Chapter 8

The dim glow of the tent cast flickering shadows as the chained prisoner knelt before me. Ruben met my gaze with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable. A flick of the wrist dismissed the guards. They hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances before obeying. The tent flap fell shut behind them, leaving only the two of us.

Measured steps carried me forward until the distance between us vanished. "Justice for my betrothed is beyond reach," the words came low, edged with quiet fury. "Not when his forces strengthen mine by five thousand men. I need them. If you wish to serve, you will not speak of your crimes. If you do—" a deliberate step forward invaded his space, darkening the warning, "—you will not live to see dawn. Do I make myself clear?"

Slowly, Ruben dropped to both knees, bowing his head. "Yes, my duchess. I will do as you command."

The formality gave me pause, but there was no time to dwell on it, no time to sit and wonder on his graceful etiquette. The tent flapped open, and my council strode inside, their expressions grave.

The weight of the moment pressed heavily upon us all. The flickering lantern cast long shadows against the fabric walls, illuminating Sir David, Sir Donovan, and Sir Luke.

Discussions began before I could speak a word.

Sir Donovan, ever the warrior, crossed his arms. "We should hold the fort and force them to lay siege. Make them bleed for every inch."

"No," Sir Luke countered, sharp and sure. "These are mounted archers, all if them, not foot soldiers. They will rain death upon us while we cower behind ill made walls. We'll be dead before they lose a single man."

Sir David, cutting the senseless bickering with a compliment.

Marvelous speech, my liege, you surely inspired the—

A terrible cough wracked Sir David's body. He hunched over the table, pressing a stained, bloody handkerchief to his lips.

"Enough," I said, eyes narrowing. "Sir David, you are ill. Return to your tent. You are no use to me dead."

"My liege, surely I can still be of servi—" Another cough choked off his words. He looked up—

A glare silenced him. "I will hear no protest. Leave, before we all share your affliction."

And thank you for your kind words, Sir David. 

He hesitated, then nodded weakly. Rising to unsteady feet, he trudged out without another word.

A sharp exhale steadied my thoughts. "Sir Luke is right. A siege would ruin us. But there has to be another way."

Moving to the tent's entrance, my gaze drifted toward the open expanse beyond the fortified encampment. Memories stirred—endless childhood study sessions under my father's brutal tutelage, the relentless scrutiny of tutors, dusty old tomes of war and conquest. One battle stood out: Teutoburg Forest.

Turning back to the council, the decision was clear. "In 9 AD, a Roman cavalry was lured into a forest and ambushed. Superior in number, skilled in battle tactics—yet they were slaughtered to the last man. Caught in unfamiliar terrain, they were defenseless."

Sir Donovan leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. "You wish to lure them into the forest?"

A glance toward the open field outside the encampment set the stage. "Not the forest. Here." A plan formed in sharp clarity. "We'll cut down trees, create barriers lit by fire to block their escape. Once they are within, we strike from all sides, crippling their mobility. We will force them into melee combat."

Sir Donovan stroked his beard. "A good plan, but what if they break through?"

"We control the battlefield," I countered. "We dictate the fight."

A voice interrupted from the shadows. "So, you will use my plan then?"

All eyes snapped to the prisoner, still chained to the tent's central pole. Ruben's dark gaze held steady.

Sir Donovan bristled. "Silence, dog! You're lucky we haven't gelded you!"

A raised hand stopped his petty insults as I commanded, "Leave him."

"My lady, he speaks out of turn—" He said 

"I said leave him."

Sir Donovan's scowl deepened. "Why is this prisoner not rotting in a cell?"

"Because he is more valuable to us here... Alive." 

The knight's expression darkened as he turned on Sir Luke. "This was your doing, wasn't it?"

His disdain for Sir Luke had always been clear, but his hatred for Ruben burned even brighter.

Sir Luke smirked. "You assume too much, old man."

"Enough," I commanded. "We have a battle to prepare for."

Sir Donovan sighed. "This plan is risky. If it fails, we lose everything."

Sir Luke shrugged. "If we do nothing, we are doomed regardless. At least this gives us a chance."

A flicker of memory surfaced—my father, his relentless lessons, his insistence that knowledge was the sharpest weapon of all. As much as I had loathed those lessons, now… now, they made all the difference.

"This is our plan," I declared. "We are committed, Sir Donovan, see to the preparations."

He hesitated, then bowed. "Yes, my duchess."

A sharp nod turned the attention to the guards. "Take the prisoner back to his cell."

They obeyed, hauling Ruben to his feet and dragging him from the tent. Sir Donovan followed soon after, barking orders to ready the men.

Only Sir Luke remained. He stepped forward. "A brilliant strategy, my liege. We need only follow it to the letter."

"Interrogate the prisoner," I instructed. "Learn all you can and report back."

Sir Luke's expression remained firm. "It will be done." He exited without another word.

Finally, solitude.

A slow exhale pressed against the weight of exhaustion. "Maidens," I called. They rushed in, hands deftly unbuckling the armor that bore down on weary shoulders. The weight lifted from flesh, but not from mind.

Rest or oversee the preparations? Sir Donovan was capable, but… what would my father do?

The answer was obvious.

"Reassemble my armor," I ordered. "I must oversee the preparations."