Chapter 3: The Barrow Hills

The caravan set out at dawn, just as the sun began to paint the treetops gold. The air was cold and dry, and the wheels of the wagons creaked along the hardened dirt road. Aldric rode at the front, a thick cloak draped over his shoulders, flanked by two guards and followed closely by Pierre, who silently cursed every bump in the path.

For hours, the journey unfolded in tense silence, broken only by the cawing of crows and the grinding of armor. The Barrow Hills weren't far, but the terrain was treacherous—dotted with old battlefields and half-abandoned villages. The place had a grim reputation among locals, who swore the dead still whispered beneath the stones.

Aldric, however, had other things on his mind.

His thoughts swirled with strategies, mental maps, the delicate balance of feudal politics. He knew his position as the youngest son was fragile: too young to inspire respect, too clever to go unnoticed. He had to move carefully. One wrong step, and they'd see him as insolent. Too slow, and they'd forget he existed.

—"My lord," Pierre said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Do you truly believe the Duke will attack?"

Aldric didn't answer right away. He looked out over the horizon, where the hills rose like old beasts slumbering beneath the mist.

—"If you were an ambitious duke," he said, "and your neighbor was weakened by internal disputes—would you wait?"

Pierre swallowed hard.

—"No, my lord."

—"Exactly. History favors the one who acts first."

They reached the outpost before midday. It was a small fortress surrounded by wooden palisades, with a watchtower from which the eastern valleys could be seen. There, they were greeted by Commander Amiel—a sturdy man with a gray beard and eyes full of suspicion. He wasn't noble, but his experience commanded respect.

—"Lord Aldric," he said with a stiff nod, the kind given more out of duty than affection. "I wasn't expecting your father to send his youngest."

—"And yet, here I am," Aldric replied as he dismounted with practiced grace. "I didn't come to give orders. I came to understand the situation."

Amiel raised an eyebrow, surprised by the answer.

They led him inside the outpost, where maps and letters lay scattered over a stone table. There were reports of troop movements, minor raids on nearby villages, and rumors of mass recruitment in the south. Aldric scanned them quickly, comparing the information with what he remembered from his past life.

—"Have the eastern passes been reinforced?" he asked.

—"Double patrols and archers stationed," Amiel replied. "But if the Duke comes with a thousand men, this won't hold for more than three days."

—"Then we won't hold," Aldric said flatly. "We'll strike first."

Silence fell like smoke. Pierre choked on air. Amiel narrowed his eyes.

—"Strike? With what army?"

—"With information," Aldric said, pointing at the maps. "Here. The Duke will use the Morville Pass. He always does. His route is predictable. If we burn his supply caches before he arrives, sabotage the access bridges… he'll lose momentum before he even reaches our walls."

—"That's… bold," Amiel muttered. "And dangerous."

—"So is war. But war is also predictable—if you know your enemy. I know this campaign. I've read about it, even if they haven't lived it yet."

Amiel studied him for a long time.

—"I don't know if you're a fool or a genius, boy."

—"A bit of both," Aldric said with a smile.

That night, Amiel agreed to send scouts to the strategic points Aldric had identified. He still didn't fully trust the young lord, but he couldn't deny the logic in his words. Meanwhile, Aldric wrote new letters—this time to an old noble on the fringes of the Duchy of Vellmont: Lord Auberon, a man known in dusty history books for switching sides at the perfect moment.

If he could sow doubt in Auberon's heart… the Duke would face problems before the war even began.

Before sleeping, Aldric climbed alone to the watchtower. From there, he could see the long shadows stretching over the hills and the flickering fires of the camp below.

—"This isn't a lecture," he whispered to himself. "This is living history. And I hold the pen."

The wind howled around him, carrying the scent of smoke and war.

And down below, in the darkness, the first footsteps of destiny began to echo.