The flickering candlelight made the council room look like a cavern of shadows. Aldric stood at the head of the table, his knuckles pressed against a worn-out map of the region. The murmurs of his commanders died down when he raised his eyes.
"We attack at dawn," he said, voice calm but unyielding.
Gasps broke the silence.
"My lord," said Captain Ferrand, an older knight with a scar across his cheek, "if we press forward now, we'll be exposing our southern flank. What if the Duke's reinforcements arrive?"
"They won't. Not yet," Aldric replied, tapping a finger against a marked position on the map. "He's waiting for supplies. Our last raid forced him to delay."
"But what if you're wrong?"
"I'm not," Aldric said, more firmly this time. "I've studied his campaigns. He's methodical, not impulsive. That gives us time—just enough to strike before he reorganizes."
He leaned back, letting the silence weigh on them.
It was a gamble. He knew it. But it was also necessary.
If they waited, they'd be surrounded. If they acted now, they had a chance to end the threat before it grew beyond their control.
The lords looked at one another. Some were unsure. Others, curious.
But one voice spoke above the rest.
"I'll ride with you, brother."
It was Charles, the heir.
Aldric turned, surprised—but didn't show it.
"Then we ride as one," he said.
Dawn broke cold and silent.
Aldric led the cavalry himself—close to two hundred riders, banners lowered, hooves muffled. They rode through the frost-covered woods, following narrow trails only a local would know. The goal wasn't to face the Duke's main force. It was to strike the heart of his camp before he realized what was happening.
Their scout had reported a gap in the defenses, just behind a ridge near the eastern slope. Poorly guarded. Easily exploited.
Aldric's heart pounded as they neared it. This wasn't a lesson in class. This was war.
He gave the signal.
The riders burst from the treeline like thunder breaking the sky.
Shouts erupted.
Tents collapsed under hoof and fire. Men barely awake stumbled into chaos. Aldric rode through the confusion, eyes sharp, calling out targets. He didn't fight to kill—he fought to disorient, to break their structure.
He saw the enemy captain rallying a small group, and without hesitation, turned his horse toward him. Their blades clashed for only a few seconds before Aldric's men overwhelmed the position.
The camp was in ruins within an hour.
But Aldric didn't smile.
This wasn't victory yet.
He turned to Charles.
"Signal the retreat."
"But we can press on!"
"No," Aldric said. "They'll recover quickly. We've done what we needed. Now we vanish."
They melted back into the woods, leaving smoke and confusion behind them.
By evening, they were back at Hautterre. Cheers erupted as the people saw them return—alive, intact, victorious.
Lord Renard stood at the gates, his face unreadable.
"You struck the Duke's camp," he said.
"Yes."
"And you came back alive."
"For now," Aldric replied.
Renard studied his son for a long moment. Then he gave a small, grim nod.
"You've done well."
It was the closest thing to praise Aldric had received from his father.
Later that night, in the war room, Aldric sat alone. The fire crackled beside him, casting dancing shadows against the stone walls.
He stared at the map.
Vellmont had been wounded. But not defeated.
And soon, he'd retaliate.
The door creaked.
Pierre entered, carrying a sealed letter.
"From the Baron of Glay," he whispered. "He wants to meet… in secret."
Aldric took the letter and read it in silence.
So the game was changing again.
Allies shifting. Loyalties questioned.
He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering a line from a historian he once taught: "Power is not taken in a single blow—it's built in silence, over blood, stone, and whispers."
Aldric opened his eyes.
"So be it."