Chapter 5: Wolves Among the Trees

The wind whispered through the pines like a warning.

It had been two days since the spy's message arrived. Aldric stood on a ridge just north of the forested pass known as Valecroix—the ancient route Vellmont's forces would likely use. He wore a cloak of dark wool lined with fur, but the chill had little to do with the cold. Below, scouts moved like shadows among the trees, setting traps and marking paths. His plan was in motion.

War was no longer a matter of numbers. It was time, terrain, morale—and knowledge. And he had all of it.

"We counted five forward detachments so far," reported Captain Evrard, a hardened man with a crooked nose and a soldier's bluntness. "Light cavalry, scouts. They're probing. But they haven't committed to the pass yet."

"They will," Aldric murmured. "Vellmont's pride won't let him turn back."

He turned toward Evrard and pointed at the narrowest stretch of the valley below.

"When they move through here, they'll have to stretch their forces. Supply wagons, rear guard, the main body—all strung out along a trail barely wide enough for two carts. If we strike then, not to win—but to wound—we can slow them, bleed them, break their rhythm."

"An ambush?" Evrard raised an eyebrow. "Won't stop an army of that size."

"It's not meant to. It's meant to infect them with fear."

Aldric had studied dozens of such campaigns—how armies of thousands fell not in battle but in marches, when every shadow held a blade, and every noise in the forest might mean death. He would turn Valecroix into a graveyard of nerves.

Back at camp, he gathered his war council: Lord Renard, Charles, Captain Evrard, and a handful of trusted officers. The map was rolled out across the table, stones holding down the corners, red markers placed like seeds of blood across the valley routes.

"We'll hit the vanguard first," Aldric said, tapping the map. "Not to kill them all—but to send them back shaken, bleeding. They'll spread fear. Then we strike again the next night. And again. Always at night. Always from the dark."

"Guerrilla tactics," Charles muttered, arms crossed.

Aldric met his brother's skeptical eyes.

"Do you have a better plan?"

Charles didn't answer.

Lord Renard, however, leaned forward. "And what of our defenses here at Hautterre? If Vellmont pushes through despite your games, we must be ready to hold."

Aldric nodded. "I've ordered construction of secondary barricades at the river crossing. We're moving supplies to the keep, reinforcing the inner gates, and boiling pitch. But if he reaches us intact, we'll be outmatched. This plan… this forest… is where we fight and win."

Pierre, standing quietly in the corner, spoke up. "And if it fails?"

Aldric looked at him. No anger. Just certainty.

"Then we fall. But if we do nothing, we fall anyway."

That night, under a moonless sky, the first blow fell.

Thirty men—hand-picked, silent as ghosts—descended into the valley under Aldric's command. They struck just before dawn, when the vanguard scouts were still groggy and careless. Blades flashed. Horses screamed. Fires were lit and snuffed out within seconds. By the time the sun broke through the clouds, only corpses and panicked survivors remained.

Aldric returned with his cloak stained in soot and blood, his breath steaming in the morning air. He didn't speak of glory. He simply wrote down the result, adjusted the next strike, and rested.

The next night, they hit again—this time the rear supply carts, torching wagons and slaughtering oxen. Then they vanished into the trees like ghosts.

By the third night, Vellmont's army slowed. By the fourth, it stopped entirely.

Inside Vellmont's war tent, reports painted a picture of chaos. "The enemy knows this land too well," his captains said. "They're everywhere. We need to regroup."

But Vellmont was not a cautious man.

He ordered the march to continue.

Back in Hautterre, Aldric watched it all unfold like a game of chess. Reports came in hourly. He slept little, ate less. His mind raced with calculations: terrain, troop movements, weather. Rain was expected. That would slow them further. Perfect.

Still, the tension grew. The night of the fifth day, Lord Renard summoned him privately.

"You're not the boy I remember," he said quietly, seated beside the fire in his solar.

Aldric remained standing. "That boy wouldn't have survived this."

"You speak like a man twice your age."

"I've seen what happens to those who trust in legacy alone."

Renard studied him. Not with suspicion anymore—but something closer to concern.

"I don't know what happened to you, Aldric… but I see now why you were born my son."

Those words stayed with Aldric longer than he expected.

The sixth day dawned grey and heavy with rain. Scouts reported the bulk of Vellmont's forces less than a league away, moving slowly, tired, and angry. Perfect.

Aldric called the council once more.

"This is our last chance to weaken them before they reach the river crossing. We attack again tonight—larger force this time. Hit their middle ranks. Confuse their formation. Set their tents on fire. Take prisoners if you can. Leave no trail."

Charles stood. "I'll lead the left flank."

Aldric raised an eyebrow. "You?"

"I've seen enough from behind the walls. If we fail, I want to be in the middle of it. If we win… I want to be there, too."

Aldric gave a slow nod. "Very well."

That night, the forest erupted in chaos.

Under cover of storm and shadows, Hautterre's forces struck. The middle ranks of Vellmont's army, already weary and cold, were caught completely off guard. Fires broke out in the tents. Screams cut through the downpour. Horses bolted. Some soldiers fled. Others turned on each other in the confusion.

Aldric moved like a blade himself—fast, silent, relentless. He didn't fight to kill. He fought to command. To lead. To show that he was no soft noble, but a commander worth bleeding for.

By the time dawn broke, Vellmont's army was broken into fragments, its cohesion shattered.

They would still come. But not as one. Not as a hammer, but a collection of cracked stones.

And Aldric, standing atop the muddy ridge with rain clinging to his cloak, knew the first victory had been won—not with swords alone, but with fear, cunning, and the will to change the course of history.