Chapter 7: Voices in the Council Hall

The creaking of wood beneath his boots was the only sound as Aldric walked down the main corridor of the fortress. Lord Auberon's letter rested in his hand, folded with utmost care—as if the slightest motion might shatter the fragile diplomatic web he was trying to weave.

The council hall awaited him. He had summoned the principal lesser lords loyal to Hautterre, along with his closest captains. The air was heavy—not with fear, but with expectation.

Aldric opened the large oak doors without ceremony. Heads turned. Some still doubted his sudden change; others, like old Sir Gaubert, had begun to see something more than just the youngest son of a feudal lord.

"We have an opportunity," he said, raising the letter. "Lord Auberon is willing to negotiate. But let's not confuse that with weakness. If this war has taught us anything, it's that time is a weapon… and with every day we win, we tilt the balance further in our favor."

A brief silence followed—then murmurs.

"What if it's a trap?" asked one of the lords, a gray-bearded man with a harsh voice. "Auberon has always been cunning."

"I know," Aldric replied. "That's why we won't go empty-handed. We'll give him something he can't ignore: strength, discipline… and a clear vision."

He approached the large map spread across the stone table. His fingers pointed to key locations: mountain passes, villages loyal to Hautterre, minor strongholds.

"We need to solidify the eastern border. If Auberon wants peace, it will be on terms of respect—not charity. We'll reinforce our defenses and send emissaries. Diplomacy with an edge… like a dagger hidden in the sleeve."

The looks around the room began to shift. Even Charles, his elder brother, who had remained silent until now, observed him with a new glint in his eyes. Perhaps he still didn't accept him—but he could no longer deny that Aldric now spoke like a true warlord.

—

Days later, a small delegation set out for Auberon's lands. They rode under a banner of truce, with Pierre among them carrying the official missive. Aldric remained in Hautterre—but not idle.

He personally oversaw the work on the outer walls, reorganized patrol assignments, and appointed new leaders in villages that had lost their former lords. Many of them were peasants trained out of necessity, others were forgotten old soldiers.

One of them, a man named Marius, caught his attention. He was young, strong, and had a natural tactical instinct. Aldric promoted him to local captain at the Dorn Crossing—a strategic point along the border.

"Don't underestimate your role," he told him before departure. "Sometimes wars aren't won with swords, but by keeping a village standing."

—

The nights were long. The tension didn't fade—it only changed shape. No longer the fear of an immediate attack, but the uncertainty of what Auberon would decide. Aldric spent hours in the fortress library, rereading treaties, marking maps, studying old strategies.

And from time to time, he stared at his reflection in the darkened window.

"How far are you willing to go?" he murmured.

The answer remained unclear.

But then, a new letter arrived.

Pierre returned—dusty and exhausted. He burst into the strategy room without waiting for permission.

"My lord… Auberon agreed."

Aldric rose slowly. The room fell silent.

"He'll come to Hautterre in five days. With a limited escort. He says he wants… to speak of a shared future."

The silence turned into anxious whispers. Some smiled. Others frowned.

Aldric simply nodded.

"Then… let us prepare the table."