The tent smelled of smoke and wet canvas. Candles flickered, casting shadows across maps pinned with markers, showing rivers, roads, and ruined fortresses. Crown Prince Renard stood over the table, his fingers brushing the inked lines that marked the Eastern front—a land bleeding red from Count Arvel's defeat.
"Your Highness," Marshal Tyron began, his voice low but edged with concern, "our forces are shattered. Eastern fortresses are falling faster than we can respond. I recommend a retreat to consolidate the central provinces. We cannot hold both the East and the center."
A murmur ran through the room. Some advisors nodded; others exchanged uneasy glances.
Lady Veyra's gaze remained sharp, fixed on the maps. "Retreat," she said slowly, "is a luxury we do not have. If we pull back, the Duke will rally every doubtful lord in the East. We risk losing not just territory, but also loyalty itself."
"Then what do you propose?" Renard asked, his voice calm but commanding.
She stepped closer to the map, pointing to the river crossings and remaining fortresses. "We should consolidate at strongholds with natural defenses—high ground, river bends, and forested chokepoints. There, we will station our best troops. Light detachments can move ahead to harass their supply lines, intercept their messengers, and create the illusion that our strength is greater than it actually is."
Ser Orven frowned. "Harassment and deception may slow them down, but our supplies are nearly gone. Our men will starve before the Duke reaches the center."
"We will deny the enemy our resources before they can take them," Lady Veyra continued, her voice firm. "Evacuate villages and move civilians to secure locations or to the West if feasible. Burn what cannot be taken. If their army moves through empty lands, they will march more slowly, and their morale will suffer."
The scribe scratched notes frantically as Lady Veyra spoke.
"Psychological measures, then," Renard said, pacing. "Rally banners, spread word of reinforcements arriving, exaggerate our numbers. Make them hesitate. Time is our ally."
Tyron leaned forward, his tone sharper. "Even with these measures, Your Highness, the East is lost. Can we be certain that reinforcements will reach the West in time?"
Renard's jaw tightened. "They will. Count Rick marches with five thousand men, and the route has been secured. Scouts are monitoring the roads, and messengers keep us informed of Duke Roderic's movements. Baron Elias of Deryn has been instructed to hold the Western front until those troops arrive. Timing, discipline, and terrain—we will use all three to compensate for our numbers."
Lady Veyra nodded approvingly. "If executed correctly, we can hold enough of the East to slow the Duke and maintain control of the center. But it must be coordinated. Any lapse, any delay, and the East may collapse entirely."
Renard pressed a hand to the table, flattening the paper. "Then it is decided. Marshal Tyron, secure the central fortresses and place capable men in charge. Lady Veyra, you will oversee the defensive deployment in the East. I will ensure the Western reinforcements reach Deryn unimpeded. Every hour counts. The Crown will not fail."
It seemed like both the Crown Prince and the Duke were waiting for a decisive victory on either flank, then regroup all armies to engage at the Center.
A tense silence fell over the tent. Outside, the distant drums of the Duke's army rumbled over the plains. The war was far from over, and yet, in that moment, the Crown Prince's resolve anchored the fragile hope of a kingdom teetering on the brink.
Two days later, the raven came, black wings slicing across the gray sky. It landed upon the arm of Baron Elias's falconer, who rushed into the hall, out of breath.
"My lord," he gasped, "a message from the Crown Prince."
Elias broke the seal, his eyes scanning the carefully penned letter. Beside him, Aleric leaned forward, reading over his father's shoulder.
"Baron Elias of Deryn, hold your barony at all costs. Count Rick marches with 5,000 men and will arrive in three days. Marquis Percy advances from the East with 10,000 men, set to arrive in five days. Stand firm and prepare your defenses. The Crown Prince's forces converge in the center; the fate of the realm rests upon your vigilance."
Aleric's eyes narrowed as he scanned the final lines. "Three days," he murmured. "Count Rick arrives first, giving us a slight advantage. But the Marquis's army is still larger. Ten thousand men, and they march with purpose. By the fifth day, we will face them."
Baron Elias placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Then we prepare. We have strength here, and we will use it wisely."
The numbers were clear: the Western Front would not hold through brute strength alone, but through careful planning. The allied army under Deryn's banners totaled 8,000 men:
Count Rick: 5,000 seasoned troops
Baron Caldor: 1,000 men
Baron Elias: 2,000 men, including his retinue of 800 under Aleric: 500 infantry, 200 archers, and 100 cavalry
Aleric moved quickly to organize defenses. Scouts reported the plains surrounding Deryn, noting choke points, ridges, and forests that could conceal movement. He assigned patrols to monitor the enemy's approach and began coordinating drills among the infantry.
Baron Elias oversaw the logistics. Timber from nearby forests was converted into fortifications, makeshift stockades, and watch towers. Food stores were rationed carefully, and new districts for refugees were organized efficiently.
"Time is our enemy," Elias said, inspecting a row of hastily constructed palisades. "We must maximize every day before they arrive."
Aleric nodded. "We'll also need to consider flanking maneuvers, reserve forces, and cavalry strikes. If we can disrupt their formation before they reach the plains, it may offset their numerical advantage."
Aleric studied the map, and there he found a hill near the plains of Caldrat, as it was clear where the battle was going to take place. The Marquis's army would arrive in full force five days from now hence Count Rick's 5,000 men, arriving three days from now, would provide the only timely reinforcement before the engagement. The timing was precarious; a misstep could spell disaster.
Baron Elias spoke gravely. "The Duke is patient. He gathers strength, waits for the perfect opportunity. That is why we must be ready—not just to hold, but to strike at the right moment."
Aleric's mind raced. He calculated positions, reserves, and contingencies, recalling tales of Hannibal at Cannae. Morale, terrain, and timing would be just as important as the clash of blades.
The next two days were a whirlwind of preparation. Count Rick's men marched tirelessly toward Deryn, while Aleric supervised fortification of the keep and surrounding ridges. Infantry drilled in tight formations; archers trained to cover approaches; cavalry scouted the nearby woods and river crossings.
The refugees, now integrated into the barony's daily operations, aided in fortifications—digging ditches, reinforcing barricades, and building temporary shelters. Every able-bodied man and woman contributed, and every task was calculated to conserve resources while maximizing defensive capability.
Baron Elias observed from the battlements. "We are strong," he said quietly to Aleric. "But strength alone will not carry us. Timing, discipline, and cunning must guide our hand."
By the end of the third day, scouts reported that Count Rick's forces were within striking distance, less than a day's march from Deryn. Two days after that, Marquis's host would arrive, 10,000 strong, with the Plains of Caldrath poised as the stage for a decisive confrontation.
The allied army rode out from the walls of Deryn, watching banners dot the horizon and dust rise from the scouts' trails. The western plains would soon be a battlefield. Every calculation mattered. Every choice would carry consequences.
Before nightfall, Aleric and his allies had reached The Plains and began setting up camp for the night, as well as some basic defense, and sentries and scouts were sent on a mission to spot any night attack.
The sun dipped below the distant hills, casting the plains in crimson light. The war was coming, and the fate of House Deryn, and perhaps the Crown Prince's realm, would soon be decided on the open ground.