The smell of smoke still lingered over the forest as Aldric returned to the fortress. His boots dragged dry mud, and his cloak reeked of sweat, blood, and ash. He hadn't slept. He couldn't. Each step back was a mental replay of the battle—of the mistakes, the enemy's reactions.
Charles caught up with him in the inner courtyard, his face tense.
—"The scouts say the enemy has retreated northeast. They've set up camp near the San Lothar crossing."
Aldric nodded silently. His expression was hard, almost stone-like.
—"That gives us a day. Maybe two. No more."
Pierre arrived, panting, clutching a scroll of parchment.
—"We have news. The duke… has sent a messenger."
Aldric raised an eyebrow. "A messenger? After an ambush?"
—"He wants to parley. In the letter, he demands a 'formal response' regarding your 'hostile actions.'" Pierre handed him the scroll with a grimace. "He's pretending you were the aggressor."
Aldric read in silence. The wording was carefully chosen. Not a single direct mention of ducal troops. Only "mercenaries hired by a noble concerned with the stability of the region."
—"He wants to wash his hands if he loses," Aldric muttered. "And blame us if he wins."
Charles snorted. "What will you answer?"
Aldric tucked the letter into his belt.
—"Nothing. Not yet. But tonight, I'll write something that will force him to make his next move."
They climbed to the strategy room, where the captains were already waiting. The map of the region lay open atop the large oak table. Small wooden figures represented allied and enemy forces. Aldric took an enemy piece and moved it to San Lothar's crossing.
—"They're camped here. They won't move until they regroup. But if they wait too long, they'll lose face with their vassals. So they'll strike soon."
—"And if they try to flank us from the south?" one captain asked.
—"There are no passable roads. The rains made the minor paths useless. And the peasants won't guide them—not after what happened in the Remblay market."
A tense silence followed. Everyone remembered that massacre.
—"We need to prepare the second perimeter," Charles said. "If they manage to get through another pass…"
—"They won't," Aldric interrupted. "But I want them to think they can. Pierre, spread the word that we're reinforcing the east. That we're worried about a raid through the hills. Make it believable."
Pierre hesitated.
—"You want them to divert… into the roughest terrain?"
Aldric nodded. —"Exactly. We'll give them a small false victory. Let them enter where we want them to."
That night, under the flickering candlelight, Aldric wrote his letter. Ink was scarce, so he chose every word with care. It wasn't a formal reply, but a calculated provocation—a new chess piece in motion.
"To those who wear honor as a mask, and send spies dressed as free men, I remind you: the land does not forget. Hautterre is not land of submissive serfs, but of awakened men. Tread carefully."
He didn't sign with his name. Only with the symbol of a falcon in flight.
When he finished, he sealed the scroll with black wax.
The next day, the messenger departed toward the enemy camp. And Aldric, watching the lingering smoke on the horizon, murmured:
—"Let's see if the duke is willing to play this game to the end."
Hours after the messenger was sent, Aldric found himself alone in the stone chapel. He wasn't particularly religious, but he had learned to value the silence of that place. The altar held no luxuries—just a single candle and a plain cross. He knelt, not to pray, but to think.
What if I'm wrong?What if the duke doesn't take the bait?
He remembered the words of his former mentor back at the university—a voice from another time, another world: "There is no victory without calculated risk. But risk is no excuse for arrogance."
The door creaked. Charles entered, not in armor, but in a simple wool tunic.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
"Neither can you."
Charles approached and sat on the wooden bench, exhaling heavily.
"Our men are nervous. The captains try to keep morale up, but… they all know yesterday was just the beginning."
Aldric didn't reply immediately. Then, in a quiet voice:
"I can't offer them empty promises. Only decisions that give us a chance."
"You think like a ruler, Aldric. But they… most of them are farmers. They've never seen a long war. They fight for their land, yes, but also for you."
Aldric looked down.
"And you? Why do you fight?"
Charles didn't answer right away. His expression turned harder, more somber.
"Because I won't let some bastard with a crown decide the fate of my home. Because I'd rather die with a sword in my hand than live on my knees."
Silence wrapped around them, broken only by the flicker of the candle.
Finally, Aldric stood.
"Tomorrow we take the initiative. I want a small force to move toward the western forest. Make noise, leave false signs. The enemy must think we're preparing an offensive from there."
"What if they see through it?"
"Then they'll have wasted time and men for nothing. In war, the one who moves too fast dies first."
Charles nodded. He had learned to trust this strange young man who spoke like a scholar and planned like a general.
"And if the duke responds with everything he has?"
"Then it will be his mistake. Because we'll already have set the ground to bury him."
At dawn, while mist still blanketed the trees, the first groups began moving quietly westward. Fake campfires would be lit. Tracks would be left deliberately. A dance of shadows to mislead a confident enemy.
This war was no longer just about swords and arrows. It was about ideas. And Aldric was determined that this time, the future would be written by him.