The Aumale encampment was a hive of activity, soldiers moving with purpose as they prepared for the next phase of the siege. At the center of it all, the grand command pavilion stood, its rich fabrics and banners a stark contrast to the grim battlefield. Inside, Count Aumale leaned heavily over a campaign map, frustration etched into every line of his face.
The silence in the tent was heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of hammers and marching boots. Beside him stood Lorcan, Aumale's trusted chief advisor—or so it seemed.
Lorcan was a figure that exuded quiet authority. His tall, wiry frame was draped in a long black coat adorned with subtle golden embroidery—symbols of both his loyalty to Aumale and his hidden allegiance to the Holy Empire of Thaloria. His pale complexion was offset by sharp, angular features: high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and piercing green eyes that gleamed with intelligence and calculation. His jet-black hair was slicked back neatly, emphasizing his unassuming yet meticulous nature. Around his neck, hidden beneath his high collar, hung a faintly glowing amulet—a relic of the church, one that allowed him to channel subtle enchantments for persuasion and influence.
Lorcan's outward demeanor was that of a loyal vassal, but his true identity as a Holy Agent marked him as a manipulator of shadows. He was one of the church's invisible hands, working to steer events in the empire's favor while maintaining the guise of a loyal servant.
"Count Aumale," Lorcan began, his tone smooth and measured, "I understand your frustrations. But before we act rashly, we must fully comprehend the scope of what has happened at Brandhollow."
Aumale glared at the map. "What more is there to comprehend? The depot is destroyed, the supplies gone, and my garrison scattered! Do you think I need reminding, Lorcan?"
Lorcan gave a small, knowing smile. "Of course not, my lord. But rashness will not recover what has been lost. We must consider every angle if we are to salvage this campaign."
Before Aumale could respond, the flap of the tent was pushed aside, and a sentry entered. "Commander, the messenger from Brandhollow has arrived. He is accompanied by an emissary from the Holy Empire."
Lorcan's expression didn't shift, but his mind raced. He had not expected the church to send someone so soon. "Send them in," he said smoothly, before Aumale could bark the order himself.
---
The soldier from Brandhollow stumbled in, his face pale and drawn. Behind him came Fausto De Luca, a striking figure of authority and menace.
Fausto was tall and lean, his elegant, tailored suit an odd contrast to the battlefield setting. His piercing blue eyes swept the room, calculating and cold. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of Stormrider, a sleek blade that crackled faintly with energy, arcs of electricity tracing the silver edge. He exuded an air of dangerous sophistication, a man both feared and respected.
"Count Aumale," Fausto began, his voice smooth yet edged with steel. "It seems your siege has met an unfortunate complication."
Aumale's expression darkened. "Spare me the theatrics, Inquisitor. What happened at Brandhollow?"
The soldier stepped forward, trembling. "My lord, it was an ambush. The depot… it's gone. Fires destroyed everything. Explosives tore through the stores. We suspect it was Count Velrois. His tactics—"
"Velrois is irrelevant," Fausto interrupted sharply, his icy gaze pinning the soldier in place. "This was not his doing."
Aumale frowned, turning to Fausto. "Then who?"
"Draven Eisenhart," Fausto answered without hesitation, his voice steady.
The room fell silent as the name hung in the air.
Lorcan tilted his head slightly, his green eyes narrowing. "Eisenhart? He lacks the forces for such a bold move. Are you certain, Inquisitor?"
"Certain?" Fausto's lip curled in disdain. "I've faced him before. I know his methods—his cunning. The evidence may point to Velrois, but Eisenhart orchestrated this. He thrives on misdirection and precision."
Aumale's fists clenched. "And what of your plan to draw him out? To trap him?"
Fausto's jaw tightened. "It failed. Eisenhart is slippery, resourceful. He evaded me once before, and now he's escalated his games. This attack on Brandhollow is proof of that."
Aumale sneered. "So your failure has cost me my supplies and jeopardized my campaign?"
Fausto's grip on Stormrider tightened, arcs of electricity sparking along the blade as his voice dropped dangerously low.
"Mind your tone, Count. I serve the Church, not your petty ambitions. If Eisenhart continues unchecked, it will not only be your campaign that falters but the Church's influence over these lands."
Lorcan stepped between them, his expression calm but his voice firm. "Gentlemen, infighting will not solve our predicament. If Eisenhart is indeed responsible, then we must adapt. Inquisitor De Luca, what do you propose?"
Fausto's icy gaze lingered on Aumale for a moment before shifting to Lorcan. "Eisenhart must be drawn into a trap—a situation where his cleverness cannot save him. But first, we must fortify our position. He will strike again, and when he does, I will be ready."
Lorcan nodded, his sharp mind already working. "Then let us prepare. my lord, I suggest doubling the patrols along the remaining supply lines and reinforcing the siege engines. Inquisitor De Luca, perhaps you and I should discuss the specifics of this trap in private."
Aumale grunted, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. "Do whatever you must, but this siege will not fail because of Eisenhart or anyone else."
As Fausto and Lorcan exchanged a glance—one laden with unspoken power—it became clear that the battle for Duskvale was no longer just about territory. It was a chessboard of alliances, betrayals, and unseen hands, with Draven Eisenhart as the key piece in a game far larger than he could imagine.
---
The forest was cloaked in darkness, the shadows shifting as the three of us moved silently beneath the canopy. Galen led the way, his massive form blending into the night with surprising ease, while Arnold flanked me, his movements precise and deliberate.
It was just the three of us—no banners, no soldiers, no fanfare. Everything else, including Count Velrois's daughter, Lady Eleanor, her two maids, and her escort knights, was safely stored inside the Celestial Vault on my finger. Traveling with an army would have been reckless. Stealth was our only viable option.
As we neared Velrois's domain, I couldn't help but reflect on the weight of the situation. My father had once been Count Velrois's sword, a loyal vassal who fought by his side during the border wars. Now that he was gone, that responsibility had fallen to me. Technically, I was still Velrois's vassal, but if I wanted to truly stand against the Holy Empire, staying a mere baron wouldn't cut it.
Power wasn't just about skill or strategy—it was about rank. Influence. To change the tides, I needed more than just my father's legacy; I needed to climb higher.
---
The border to Velrois's territory was eerily quiet. The signs of war were evident—abandoned fields, burned-out cottages, and a sense of desolation that hung in the air like a storm cloud.
"We're close," Arnold murmured, his voice barely audible.
Galen nodded but kept his focus ahead. "No patrols so far. Either they're spread too thin or we're walking into a trap."
"Let's hope for the former," I said, scanning the terrain.
My knowledge from my previous life had been invaluable in navigating this war. Documentaries on medieval warfare, isekai novels, even my old martial arts training in Shinkendo and Kali—all of it came together to give me an edge. But even with that, I knew better than to underestimate the dangers of complacency.
By the time we reached one of Velrois's stronghold, dawn was beginning to break, casting a pale light over the sturdy stone walls. The guards at the gate were initially suspicious, their weapons raised until I revealed Lady Eleanor.
Summoning her and her entourage from the Celestial Vault, I watched as the shimmering portal opened and one by one, they stepped out. Eleanor emerged first, her poise and grace belying the ordeal she'd endured. Her maids followed, and then the two knights, who immediately knelt before me.
"Lord Eisenhart," one of them said, his voice thick with shame. "We failed to protect her. Please, allow us to atone before Count Velrois."
"You'll have your chance," I replied.
Eleanor stepped forward, her gaze steady. "Lord Eisenhart, you have my gratitude. I will not forget this."
I nodded. "Save your gratitude for your father, my lady. He's the one who needs reassurance that all is not lost."
---
Inside the courtyard, Count Velrois stood waiting, his figure imposing despite the weight of war etched on his face. When he saw Eleanor, his stern expression crumbled, and he strode forward with a cry of relief.
"Eleanor!"
She ran to him, their embrace a poignant reminder of what this war had cost. The two knights, meanwhile, prostrated themselves before their lord.
"My lord," one of them said, "we failed her. But Lord Eisenhart… he brought her back to you."
Velrois looked up at me, his eyes red but sharp. Releasing Eleanor, he approached, his steps firm.
"Lord Eisenhart," he said, his voice steady despite the emotion evident in his eyes. "Your father was my sword, my most trusted vassal. When I heard of his death, I thought I had lost not just an ally, but a legacy. And now, here you are, proving that the Eisenhart name is as unyielding as ever."
I inclined my head. "I am my father's son, but I am also my own man, Count Velrois. I returned your daughter because it was the right thing to do. But there's more at stake here than just honor."
Velrois studied me for a long moment, then nodded.
"Come. We have much to discuss."
---
The war room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the oil lamps hanging from the walls and the faint light of dawn streaming through narrow windows. The table at the center was covered in maps, troop positions, and scattered reports.
Velrois stood at the head of the table, his imposing figure a stark contrast to the weariness etched into his features. His sharp eyes scanned the documents before settling on me.
"You've already dealt a blow to Aumale's supply lines," he began, gesturing to a marked map. "But he is no fool. He'll regroup, and when he does, he'll come at us with everything he has left."
I leaned forward, resting my hands on the edge of the table.
"That's exactly what we want. Aumale is desperate, and desperation leads to mistakes. We force his hand, make him overreach, and then we strike decisively."
Velrois raised a brow. "And how do you propose we achieve that? His forces still outnumber ours, and his alliances, though strained, hold firm."
I glanced at Galen, who nodded in agreement, and then at Arnold, whose calm demeanor belied the intensity of his focus. "I have my methods, Count Velrois. My troops are prepared to deploy at a moment's notice. We can move faster and more efficiently than Aumale ever expects. But we need to use that to our advantage."
Velrois studied me, his expression unreadable.
"And these troops of yours? Where are they?"
I raised my hand, letting the light catch the Celestial Vault on my finger. "They're with me, my lord. Safely stored and ready to march when the time comes."
Velrois's lips curved slightly, though the weight of the situation kept the smile faint. "You Eisenharts are full of surprises. Your father was a man of unshakable loyalty and strength. You, however… you bring something entirely different to the table."
I inclined my head. "Times have changed, my lord. Strength alone won't win this war. We need strategy, innovation, and adaptability. Aumale expects us to react, to play by his rules. But if we dictate the battlefield, he'll have no choice but to fall into our hands."
Velrois crossed his arms, his gaze sharpening. "And what of the cost? My people are stretched thin. My lands have suffered. Aumale's aggression has left us on the brink."
"This war will be costly no matter what we do," I admitted, meeting his gaze. "But there's a difference between paying the price for survival and paying the price for victory. I intend for us to come out of this stronger, not merely alive."
Arnold stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Lord Eisenhart speaks true. A decisive strike will minimize prolonged suffering. If we allow Aumale to regain his footing, it will only prolong the conflict."
Galen added, "We've seen his tactics firsthand. He's bleeding himself dry just to pressure you, Count Velrois. If we hit where it hurts most, he won't recover."
Velrois seemed to weigh their words before turning back to me.
"You have a plan, don't you, Draven?"
I allowed a small smile. "I do. But the details need to remain discreet for now. What I can promise is this: Aumale won't see it coming."
The count nodded slowly, a hint of trust glimmering in his eyes. "Then I will place my faith in you, as I once did with your father. Show me what you can do, Draven Eisenhart. Prove to me that this legacy you carry is more than just a name."
The weight of his words settled over me, but I welcomed it. This was the moment I had been preparing for—not just to honor my father's legacy, but to carve out my own.
The war wasn't over yet, but the pieces were finally falling into place.