It was going to be one of those days of fervent preparation for the halls of Blackthorn Manor. General Aldric had come earlier than Damien had hoped for - his stony countenance reflecting the tempest brewing within that usually so controlled head of Damien's. Maps and reports overlayed the long oak table in the war room, each marking the locations of Reynard's actions and recent atrocities committed under his name.
Damien stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, as Aldric poured over the reports. The general's calloused hand traced the path of destruction marked in red ink.
"This isn't just rebellion," Aldric said, his voice heavy with anger. "It's scorched earth. He's trying to make a statement-force you into a rash move."
Damien's jaw set hard. "And he'll lose. I am not the man I was. I will not be provoked into acts of reckless folly."
Aldric raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He had been serving under Damien for far too long to lose himself in the whims of this duke's dangerous temper. This calm, calculated manner was far from the man he remembered.
"What's the play?" Aldric asked.
Damien leaned over the table, his finger pointing to a cluster of villages near the southern border. "Reynard's forces are spread thin, and his supply lines are vulnerable. We'll strike at these outposts here and here, severing his ability to resupply. It'll force him to pull back and consolidate his forces."
"And the villagers?" Aldric asked, his voice softening.
"We'll evacuate them to safer territories," Damien said firmly. "If Reynard wants to target civilians, he'll find nothing but empty villages and ruined supply caches."
The general nodded. "It's a sound plan. I'll have my men ready by dawn."
---
As the meeting concluded, Damien remained in the war room, his gaze fixed on the map. His mind churned with possibilities and risks, but one thought refused to leave him: Reynard was far too cunning to be caught off guard by simple tactics.
"You're overthinking," came a familiar voice.
Damien didn't turn. "And you're sneaking around again."
She slid into the room behind a swirl of dark cloak. "It's becoming a habit, I'm afraid. I'm starting to enjoy these little war meetings of yours."
Damien smirked at her. "Careful, or I'll make you an advisor."
"Tempting," she said, her shoulder against the table. "I like working in the shadows."
"Convenient," Damien said. "Because I need someone who can slip through Reynard's defenses unnoticed."
Amara raised an eyebrow. "And exactly what am I supposed to do for you?"
"I need you to verify something for me," Damien said gravely. "Reynard's actions are too predictable. It's almost as if he's laying out a trap for me to hit his supply lines. If he's setting up some kind of trap, I need to know before going into it."
Amara's expression shifted and her playfulness yielded to a sharp, focused look. "You want me to go undercover on Reynard himself."
"Can you do it?"
She grinned. "You're starting to sound like you trust me."
Damien didn't respond. He wasn't even sure if he entirely trusted her. But she'd proven herself resourceful, and he needed every advantage he could get.
"I trust your skills," he said finally.
Amara bowed mockingly. "Consider it a compliment. I'll give you two days, and I'll come back with something decent."
The morning after, Damien stood on the manor's southern balcony as Aldric's men were preparing to march. The sun had yet to rise; the courtyard was painted with a pale orange.
Mathias approached him, lugging a tray with a steaming cup of tea. "You've been up all night, Your Grace."
"I couldn't sleep," Damien admitted, taking the cup.
Mathias hesitated before speaking again. "Your Grace… if I may, you've been different since your return from the Aldain estate."
Damien stiffened but didn't look at his steward. "Different?"
"Yes," Mathias said. "More reflective. More… intentional. The man who came back is not the man who departed. Not by half."
He sipped his tea, the hot liquid doing little to warm the chill within his chest. "Perhaps I've just learned from my errors."
Mathias nodded slowly. "If that's so, then I think perhaps the kingdom may have hope yet."
And so Damien saw the soldiers marching out of the gates, gleaming in the morning sun, armor shining as the steward's words resounded in his ears: For the first time in years he'd allowed himself to feel something akin to hope.
Two days elapsed in nervous anticipation. Damien received regular updates from Aldric's campaign—the small victories as Reynard's outposts were taken down, one by one. The villagers had been evacuated according to plan, but nothing was seen of Reynard himself.
The second evening, Damien sat alone in his study. The flickering candle sat atop his desk with all the dispatches he read for what felt like an eternity when a soft knock at the window broke into the silence.
He looked up sharply and instinctively reached for the dagger at his side.
She opened the window and let herself in, her cloak trailing behind her; she was covered in dust and grime, hair disheveled, but the blue eyes sparkled with triumph.
"Do you miss me?" she asked, dropping into a chair across from him.
"You're late," Damien said though he couldn't keep his eyes from her and smiled, relieved to see her. "What did you find?"
Amara reached into her cloak, pulled out a curled parchment, and let it fall across his desk. "Reynard's in a trap. You guessed it right. He's retreating his forces to make you believe that the victory's going to be easy. But that is not bad news."
Damien spread the parchment flat on the desk and scanned over the rough map with his eyes.
"That's his real objective," Amara said, pointing to a symbol drawn near the northern border.
With an internal dread that sent his heart clanging in his heart, Damien gasped, "it's the Winterhold Garrison."
"Precisely," Amara replied. "While you're talking to the south, Reyner is dispatching a detachment northward to capture Winterhold. With it out of the way, he'll control the whole area."
Damien swore under his breath. Winterhold was a key strategic point-it's garrison protects a couple of trade routes with quite a patent stockpile of weapons and provisions. If Reynard took it, the rebellion would gain a massive advantage.
"We shall have to be quick," Damien said, his thoughts already racing along. "I will send word to Aldric to reroute his riders north."
"There is worse," Amara said, her voice dismal. "Reynard has brought in hirers-in-the mercenaries of the Iron Scales."
Damien furrowed his brow. The Iron Scales were a nasty band of sellswords. Cruel, fanatical, and only loyal for gold. Not good. If they had something to do with this, then Reynard's rebellion was far worse than he had hoped.
"How many?" he asked.
"Enough that if they reach Winterhold before you do, they'll have enough to tip the balance," Amara said, "And they're already moving."
We will get them. If we arrive in time to prevent them from moving through with Reynard's force, we can turn the tide of this war in our favor."
Amara smiled cynically. "Now you're talking. I'll make sure your men have the best route to intercept."
"You've done well, Amara," Damien said, meeting her eyes.
This softened her features, and in this moment, the tension built between them was deflected. "Careful, Your Grace. I suppose if you keep doling out compliments to me, I might start thinking you find my presence tolerable."
Damien allowed himself a small smile. "Let's focus on winning this war first."
As Amara slipped back into the shadows, he felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle over him.
Each day was like playing a very risky game, but today Damien felt that he had a good chance of outsmarting his enemies.
Reynard would never know what hit him.