The morning after the king's decree, the Vexin fortress was a hive of activity. The mood was grim, but determined. Damon moved through the fortress with a focused intensity, giving orders with a clarity and calm that settled the nerves of his men. The women of the household, including Isolde, worked tirelessly to prepare supplies for a winter march—mending padded surcoats, packing provisions, and sharpening weapons.
In the solar, the low glow of the hearth cast long shadows as Damon, Arion, and Isolde stood over a large, detailed map of the northern marches. Arion's finger traced a winding, treacherous path.
"The king expects us to march straight to the fortress of this northern lord," Arion said, his voice a low growl. "He thinks we'll waste our men and our supplies in the mountains, fighting a fool's war in the snow."
Damon's gaze was fixed on the map, his mind already three steps ahead. "He's right. If we go in head-on, we lose. We give him exactly what he wants."
Isolde stepped closer, her finger pointing to a small, unassuming pass on the map. "What about this path? It's longer, and it will be covered in snow, but it avoids the main forts. It would give you the element of surprise."
Damon's eyes flickered to her, a spark of admiration in them. "It's a forgotten path," he said. "The old maps mark it as impassable. But with the right guides..."
"The king's spies would never think to look for you there," Isolde continued, her voice quiet but confident. "He expects you to act like a typical lord, all bluster and battle. But if you march in a way he cannot predict, you can end this quickly and return home before he can take advantage of your absence."
Arion looked from his brother to his sister-in-law, a grudging respect on his face. "She's right, Damon. A quick, decisive strike is our only chance. The king wants us gone for the winter, but if we're back by the spring thaw, his plans will fall apart."
Damon nodded, a plan forming in his mind. "Then we will take the forgotten path. Arion, choose a hundred of our best men. Leave the rest to defend the fortress. We march at dawn."
Later that evening, after the last of the men had been given their orders, Damon found Isolde in their chambers. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a tense silence hung in the air. Damon began to pack his belongings, his movements efficient and quiet.
"I will not be gone long," he said, without looking at her. "We will be back before the worst of the winter snows."
Isolde walked over to him, her hand reaching out to touch the leather of his pack. "Be safe," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "The king's wrath... it will not be limited to the battlefield."
Damon turned to her, his gaze intense. "I know," he said softly. "But you are here. And you will not be defenseless. Arion will stay behind to command the fortress. You are under his protection, and you are no longer a guest here. You are the lady of this house."
He reached out, his hand gently cupping her cheek. Isolde leaned into his touch, her eyes meeting his. The unspoken words hung in the air between them—a quiet understanding of their new bond, a promise of a future that they were now fighting for.
"I will not just be waiting for you," Isolde whispered, her voice filled with a newfound resolve. "I will be watching. I will be your eyes here, just as you are our sword out there."
Damon smiled, a genuine, gentle smile that reached his eyes. It was a silent acknowledgment of the team they had become. He kissed her forehead, a simple, protective gesture that was more intimate than any embrace. The next morning, he would ride north into the snow, into the king's trap. But this time, he would not be alone.