The rain had not stopped since the night of the ambush. The forest of Mavron was now soaked in mud, blood, and the silence of the dead. Aldric stood beneath a canopy of dripping trees, watching as his men gathered the fallen and buried the wounded. Each face he passed wore a different version of exhaustion: some hollow-eyed, some hardened, others trembling beneath the weight of survival.
"That was close," Pierre muttered beside him, his cloak clinging to his frame. "Too close."
Aldric didn't respond immediately. His eyes were fixed on the forest's edge where the last remnants of the duke's forward scouts had fled two nights ago. "It had to be close. If it were easy, he'd never believe it."
They returned to Hautterre by midday, their arrival greeted with stunned silence. Villagers lined the muddy path, eyes wide at the bloodied soldiers and the shattered banners they carried. Word of the victory would spread quickly—but Aldric had no intention of letting it take a simple shape.
That same evening, he summoned the inner council.
"We cannot let them think we've won outright," he said, his voice low but firm. "If the duke hears we crushed his forward guard, he'll come with fire and fury."
Charles leaned forward. "So what do you propose? Lie to our own people?"
"No," Aldric said, looking him directly in the eye. "We let them believe what they want—but we plant the right rumors in the right ears. That the duke fell into a trap. That he was wounded. That his men panicked. But that our victory came at great cost."
The spymaster, cloaked in shadows near the fireplace, nodded. "I can make that happen. If we control the story, we control the next move."
Two days passed.
In that time, whispered stories began to spread through merchants, messengers, and drunken soldiers. They spoke of a mysterious young lord who commanded with unnatural precision, of traps sprung from nowhere, and of a narrow escape by the duke himself. Others claimed Aldric was wounded and on his deathbed, while some said he rode alone into battle, blessed by a forgotten god of war.
None of it was true. All of it was useful.
Meanwhile, Aldric met with Pierre and the steward to begin replenishing supplies. Food, weapons, clean water—everything would be crucial in the weeks to come. The land around Hautterre was loyal, but strained. Farmers feared conscription. Merchants feared robbery. Morale hung by a thread.
But Aldric knew how to spin that thread into rope.
He visited the villages himself. He spoke with old men and hungry mothers. He helped pull carts from the mud, shared bread, and listened more than he preached. And slowly, a spark caught.
Back at the keep, Charles waited for him after one such visit, arms crossed.
"You're winning them."
"They need more than swords," Aldric replied.
Charles hesitated. "I used to think you were just playing the clever one. Pretending to be better than us. But you're not pretending, are you?"
Aldric smiled faintly. "I'm pretending all the time, Charles. But that doesn't mean I'm wrong."
A long silence stretched between them before Charles chuckled, shaking his head. "You're dangerous, little brother."
"To the right people, I hope."
That night, as thunder rolled over the hills and lightning lit the valley, a messenger arrived. Drenched, panting, he collapsed before the gates, clutching a sealed letter marked with a foreign crest.
Pierre brought it to Aldric immediately.
The seal was unfamiliar. The letter was not.
A proposal. A secret alliance. And a warning:
The duke is gathering new allies. And one of them remembers Hautterre well.
Aldric read the line twice. Then a third time.
His hands tightened around the parchment.
The next move had already begun.