Chapter 8 - The Family Dinner & Political Maneuvering

The great dining hall of the Ravensbourne Manor was a testament to the family's wealth and influence. High, arched ceilings bore intricate carvings of the family's crest—a black raven clutching a silver sword—while long banners of deep crimson and gold adorned the walls. The massive oak dining table, polished to a pristine sheen, stretched across the hall, its surface adorned with silverware and finely crafted goblets filled with dark red wine.

Despite the grandeur, the air in the room was tense.

Aldric entered to find Lucien already seated, his expression unreadable. Across from him sat Marquise Gustov, a man whose presence alone could command a battlefield.

Gustov was a towering figure, broad-shouldered with a scarred visage that spoke of countless battles. His armor, though polished, bore scratches and dents—marks of a warrior who had earned his title through blood and steel, not noble birth. His cold, piercing gaze settled on Aldric the moment he entered.

At the head of the table sat Lord Alaric Ravensbourne, Aldric's father. The Iron Raven.

Unlike the brutish warriors of the frontier, Alaric possessed a sharp, calculating mind hidden behind a stoic exterior. His presence was suffocating—not because of brute strength but because of the sheer authority he commanded.

Aldric had barely seated himself when his father's voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"You took your time," Alaric said, his tone even. "Are you fully recovered?"

Aldric met his father's gaze without hesitation. "I am, Father. I appreciate the concern."

A flicker of something—amusement? doubt?—crossed Alaric's face, but he didn't comment.

Instead, Lucien leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "Aldric, do you know why you were summoned here tonight?"

Aldric feigned ignorance, taking a sip of water before responding. "I assume it has something to do with Marquise Gustov's unexpected visit."

Gustov let out a low grunt, eyeing him carefully.

"Clever," Marquise Gustov muttered. "Your brother mentioned that you've… changed."

Aldric raised a brow. "For the better, I hope."

Lucien's lips twitched slightly, though he remained silent.

Alaric finally spoke again. "Marquise Gustov has a problem. One that I believe you may be able to solve."

Aldric turned to the Marquise, curiosity piqued. "I'd be honored to assist, but I must admit—I am unclear on what expertise I possess that a man of your stature would require."

Gustov's eyes narrowed. "Bandits boy."

Aldric remained still, waiting for the Marquise to continue.

"But not just your regular bandits" Maquise tone went serious.

"The Nomadic Clans of the Grey Stepps, they are more a keen to an organized Army than Bandits." Maquise said in frustration.

"The Nomadic Clans of the Grey Steppes have been more aggressive than ever. Raiding villages, burning supply lines, and even attacking fortified trade routes. The King's Court refuses to send reinforcements, believing this to be a localized issue. I need a solution before my forces are stretched too thin."

Aldric's mind immediately went to work, analyzing the problem like an equation.

• Nomadic tactics: Hit-and-run raids, mobility-based warfare.

• Traditional noble warfare: Heavy reliance on slow-moving knights and fortifications.

• Logistics issue: Trade routes under attack, supply lines disrupted.

• Political dimension: The king refuses to act, likely due to internal struggles.

Alaric studied Aldric carefully. "I suggested we consult you because of your… newfound clarity. You've been studying warfare, have you not?"

Aldric knew this was a test. If he failed to provide a meaningful response, his father would see him as nothing more than an improved but ultimately useless son.

He leaned forward, fingers tapping against the table.

"Marquise Gustov, your current forces are being outmaneuvered, correct?"

The Marquise gave a slow nod. "They attack from nowhere and disappear before my forces can respond."

Aldric nodded, gears turning in his head.

"Then the solution is not to react but to anticipate. You need an early warning system—a way to track their movements before they strike."

Gustov frowned. "Scouts are already deployed. They haven't been able to detect the clans in time."

Aldric smirked. "Then your scouts aren't looking in the right places."

Lucien finally spoke up, curiosity evident. "What do you suggest?"

Aldric's smirk deepened.

"The nomads rely on horses, correct? They can't sustain large forces in one place for too long without exhausting their resources. That means they have hidden supply caches, water sources, and temporary encampments scattered throughout the steppes."

Gustov's expression darkened in realization. "You're suggesting we find those locations… and destroy them before they can attack?"

Aldric nodded. "Cut off their lifelines, and their mobility becomes a weakness rather than an advantage."

Alaric let out a small chuckle, though there was no warmth in it. "Impressive."

Gustov grunted, rubbing his chin. "Hmph. And how do you suggest we find these locations?"

Aldric leaned back in his chair, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"We don't just find them, Marquise Gustov. We bait them."

Silence followed.

Lucien finally spoke. "You're suggesting a trap?"

Aldric nodded. "A false supply convoy, lightly guarded but filled with resources they can't ignore. When they attack, we let them take it—but we track them back to their main camp. Once we have their location… we strike first."

Gustov let out a booming laugh, slamming a fist against the table. "Boy, you're a devil."

Alaric's eyes glowed with something dangerously close to pride.

Lucien, however, looked at Aldric with newfound curiosity.

'What exactly happened to you, little brother?'

Aldric simply smiled, finishing his drink.

"Shall we discuss the finer details, gentlemen?"