Tension hung in the air like a taut rope ready to snap.
Aldric watched from the battlements as the Duke's detachment settled on the nearby hills. Blue and gold banners waved in the wind with defiant arrogance. It wasn't an official declaration of war, but it was a message: "I'm here, and I won't leave."
"How long do you think before they move?" Charles asked, eyes locked on the enemy troops.
"They won't. Not yet," Aldric replied, arms crossed. "This is a chess match. And they just placed their queen on the board."
He returned to the council hall, where his most trusted men were waiting. Pierre brought freshly updated maps, and one of the spies had just returned with valuable intel: the Ducal army's supply route passed through the Almenes forest, a poorly guarded area.
"We strike tonight," Aldric said bluntly. "A quick hit on their supply line. They must not know it was us."
"An undercover mission?" one of the knights asked.
"Exactly. Make it look like bandits—or better yet, like their own allies."
"And if we're discovered?"
"Then we make sure there's no one left to tell the tale."
That night, under the pale light of a crescent moon and the veil of low fog, Aldric personally led the raid. Ten men, handpicked for their silence and efficiency, rode in silence along paths known only to hunters and woodcutters.
The enemy convoy consisted of three carts guarded by a dozen soldiers. They carried food, weapons, and munitions—exactly what Hautterre couldn't afford to let through.
"At the signal, flank them. Quick. Ruthless," Aldric whispered.
With a slight movement of his arm, the ambush began. Arrows whistled through the dark, striking the first sentries. Then, like shadows from the forest, Aldric's men descended on the remaining guards. There were brief screams, the dull thud of blades sinking into flesh, and the creak of a cart trying to flee.
It didn't get far.
When it was over, no witnesses remained.
"Remove the emblems. Spill some wine on the bodies…" Aldric ordered as he inspected the cargo. "It has to look like a drunk mercenary squabble."
Within the hour, the group vanished into the mist as if they had never been there.
Back at Hautterre, tension simmered, but all was under control. News of the sabotage would soon reach the enemy camp, and with luck, it would sow confusion.
At dawn, a messenger arrived with a sealed scroll: the Duke demanded an audience.
"He's coming himself?" Charles asked.
"No. He's sending his younger brother, Count Armand. Another player… but easier to read," Aldric said, stroking his chin.
Three days later, in the great hall of Hautterre, Armand made his entrance. An elegant man with a sharp gaze and sharper tongue.
"Lord Aldric, my brother wishes to avoid unnecessary conflict. He believes there's still room for diplomacy."
Aldric smiled.
"And yet, he sent troops to our hills. Is that how he negotiates?"
"A precaution. Just like your little ambush on our convoy, no?"
Silence thickened the hall. Charles tensed, and a few nobles shifted uneasily.
Aldric kept his composure.
"An act of banditry. Unfortunate… but common in those routes."
Armand chuckled dryly.
"Of course… bandits. Very well. Then let's negotiate before those same bandits decide to attack us both."
The conversation lasted hours, more a dance of veiled threats than genuine diplomacy. But Aldric got what he wanted: time. Time to mobilize troops, solidify alliances, and prepare his next move.
That night, alone in his study, he stared calmly at the map. There were the pieces: the Duke, Baron Glay, Armand, even his own brothers.
"This isn't just war…" he murmured. "It's a board. And I intend to win."