Chapter 4: Echoes of the Past

By the next morning, orders were already in motion.

Aldric watched from the fortress courtyard as the riders departed one by one, carrying messages sealed with the boar emblem. Each was headed to a critical point: mountain passes, allied villages, noble houses forgotten by history… but not by him. Years of studying medieval treaties, war letters, and ancient chronicles now pulsed to life in his hands.

"Are you sure about this, my lord?" asked Pierre, struggling with a box of rolled maps. "I mean… trusting Lord Auberon to change sides seems like a dangerous gamble."

Aldric gave him a sharp look.

"Auberon is an opportunist. He gained infamy for betraying Vellmont in the third week of the campaign—when it still wasn't clear they would lose. He did it for gold, land, and empty promises… but he did it. If we offer him the same—sooner—he'll switch sides again. Only this time, for us."

Pierre lowered his gaze. Not convinced, but lacking arguments to oppose him.

The hours passed. The camp buzzed with activity. Aldric spent the day meeting with local captains, assessing grain stores, the state of weapons, and something most nobles of his era would never consider: the morale of the soldiers.

He noted many were exhausted, poorly fed, and even more poorly trained. But above all, they were demoralized. Fighting for a distant lord, under vague orders. That had to change.

That same afternoon, he summoned the garrison. Hundreds of men lined up before the palisade. They expected the usual pompous speech from a young, inexperienced noble. But Aldric didn't shout. He didn't raise his voice. He simply walked slowly before them and spoke firmly—like a teacher before his class.

"I'm not here to promise glory. I'm here to talk about survival," he began. "The Duke of Vellmont is no monster. He's a man. And like any man, he can be defeated. But we won't do that if we keep believing this war belongs only to the Lord of Hautterre. No. This war is yours. For your families, your lands, your children."

The murmurs faded. Even the officers went silent.

"I wasn't born to lead," he continued. "But I've seen how these stories end. I've read about armies crushed for trusting in titles rather than wit. I won't repeat their mistakes. And neither should you."

Then he stepped forward, eyes burning with conviction.

"If any of you believe this is a lost cause… leave now. But if anyone here believes we can still write a different story, then listen to me. I won't be the noble who waits in his tower. I'll be the one who fights beside you. Because this is not the Middle Ages they told us about in books… this will be ours."

A brief silence. Then the first claps—hesitant at first, then strong. For the first time, the army didn't see a pampered young lord. They saw a leader.

That night, Pierre approached him as he pored over reports in the command tent.

"I don't know how you did it," he said, "but the men believe in you now."

Aldric didn't look up. He just smiled, weary.

"Because I didn't lie to them. And because what comes next… will be much worse."

He handed Pierre a letter—fresh ink, broken seal. From a spy in Vellmont's camp.

"The Duke has accelerated his march. He'll cross the pass in six days. He brings over a thousand men. And he aims to take Hautterre before the harvest."

Pierre turned pale.

"What do we do now?"

Aldric leaned back in his chair, staring at the canvas ceiling.

"Now… we make him bleed. Before he even steps on our land."

And so, while the rest of the world believed the war was just beginning, the real game was already being played in the shadows.

And Aldric—the history professor reborn as a noble—had the advantage of having read the ending.