The morning mist still cloaked the fields of Hautterre when Aldric left his study, the parchment with the names hidden beneath his cloak. He hadn't slept. His mind kept spinning, tracing invisible routes between possible alliances, covert plans, and enemies still asleep in their false sense of security.
As he descended the stone stairs toward the training yard, he crossed paths with Pierre, who carried a tray with bread and hot broth.
"You haven't rested, my lord?"
"I'll sleep when this is over," Aldric replied, taking a piece of bread. "Have our scouts returned?"
Pierre nodded cautiously.
"Yes, my lord. One of them… is wounded. But he managed to bring this."
He handed him a piece of parchment, stained with dried blood. Aldric unrolled it carefully. It was a hand-drawn map. Precise. Detailed. A section of the terrain to the north, near the La Tole pass, and most importantly: camp markings. Troops. Recent movements of the duke.
"Damn it… They're deploying faster than expected. We have less than five days."
"Five days for what, my lord?"
Aldric looked at him gravely.
"To be ready."
That afternoon, he summoned Charles, the captains, and the spymaster. In the council room, he laid out the maps again, this time with annotations he had made himself.
"The duke is advancing toward the pass. If he takes it, we're cut off from the valley. We'll not only lose access to resources, but he'll also sever our retreat."
"Then we fight at the pass," Charles said, direct, almost defiant.
Aldric shook his head.
"That's what he expects. That we defend the obvious. But if we make him think he's winning… we might be able to trap him."
One of the captains, a grey-bearded veteran, frowned.
"An ambush in open terrain?"
"No. In the forest of Mavron. We'll make him believe he's forced our retreat. We'll simulate the collapse of our lines. And when he enters, confident… we'll surround him completely."
"And how do you plan to convince him we're fleeing?" Charles asked, skeptical.
Aldric pulled out another scroll.
"Fake intercepted orders. Displaced refugees. Fires in key locations. And a detachment 'retreating' with great drama. Every move calculated."
A tense silence followed. Then, the spymaster spoke:
"It could work… if the duke is arrogant enough."
"He is," Aldric answered without hesitation.
That night, the Mavron forest filled with secret activity. Light troops dug trenches, prepared traps with hidden stakes, and marked trees with signals only their men would understand. Pierre, as always, accompanied him every step.
"My lord… I've never seen anyone lead like this. Not like a noble… more like someone who's lived through it."
Aldric paused briefly, wearing a smile tinged with irony.
"You don't need to live it to understand it. You just have to know how to look."
Pierre said no more, but his eyes studied him like he was trying to solve an ever-deepening mystery.
Two days later, the "retreats" began. A full detachment faked defeat, abandoning minor weapons and leaving bodies—lifeless, but of prisoners already executed for crimes. The deception was brutal, but necessary.
Meanwhile, Charles personally oversaw the fortification of the southern flank. Though still wary, he no longer questioned every order from his younger brother. In private, he had even admitted to a captain, "The boy has the eyes of an eagle and the tongue of a serpent."
On the third day, smoke rose on the horizon. The signals were clear: the duke had taken the bait. He had sent a main force toward the pass, while another marched toward the forest, believing Hautterre to be in desperation.
Aldric was in position.
"Sound the horns at dusk. Nothing before. We'll catch him when his troops are most scattered," he ordered.
Pierre swallowed hard.
"What if he finds out?"
Aldric lowered his gaze to the map, his fingers touching the markings with the precision of a surgeon.
"Then we die. But so does he."
The sun descended, painting the sky red. Horns blared across Mavron. The traps were sprung, branches snapped, and chaos exploded.
The duke's contingent was ambushed from all sides. Hidden archers fired from tall trees while light infantry attacked from impossible angles. The enemy fell back… but had nowhere to go.
Aldric, with a sword at his side and a cloak soaked in mud, directed the operation from a hilltop.
"Don't let them regroup! Split them into small units! Attack and divert!"
The clash of steel, screams, and the crack of wood created a macabre symphony that heralded either victory… or ruin. Charles fought at the front line, his sword spinning with deadly precision. At one moment, they met in the field.
"This is madness!" Charles shouted.
"It's strategy," Aldric shot back, deflecting a spear with a dagger. "And it's working!"
Hours later, silence returned to the forest. Corpses lay everywhere. Blood soaked the roots. And among the bodies… the duke's banner.
They had done it. But this was only the beginning.
Aldric fell to his knees, exhausted, his eyes fixed on the darkness between the trees.
"What now, my lord?" Pierre asked.
Aldric took a deep breath, his hands still trembling from the tension.
"Now… now they'll see that Hautterre is not just a dot on the map. It's a warning."
And as the first drops of rain began to fall over the lifeless bodies, Aldric rose. The game had just begun… and he already had the next move in mind.