Damon's war council tent was a quiet space of tense purpose. The war of attrition had begun, and the first battle would be led not by the Lord of the house, but by his younger brother. Arion, a man who had only recently embraced the mantle of command, stood with Isolde and Damon, a map of the borderlands spread between them.
"The foreign army will march through the low pass, where they believe their numbers give them an advantage," Isolde explained, her finger tracing a line on the map. "They expect a grand battle. We will not give it to them."
Damon looked at Arion, his eyes filled with a grim trust. "You will lead a force of two thousand men. You will take the cavalry and a contingent of our best archers. Your mission is not to win, but to bleed them. You will strike their supply lines, their patrols, and their scouts. You will hit them hard, and you will fade back into the mountains. We will make their advance a slow, miserable death."
Arion nodded, his face a mask of determined focus. He was no longer the arrogant youth who had once resented his brother. He was a commander, and he understood the weight of the task. Lysa, with her hands clasped tightly, watched him, her quiet fear tempered by a fierce pride.
The next morning, the first army of the Vexin rebellion rode out from the war camp. Arion, at the head of a force of over two thousand men, led them on a punishing march through the high passes. Their target was the foreign army, a professional and well-equipped force of six thousand men.
The foreign army was led by a man Damon's scouts had named 'The Scarred Lion,' a veteran commander from the past wars. A deep, angry scar ran from his brow to his jaw, a constant reminder of a Vexin blade. He expected a single, glorious battle, a chance to crush the rebellion in a single blow. Instead, he found a phantom enemy.
Arion's first strike was a masterpiece of tactical brilliance. He ambushed a supply convoy in a narrow canyon, his archers raining arrows down from the high cliffs, while his cavalry, with a disciplined, furious charge, broke through the enemy's meager defenses. The foreign commander watched, his face a storm of frustration, as his men were picked off one by one, their supplies burned, their horses slaughtered.
The Vexin did not stay to fight. As soon as the deed was done, they rode back into the mountains, leaving no trace behind but the smoldering remains of a supply convoy and the bodies of the foreign guards.
Later that night, in his war tent, the scarred commander slammed his gauntlet on a map table. "This is not a battle," he snarled to his lieutenants. "This is a shadow war. This Lord Vexin is a coward. He will not face us in an open field."
"He is no coward, My Lord," a young captain replied. "He is a fox. He knows we cannot fight his terrain. They appeared from nowhere, struck, and vanished. Their horses are faster, their men are lighter. We lost a full day's march and half our supplies."
The commander's scarred face twisted into a grim smile. "Then we will find his den. We will draw this fox out, no matter the cost."
Back at the Vexin fortress, Damon and Isolde stood on the parapets, their eyes scanning the dark, silent mountains. The day was over, and they had not yet received news of the first battle. Damon's hand rested on Isolde's, his silent anxiety a testament to the trust he had placed in his younger brother.
"He is a capable commander, my Lord," Isolde said softly, her voice filled with a quiet confidence. "He will succeed. Your brother is a warrior of great strength, but he is now a general of even greater cunning."
Damon nodded, his gaze never leaving the horizon. The first strike had been made, but the true war of nerves had just begun.