The morning sun cast long shadows across the plains of Caldrath, illuminating the tension simmering in the ranks. Aleric stood atop a gentle rise on the left flank, his eyes scanning the enemy lines. Five thousand men of Marquis Percy's center formed a solid mass, flanked on their right by the cunning Baron Harold with 2,500 troops and on their left by Ser Bron's 2,500 men. The sheer size of the enemy's right flank made it tempting for Percy to assume they could easily crush Aleric's smaller detachment of 1,500 men, which included his elite retinue. However, Aleric's mind raced, planning not a straightforward clash but a battle of wits as much as of steel.
He turned to one of his younger commanders, a towering youth whose muscles rippled beneath his armor and whose blade had never known defeat. "Step forward," Aleric ordered, his voice calm yet resonant across the ranks. "Challenge them. Make them act. Show them that we are not to be underestimated."
The field grew unnaturally still as the two champions stepped forward. Even the clamor of the armies diminished, replaced by a charged silence, as though the land itself awaited the spilling of blood.
The young commander of House Deryn planted his feet firmly, towering above most men. His frame had been honed by years of training under Aleric's watchful eye. He carried a longsword etched with faint runes from the Deryn forge, its steel gleaming in the light. His face showed no trace of fear, only the calm assurance of a warrior who had never been bested.
Across from him stood Baron Harold's chosen man—older and weathered, his armor scarred from countless campaigns. His movements were steady and deliberate, revealing the bearing of one who had survived by skill rather than brute force. Harold's men cheered his name, confident that his experience would triumph over youthful strength.
The duel began with a resounding clash of steel. Sparks flew as blades met, the sound echoing across the battlefield. The older commander pressed forward first, using feints and sweeping cuts to test his opponent's defenses. The youth yielded ground but not weakness; his parries were sharp, and his counters precise, each motion flowing with practiced power.
Aleric watched with narrowed eyes, noting how his young commander was not only fighting but performing. Every movement was exaggerated just enough to be visible to the men on both sides; every strike was meant not only to wound but to inspire.
The enemy commander grew bolder, misinterpreting the youth's patience for hesitation. He launched a furious overhead strike meant to end the duel in one decisive blow. With a roar, the young commander stepped into the attack rather than away from it, his blade catching the strike at the last instant. The force reverberated through the air, and in that heartbeat of imbalance, the youth twisted, his sword carving downward with brutal precision.
The older man stumbled, armor rent, his weapon flying from his hand. He crashed to the ground in a plume of dust, gasping for breath, utterly defeated. For a moment, silence held the field—then the Deryn lines erupted with a thunderous cheer that seemed to shake the very sky.
The victor raised his sword high, sunlight glimmering on the blade as if the heavens themselves blessed his triumph. Morale surged through Aleric's men; their fear burned away, and their courage ignited. On the enemy's side, heads turned in unease, whispers spreading like cracks through stone. The invincible had fallen, shattering the illusion of Harold's superiority.
A cheer erupted across the left flank, spreading like wildfire through the ranks of the allied army. Aleric's men, bolstered by the demonstration that a smaller force could hold its ground—and even dominate in skill and courage—began shifting their positions, sensing an opportunity.
Baron Harold's troops, witnessing their commander's defeat, hesitated, unsure whether to advance or hold. It was this moment Aleric had anticipated. A subtle nod from his father, Baron Elias, signaled readiness on the right flank. With a unified roar, Elias's forces surged forward, charging for a frontal assault. The ground shook beneath the trampling of boots and hooves; the air filled with the clash of banners, the cries of soldiers, and the distant sounds of steel from the duel that had already set the tone for the battle.
Aleric observed, calculating and reading the movements of Percy's right flank, aware that the duel had not only boosted his side's morale but also thrown the enemy into hesitation—a ripple he intended to exploit to the fullest. The plains of Caldrath had come alive with the roar of war, the first moves having already subtly but decisively shifted the tide.
The roar from Elias's charge still thundered across the field, steel meeting steel in a frenzy of blood and mud. Shields splintered, lances shattered, and men screamed as the right flank of the allied host slammed into Ser Bron's lines with terrifying momentum. For a time, nothing could be seen but the spray of dust and the glint of flashing blades as Elias drove his men deep, hacking apart the startled enemy with his own greatsword raised high.
Yet on the far left, Aleric did not rush into the fray. His line moved forward in measured steps, shields locked, spears angled, each man advancing as though bound by one will. The young commander's eyes never left the enemy before him — Baron Harold's host of hardened veterans, waiting for their moment to strike.
"Hold the pace," Aleric commanded, his voice calm amid the chaos. "We will not be the first to break the silence. Let them think. Let them stew."
The tactic was simple but deadly. By creeping forward without engaging, Aleric turned the battle into a game of nerves. His men drew strength from the earlier duel, their confidence unshaken, while Harold's soldiers shifted uneasily, unsettled by the enemy's quiet confidence.
In the center, Count Rick observed the maneuver, and a thin smile touched his lips. He saw the purpose in Aleric's patience, though no words passed between them. His heart swelled with gratitude for the young commander's restraint — for buying him the time to keep the center solid, to hold the weight of Percy's bristling army.
Meanwhile, Marquis Percy sat upon his warhorse like a man aflame, spitting curses at Harold and the disgraced commander who had fallen in the duel. Rage clouded his thoughts; shame prickled his skin beneath his gilded armor. His voice cracked as he barked frantic orders left and right, his hands jerking on the reins. Percy had never earned his rank through brilliance of command — only through the swollen coffers and ancient name of his house. And now, with the battle unraveling around him, the truth of that weakness began to show.
"Close the lines! Reinforce the flanks! Move, damn you!" he shouted, though half his orders contradicted the other half. His captains exchanged nervous glances, for they understood what Percy did not: he was bleeding control faster than blood in a wound.
It was then that Aleric made his play.
Observing the slight ripple in Percy's center as the enemy shifted men clumsily from rank to rank, Aleric raised his hand. "Halt the advance," he ordered. His men froze, a wall of shields gleaming in the morning sun. Then, in a bold stroke, he gave the next command:
"Westward — march!"
The entire flank pivoted slowly, angling away from their foes. Step by step, Aleric pulled his men further toward open ground, away from the main allied host. Gasps rippled through the soldiers, even through Rick's own captains, who feared their young ally was severing himself from the safety of the line.
But Aleric's men obeyed without hesitation.
Across the field, Harold blinked in confusion. "What trickery is this?" he muttered, his hand tightening on the reins of his horse. The enemy was pulling away, inviting him to follow. His pride refused to let the insult stand. With a sharp motion of his arm, Harold ordered his line to mirror Aleric's maneuver, dragging his men westward as well.
And so, unknowingly, Harold stepped into the snare.
While the left descended into this strange dance of isolation, the right flank was a storm. Baron Elias and Jaren were already in the thick of it, their men crashing into Ser Bron's force with unrelenting fury. Elias swung his blade like a reaper's scythe, cleaving a path through mail and bone alike, while Jaren's sharp eye kept the formation tight, rallying faltering men and plugging gaps before they could tear wide.
The clash was brutal, visceral — a whirlwind of steel and screams where survival came down to the strength of one's arm and the steadiness of one's shield. Elias's soldiers hacked and shoved, driving deeper into the enemy ranks, their bloodlust fed by the memory of the duel that had humiliated their foes only moments before.
From his perch in the center, Percy looked out and saw chaos — his left groaning under Elias's relentless charge, his right drifting westward under Harold's confusion, his own center beginning to strain under Rick's unflinching wall of men. Sweat trickled down beneath his polished helm, and for the first time that day, he tasted fear.
The battle was no longer his to command.