The second day of the siege dawned, and the fortress was a fortress of ghosts. The outer walls were battered, the stone pockmarked with craters where the catapults had struck. The men were exhausted, their faces grimed with dirt and ash, but they had held. Damon, standing on the battlements with Isolde, felt not a triumph, but a cold, gnawing fear. He looked at her, his wife, the quiet strength that held him together, and then his eyes drifted toward the inner keep where Lysa rested, her and her unborn child's future now a fragile, flickering flame.
The image of Valerius's sneer and his vile words replayed in Damon's mind. The siege was not just a battle for stone, but a personal vendetta against Isolde. He couldn't shake the image of what would happen if the walls fell. He had to act.
"The King's Guard has sealed the valley," Damon said to Isolde, his voice low and strained. "Any rider would be killed before they saw the sun set. But there is another way. A secret path, a chasm no one knows of but a few of our most trusted scouts. A single crow might be able to fly through."
Isolde's eyes widened with a desperate hope. "Send a crow to Arion, my Lord! He will ride back at once!"
Damon nodded, his decision made. The risk was great—if the crow were shot down, the King's Guard would know their army was leaderless and vulnerable. But the fear for his family was a fire that burned away all his cold, strategic caution. He took out a piece of parchment, and his words were not those of a lord commanding his banner, but a man pleading for the lives of those he loved. He wrote of the siege, of the danger to the fortress, but most of all, he wrote of Isolde's capture and the chilling threat of General Valerius. He wrote a raw, honest plea for his brother to return, for the sake of his wife and the unborn child of his house.
The crow arrived at Arion's war camp a day later, its legs trembling from the journey. Arion, who had just returned from a successful raid, took the message. He read it once, his face a mask of triumph. He read it again, his expression slowly turning to one of horrified shock. The words were Damon's, but the tone was a desperate scream. It spoke of General Valerius and of his cruel, personal vendetta against Isolde. It spoke of the siege, but most of all, it spoke of a brother's terror for his wife and the child of his house.
Arion crumpled the parchment in his hand. He did not need a second thought. He gathered his captains and barked a single command. "To the fortress! We march now! Double time!"
The army of 2,000 men, which had been so successful in its mission, immediately began to march back. Their strategic, hit-and-run campaign was abandoned. The foreign army, which had been bogged down by their relentless attacks, now found themselves with an open road and a moment of peace.
In his war tent, the scarred foreign commander, watching the retreating dust of Arion's army from a distant ridge, gave a grim smile. His scouts had been sending him constant reports of the Vexin movements, and he had used his men to carefully lead them into a direction that was far from the siege. The Vexin army, driven by emotion, had just made a colossal strategic error.
"The fox has abandoned his tactics for emotion," the commander said to his lieutenants. "He has run home to defend his den. Now, we will march to the place we were always meant to be. This war, gentlemen, is now ours to win."
Damon had sent a crow out of desperation, hoping to save his family. But in doing so, he may have just lost the war. The Vexin did not yet know it, but they were about to be caught between a siege at their front and a professional army at their back, and there was no escape.