Chapter 6: The Cost of Command

The first clash came at dawn.

Aldric stood behind the first line of archers on the ridge, eyes narrowed against the cold mist that clung to the valley below. The early morning light painted the landscape in shades of steel and ash. Across the clearing, barely visible through the trees, the banners of Vellmont rippled.

They had come faster than expected.

Scouts had reported them just hours ago—over 1,200 men, armored and prepared for a direct march through the forested pass. Too many for a direct confrontation. But Aldric had no intention of meeting them head-on.

He turned to the captain beside him.

"Signal the traps."

The horn sounded once, sharp and low.

A moment later, controlled chaos unfolded. The front ranks of Vellmont's forces pushed forward—right into the narrowest part of the trail. That was when the trees began to fall. Ropes, hidden beneath leaves and soil, snapped taut. Weighted trunks, cut halfway through during the night, collapsed onto the marching lines. Horses screamed. Men shouted. Confusion tore through their ranks.

Aldric didn't smile. This wasn't about glory—it was survival. And calculated pressure.

Behind him, the archers released their first volley.

The arrows fell like rain.

The screams rose in the wake of the falling trees, but Aldric barely heard them. His gaze remained fixed, watching as the first ranks of Vellmont tried to regroup amid the chaos. Soldiers tripped over fallen trunks, some trying to drag their horses to safety, others lunging toward the arrows, but it all seemed to unfold in slow motion.

"Another volley!" Aldric ordered, and the second rain of arrows fell like a deadly curtain.

The silence that followed was thick, as if the air itself was waiting for something. The screams died down. In the distance, the survivors of Vellmont's first ranks regrouped, but their advance had been crippled.

Aldric, seeing the situation from his vantage point, didn't hesitate.

"Hold the formation, don't rush," he said, his words as firm as the metal of the sword resting at his waist.

Over the next two days, the wind brought news of Vellmont's movements. Aldric's forces withdrew and reorganized, while the enemy attempted to regroup in the forest for a new assault. It wasn't easy: the enemy wouldn't yield, and the tension grew with every passing minute.

Aldric walked between the ranks, encouraging his men, marking positions, while Pierre, at his side, wore an expression of increasing concern. The battle had barely begun, but the first signs of weariness were already showing. Hunger, exhaustion, casualties... it all weighed down on them. But Aldric kept moving, his mind never stopping.

By the fall of the second day, Vellmont's forces regrouped. Aldric could feel the pressure mounting from the enemy. At that moment, he knew the time had come to make a move.

He gathered his advisors, under the flickering light of the campfires. The maps were unfurled, the eyes of the captains shining with fatigue, but also with fierce determination.

"The next step is not to endure any longer," Aldric said, his voice resolute. "It's time to take the initiative."

At dawn on the third day, he donned his armor.

It wasn't ornate. It was practical—chainmail over padded leather, reinforced at the joints. Heavy. Restrictive. He wasn't used to it, but he endured it. Pierre helped fasten the last strap, eyes full of uncertainty.

"You're going out there?"

"I can't ask them to risk their lives if I hide behind stone walls."

He took the sword resting against the table. The blade gleamed faintly in the tent's light.

The sword in his hand didn't feel natural. It was heavy, clumsy… and dangerous. His body knew little of combat, but his mind compensated with something far more lethal: knowledge. He wasn't the strongest, nor the fastest, but he knew where to strike. He knew why. He didn't fight like a warrior—he fought like someone who understood what was at stake.

The raid came at sunset.

They hit the rear supply caravan of the Vellmont forces—quick, precise, and without mercy. Aldric rode with them, his horse thundering through the dying light, heart pounding, every sense sharpened. He didn't swing blindly—he directed. Observed. Predicted their moves, and with every blow, the enemy's morale shattered just a little more.

The first cart exploded into flames, the blast shaking the air. Aldric rode forward with his sword, dodging arrows and spears, directing his men swiftly. The fire illuminated the faces of his enemies: desperation, fear. They tried to resist, but the surprise worked in Aldric's favor.

One of the enemy commanders, a man with a dark beard and eyes full of rage, tried to organize a defense, but his men no longer had the will to fight. Aldric watched for a moment, then signaled to his captain.

"You, go for the commander. Take him prisoner!"

The captain nodded and rode toward the front lines, where the Vellmont commander tried to rally his troops in a disorganized retreat. Aldric didn't stop to watch the capture unfold. He already had what he needed: the chaos sowed among his enemies, the confusion was working to his advantage.

The fire began in the grain carts. The screams followed. Then, a tense silence.

It wasn't honor. It was war.

And it was working.

That night, bruised but alive, Aldric returned to the command tent. More letters had arrived. Spies reporting on troop movements, offers from minor lords now reconsidering their loyalties.

And then, one from Lord Auberon.

Pierre read it aloud, voice trembling.

"He says… he's willing to discuss terms."

Aldric allowed himself a moment—just a moment—of relief.

"Good. Then we speak from strength. Not from desperation."

He stepped outside the tent. The stars were sharp against the night sky, the air cold with the promise of winter.

This was only the first campaign. There would be others. Bloodier. Harder.

But for the first time, Aldric knew he had changed something. Not just the flow of battle, but the hearts of those around him.

And history, he thought, was finally his to shape.