, Aldric stepped into the corridor, the echo of footsteps behind him. His pulse pounded, not with fear—but with momentum. Every word, every glance had been part of a game he'd studied in books, but now he was playing for real stakes.
"That was bold, my lord," Pierre whispered beside him as they walked.
"It had to be," Aldric replied, eyes fixed ahead. "History doesn't favor the hesitant."
He returned to his chambers and stood once again on the balcony. Below, the training yard was filled with shouting men and clashing swords. From here, he could see the forest line in the distance—the Barrow Hills lay beyond.
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. The air was sharp, metallic, alive. Somewhere out there, Duke Vellmont was setting his pieces on the board. But Aldric had already read this chapter of history. He knew the outcomes, the names of the dead, the rise and fall of banners.
The only question now was: could he rewrite it?
That night, by candlelight, he began drafting letters—not to friends, but to future allies. He listed names he remembered from books: lesser nobles who would one day rebel, merchants who would finance secret armies, young heirs who would rise in bloody succession. Most of them did not yet know their fate. But Aldric did.
And tomorrow, he would begin shaping it.