"We came to negotiate, but we're not blind. We know what's stirring in Mavron," said the knight from Brisach, his tone measured but laced with warning.
Aldric didn't respond right away. The rain kept falling, dark and steady. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make them uneasy. Then, with a subtle smile, he inclined his head.
"Then let's speak plainly," he said. "But not out here. My men will offer you shelter and something warm. War doesn't need to rush."
The count's men glanced at one another. The knight nodded slowly, and the tension eased just a bit. Pierre, alert to every move, signaled for them to be escorted to the hall.
The fire crackled in the hearth as Aldric took a seat across from the emissaries. The table was set with warm wine and bread, though no one touched it. The knight who had spoken finally introduced himself.
"Sir Émeric de Vallon, first squire to the Count of Brisach. I speak on his behalf."
"And what is his stance now?" Aldric asked bluntly. "Ally? Neutral? Or aiming to take control of the valley?"
Émeric didn't flinch.
"The count does not wish to see Hautterre burned to the ground. But he won't risk supporting someone who can't hold his ground."
"A veiled threat," Pierre muttered from a corner.
"A fact," Émeric replied. "Duke Armand continues his advance. He has sent emissaries to Brisach as well. Many in our court believe his victory is inevitable."
Aldric leaned forward.
"Inevitability is an illusion that survives only when no one dares to challenge it."
Émeric seemed to consider those words. Then he pulled out a sealed scroll.
"The count wants proof of your strength. If you hold your position and survive the winter, he's willing to renegotiate... perhaps even send troops."
Aldric took the scroll but didn't break the seal. He held it as if it weighed more than parchment. Then he set it down on the table.
"Tell your lord the storm has already begun. If he waits too long, there'll be nothing left but mud and corpses where opportunity once stood."
Hours later, as the delegation departed, Charles appeared by the fire, soaked and scowling.
"You gave them wine? After they spied on us in plain daylight?"
"Better a full-bellied enemy than a sharp-eyed, hungry one," Aldric said, drying his hands. "We need time, Charles. Every moment diplomacy buys us is one less blade at our throat."
"And what if they stab us anyway?"
Aldric met his eyes.
"Then let them do it after we've crushed the duke. Not before."
Charles grumbled something but said no more. He was still wary, but no longer blind. Recent events—and Aldric's growing reputation—had begun to shift his view.
That night, Aldric summoned Renard, his master of spies, to the tower. Outside, the rain still hammered the rooftops.
"I want eyes on Brisach. Discreet ones. I need to know if that knight told the truth or if he came just to measure our defenses."
Renard nodded. His weathered face barely moved.
"I already sent two men before they arrived. But if you wish, I can use the merchant guild. They blend in better."
"Do it," Aldric said. "And if you hear anything about a secret alliance between the duke and Brisach, I want to know before the ink dries."
"You trust them that little?"
"I trust what they stand to gain by betraying me. That's all."
Before bed, Pierre brought him a tray of hot tea. The young squire watched as Aldric scribbled in his notebook—mapping supply lines, escape routes, terrain details.
"What if Brisach joins the duke?" Pierre asked quietly.
"Then we fight on two fronts," Aldric said without looking up.
"And what if we lose?"
Aldric stopped. He closed the notebook, turned, and looked Pierre in the eye.
"We're not going to lose. I didn't come here to die in a forgotten chronicle. I came to rewrite it."
Pierre stared at him, caught between admiration and fear.
In the shadows, beyond the rain and stone, the future continued being written.
But not in ink.
In blood.