The war tent of the Vexin alliance was a place of grim resolve. Lord Kael Galen and Arion stood hunched over a crude map scratched into the dirt floor, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of a single oil lamp. The silence was heavy, broken only by the low rumble of their voices.
Kael, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword, looked at the map with a furious intensity. "Then let us make them pay for every inch of ground they take!" he growled, his voice low and firm. "I say we meet their advance with a cavalry charge from my guards, a shock to their line, and then our infantry follows in a full charge. A quick, decisive strike to cut them down before they can use their numbers!"
Arion listened, his face a mask of cold calculation. He saw the fire in his brother-in-law's eyes, the burning need for vengeance. But he also saw the recklessness of the plan.
"A direct assault is suicide," Arion said, his voice calm and deliberate. "A bold plan, brother, but a suicidal one. It is exactly what they would expect. We have 4,100 men against their 8,000. We will not win this war with more blood and bravery. We will win it with our minds."
Arion's finger traced a new path on the map, pointing to the high ground where they were gathered. "We will use our position on this ridge as the anvil," he said, his voice firm. "We will hold their infantry with our shields, let their numbers crash against our resolve. And Damon's cavalry..." his finger moved to a hidden valley behind the ridge, "they will be the hammer."
Kael's gaze, which had been fixed on the mercenary lines, now turned to the map, a glint of grudging respect in his eyes. He saw the wisdom in Arion's words.
"They will be hidden," Arion continued, a grim smile on his face. "And when the time is right, when the enemy is fully committed to our anvil, the hammer will strike their flank. We will crush them between two forces, not with a single charge, but with a thousand blows that bleed them dry."
Meanwhile, in the mercenary captain's tent, the mood was one of boisterous, arrogant celebration. The mercenary captain, a brute of a man named Valerius, stood with a tankard of ale in his hand, a triumphant sneer on his face. He had received a message from Eran, confirming the Vexin's betrayal.
"The fools are broken!" he roared, his voice thick with ale and triumph. "Their leader has abandoned them, and their numbers are a joke. They are a wounded animal, and we will descend on them in the morning and end this war once and for all."
His lieutenants, equally confident, laughed and clapped him on the back. Their plan was simple: a massive, overwhelming frontal assault. They would use their numbers and their archers to force the Vexin into a bloody, head-on fight. They had no reason to believe the Vexin would have the cunning to use a hammer and anvil formation. They would fight a simple war of attrition, a war they believed they had already won.
As the night wore on, the two sides prepared for battle. The Vexin, a small, desperate army, were ready to fight with cunning and desperation. The mercenaries, a massive, arrogant force, were ready to fight with brute force and overwhelming numbers. The stage was set, and the fate of the war would be decided in the morning.