"Sir, we don't even have enough black bread to last another three days."
Sebastien's tense voice cut through the night's silence inside the red tent. The war advisor stood upright in his white armor, his blonde hair touching his armor's collar, while his green eyes stared at Commander Marshaldo without blinking.
The commander's tent was the largest in the Silver Valley camp—deep red leather stretched tight over carved oak poles. Inside, a coarse wool carpet covered the muddy ground, and in the center stood a wooden table covered with scattered maps and papers. The scent of melted wax mingled with the smell of damp leather.
Marshaldo slowly raised his head from the map spread before him. A man in his late forties, his lean body encased in dull black armor, his long black beard hanging over his armored chest. His sunken eyes met Sebastien's gaze. The deep scar running from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone trembled as his jaw suddenly clenched.
Outside the tent, they could hear the sounds of guards changing shifts and the neighing of tired horses tethered among the dense trees. The exhausted soldiers of the Kingdom of Odalin stretched out near the dim fires—some cleaning sword blades with worn cloth rags, others staunching the bleeding of their wounds.
In the far corner, a wounded man bent over a cracked wooden bucket, washing his face with blood-tainted water. Beside him, a young servant stood motionless, holding a metal pitcher of cold water, not daring to pour it.
The Silver Valley camp was hidden in the forest's darkness, concealed among giant tree trunks that blocked the moonlight.
Marshaldo extended his armored hand over the map, his fingers tracing the lines drawn in black ink. Trade routes, caravan paths, the borders of the Montfort clan. Everything reminded him of their successive defeats.
"Attack is suicide." His voice was hoarse, carrying the fatigue of weeks of war. "Retreat is a slow surrender." He raised his gaze to Sebastien. "We need a trick."
Sebastien brushed a strand of his blonde hair aside and stepped closer to the table. "What kind of trick, sir?"
Marshaldo pointed with his index finger to a spot on the map where a small river met the main trade road. "Here. Before the Montfort caravans reach their walls, they must cross the old stone bridge."
Sebastien moved closer, examining the map. "You want to blow up the bridge?"
"No." A cold smile formed on Marshaldo's lips. "I want to make them pay for every piece of bread, every piece of cloth, every piece of iron they try to transport."
A woman's voice interrupted from the tent entrance:
"Then why don't you send me?"
They turned toward the entrance, where Melissa Solaris stood. Her long white hair fell over her shoulders, and her dark eyes held unwavering steadiness. She wore a tight leather war robe. Even in this dim light, her slightly swollen belly was visible beneath the robe. But her eyes... they were fiercer than any armor in the camp.
Marshaldo raised his head, able to catch every detail in her face that hadn't lost its gleam despite the exhaustion:
"And where have you been? You were supposed to be here two days ago, Melissa."
He paused briefly before continuing:
"We requested support from the Shah's battalion a full week ago, and you were supposed to have arrived with your reinforcements already. What happened? Why were you delayed?"
Melissa raised her eyebrow calmly, as if she expected an unusual reaction from him:
"Ooh, you seem tense... not like your usual self. It looks like things are completely on fire here..."
The silence broke when Marshaldo leaned forward, placing his palm forcefully on the table:
"Damn it! Three weeks... three weeks and we're stuck in this cursed place."
Melissa answered calmly:
"The Moon Council left me no choice, Marshaldo. The eastern front is boiling, and the Kingdom of Eiberg is trying to exploit the chaos to expand at our expense. My presence there was necessary to stop it before its fires spread to our lands."
Sebastien looked at her, and when their gazes met, he said in a frustrated voice:
"We're in a bind, Melissa. The soldiers are eating bone soup and bitter roots. The men of the Montfort clan may be fewer in number, but they know this land better than we do. Every ambush we set, every attack we launched... it's as if they see our steps before we take them."
Melissa's lips curved in a slight smile, then she nodded slowly, her features betraying deep knowledge, as if she knew why the Montfort clan predicted their moves in advance.
She said in a soft voice:
"So that's how it is... I see now why they're always one step ahead of you."
"You know, Sebastien, there's an old saying: if your enemy reads your steps, perhaps there's someone reading them for him."
Marshaldo remained leaning with his palm on the table, his eyes narrowing slightly:
"What do you mean?"
She said slowly, as if giving her words the weight they deserved:
"Actually, I was here... three days ago."
Marshaldo smiled sarcastically and pressed his fingers against the table like someone resisting the urge to destroy it:
"Ah, so you were here then. Why didn't you come to us? Why didn't you help us in the fighting?... The scene must have been exciting... my men falling one after another. Did you enjoy it, Lady Melissa?"
Melissa laughed a short, dry laugh:
"Actually, I did exactly that."
"I have good news... and bad news," she added in a serious tone.
Sebastien rested his chin on his hand in a contemplative gesture:
"Start with the good, we need it."
Melissa pointed to the southernmost part of the map, where dense forests appeared in dark green.
"In the past three days, I was examining the enemy's borders... We managed to find a path through the Sacred Forest. From there, we can observe the Montfort clan closely without them noticing our presence, and we can even encircle their northern camp."
Marshaldo's features suddenly changed, his face clearly darkening.
"Damn! You penetrated all the way to the Sacred Forest?" he said in a voice carrying a mixture of admiration and concern.
"That area is fraught with dangers. It's been a neutral zone between our kingdom and the Montfort clan for centuries. If they discover we infiltrated it..."
She took a moment to contemplate her fingernail, then replied in her soft voice:
"Yes, we monitored their movements, and I didn't want to... how shall I put this politely? I didn't want to reveal the presence of the Shah's battalion because your men are so capable..."
Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she continued:
"I knew you would ruin the espionage operation. You know... with your heavy steps, your obvious maneuvers, and your way of announcing your intentions to everyone in the forest."
He didn't respond to her sarcasm but kept staring at the map:
"But this might actually be what we need. And the bad news?"
Her gaze suddenly darkened, and she replied:
"As for the bad news... they're not just an ordinary army. The Montfort clan has hired the Black Priests!"
The tent fell silent for a moment. Sebastien only let out a sharp exhale, while Marshaldo's face gradually paled. Before he asked in a low tone that could barely be heard:
"Did you see them?"
"Yes. I saw them from a distance..."
Sebastien stepped forward, his face reflecting clear concern:
"If this information is correct, we've already lost the battle."
Marshaldo rubbed his beard in deep thought: "So... what do you suggest?" But before Melissa could answer, sudden commotion erupted outside the tent, tearing through the peaceful night silence. Sounds of cheering and laughter and overlapping shouts, as if the entire camp had awakened all at once.
The three exchanged quick glances and hurried out of the tent. To see before them crowds of soldiers flowing from all directions, surrounding a group of fighters who stood confidently in the center of the courtyard. They wore gleaming black armor interlaced with intricate gold decorations extending around the edges and shoulders. In the center of the chest, the royal emblem stood out. A gilded crown with an open eye in its center.
The emblem of the Shah's battalion, the "Crown Eye"... that's what people called it. They say anyone who saw it on the battlefield saw their death in it first.
In the front stood a man with light brown hair and hazel eyes that radiated warmth—Julian Hart, Melissa's husband. Beside him was a short, sharp-featured young man, Meran, one of the battalion's most prominent warriors.
"The Shah's battalion!" one of the soldiers shouted with a voice full of admiration. "They've finally arrived!"
It was clear the soldiers were awestruck. The Shah's battalion wasn't just an ordinary military unit, but a living legend. An elite of fighters who had never been defeated in a single battle, whose victories were sung about in taverns and squares throughout the kingdom. And now, these heroes would fight beside them.
Suddenly, a small child no older than ten emerged from among the crowds, wearing a simple brown linen robe. He was running with all his might toward Melissa, clear admiration in his features.
"Lady Melissa!" he screamed in a childish voice full of enthusiasm, hugging her around her feet and thighs. "You're my role model! I want to become like you when I grow up!"
A few young soldiers followed him, smiling tenderly at the touching scene of the child.
Melissa bent down toward the child and gently placed her hand on his disheveled blonde hair, genuine warmth in her gaze, as if she was remembering herself at his age.
"You're brave, my little hero," she said in a kind voice. "But you need to grow up first and learn a lot."
The child smiled proudly, then trotted back toward his companions, some dust clinging to his faded linen robe.
Melissa kept watching him until the crowds swallowed him, before slowly rising. She turned toward Commander Marshaldo, whose eyes hadn't left the child as he walked away.
She whispered without looking at him: "What is a child doing in a war zone like this?"
He didn't answer immediately. He raised his gaze to the gray horizon and sighed deeply, as if the answer was too heavy to be spoken:
"The kingdom has opened more battlefronts than it can handle, Melissa." He began in a low voice devoid of embellishment. "When the land itself becomes a potential enemy, and passages become traps, and mountains become ambushes... then we no longer have the luxury of choosing whom we fight with."
He turned toward her, his gaze tired, sad without begging for pity.
"Wars devour our men as fire devours dry wood. Blood is being bled faster than it can be healed, and knights are falling faster than they can be buried. Anyone who can carry a sword is pushed forward... even if their bones haven't hardened yet."
Melissa didn't reply, didn't shake her head. She just stared at him, her lips pressed together. Then she turned her face away again, and something broke in her eyes.
At this moment, Melissa noticed that all the soldiers were staring at her with frank admiration. They had grown accustomed to talking about her, about her long white hair that seemed to slip between the wind's fingers, and her presence filled the place with awe.
Even the veteran soldiers looked as if they were seeing the queen of war for the first time.
Melissa raised her eyes and cast a firm but not harsh look at the crowds—rather, it carried that kind of quiet confidence that makes men reconsider their behavior. The gaze of a woman accustomed to command, who knew exactly when to remind others of their boundaries.
"Is there something wrong here?" she asked in a clear voice that cut through the noise.
"Or have you forgotten that you have duties to perform?"
Her sentence was like a silk slap—it made no noise, but it left your cheek burning.
In one moment, all the soldiers averted their gaze from her. Some suddenly pretended to be busy cleaning their spears, while others fixed their eyes on the dirt as if reading something important in it.
***
Moonbeams passed through the narrow windows of the Montfort clan chief's castle, piercing the darkness that enveloped the upper chamber. The hour had passed midnight, and the castle was immersed in silence broken only by the sound of wind howling around the stone towers.
In the large room that centered the northern tower, Chief Geoffrey Montfort lay on his wide bed, his bare chest rising and falling with deep breaths. He was a man in his mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, with thick hair falling over his sweaty forehead. Beside him, his wife Lilin Montfort lay under woolen covers, her long black hair spread across the pillow.
Heavy fabric curtains surrounded the bed, embroidered with the clan's emblem: a huge towering tree, its branches spreading against a deep green background, symbolizing the Sacred Forest that was the heart and soul of Montfort lands.
In the western corner of the room stood a massive wooden wardrobe, carved with shapes of leaves and branches, while an iron chandelier with half-burned candles hung from the ceiling.
Geoffrey rose from the bed, his strong body moving smoothly despite the exhaustion. He picked up his linen shirt from the floor where he had thrown it an hour ago and put it on without buttoning it. He walked toward the window, looking down where the clan's lands stretched under moonlight.
"Still awake?" Lilin whispered, her voice warm and tired.
He turned to her, a small smile playing on his lips. "Thinking."
"Thinking?" She sat up in bed, pulling the cover around her bare shoulders. "After what we just did?"
He approached her, sat on the edge of the bed. "Especially after what we just did."
Lilin laughed, a sweet sound that filled the room. "You're impossible, Geoffrey Montfort."
He extended his hand, touched her cheek tenderly. "And yet you love me."
"Fortunately." She took his hand, kissed his palm. "Or do you regret your choice?"
He shook his head. "I regret nothing. Not choosing you, nor our recent choices."
Lilin froze slightly. "You mean Odalin?"
"I mean everything... Our men crushed their latest attempt to attack our trade caravans. Fifteen men from Odalin's army, all killed near Silver Valley."
"That's good news." But her voice didn't carry the expected joy.
He turned to her. "Isn't it?"
Lilin sighed, got out of bed and put on her silk robe. "It's also dangerous news. The more we kill of them, the more hostile they become."
"What do you suggest? That we let them steal our goods?"
"No... but sometimes I wonder... did we make the right decision?"
He approached her, placed his hands on her shoulders. "You mean our alliance with the Sendorath?"
She nodded. "Before we declared our loyalty to the Duchy of Sendorath, our relationship with Odalin was... acceptable. Trade, nothing more."
"Merchants who paid us crumbs of gold for our finest wool and strongest horses."
"But they weren't trying to kill us."
Geoffrey fell silent for a moment. He knew she was right, but the matter was more complex than that.
"The Sendorath pay us three times what the Kingdom of Odalin used to pay. Our goods reach more distant markets, and our gold multiplies."
"And our men's souls are lost in ambushes."
Geoffrey turned, walked toward the table where a clay pitcher and cups stood. He poured himself a cup of wine, the soft sound of liquid filling the silence.
"You know that Odalin began its attacks on us the day after signing the trade agreement with the Sendorath. The very next day, Lilin."
He drank a sip of wine, its bitter taste suiting his mood. "We weren't the ones who started this war."
She turned to him and said: "But we're the ones who will have to end it."
"With the Sendorath by our side." He approached her again, his voice more resolute. "They're our only support now, Lilin. Without them, we'll be alone against Odalin's army."
"Or have we become tools in a game bigger than us?"
Geoffrey stopped, the wine cup in his hand. He hadn't expected this question.
"What do you mean?"
Lilin sighed, wrapping her hair with her hand. "The Sendorath aren't fools. They know Odalin will attack us if we ally with them. Perhaps... perhaps that's what they want."
"For us to fight Odalin on their behalf?"
"To weaken Odalin. To make them focus on fighting us instead of thinking about fighting the Sendorath."
Geoffrey placed the cup on the table, the sound of clay echoing in the quiet room. He didn't want to think about this possibility, but his wife's words carried logic.
"Even if this is true, what's the alternative?"
"I don't know." She approached him, placed her hand on his chest. "But I want to know that we're not fighting for others' dreams."
He looked into her eyes, saw worry and love together. He took her hand, squeezed it gently.
"I fight for the clan. For you..."
She finally smiled, but her smile was sad. "That's what I love about you, Geoffrey. You always know why you fight."
"And you? Why do you fight?"
"Because I love a man crazy enough to stand against a kingdom."
Geoffrey laughed, a deep sound that shook his chest. "Crazy?"
"Crazy." She kissed his chest, her voice muffled. "But he's my crazy man."
He wrapped his arms around her, felt her body's warmth seeping into him. Outside, the wind howled stronger.
"I must send a message to Duke Cornell tomorrow." He whispered in her ear.
"To tell him about the battle at Silver Valley?"
"To request more men."
Lilin froze in his embrace. "Do you expect a bigger attack?"
"I expect a real war."
She raised her head, looked into his eyes. "Then we need to be stronger."
"We need to be smarter."
They fell silent for a moment, each lost in their thoughts. Then they returned to bed, their bodies tired but their minds still alert. Geoffrey wrapped his wife in his embrace, felt her breathing gradually calm.
In the silence that followed, they heard the distant sound of guards changing shifts in the lower courtyard. Lilin moved in her husband's embrace, raised her head to look at him.
"Geoffrey?"
"Mm?"
"I think we've been thinking about this wrong."
"How?"
"We talk about the Sendorath as if they might abandon us. But we need them more than they need us."
"Listen to me... remember three years ago? The drought, bad harvest season, and wool prices in the gutter. Merchants from Odalin were paying one gold piece for five bags of our finest sheep wool."
"I remember."
"But now? The same quantity brings nine gold pieces from Sendorath merchants. Nine pieces, Geoffrey."
"I know..."
"Then why do you doubt?"
She rested her head on his chest: "Our farmers eat meat twice a week now. Their children wear leather shoes in winter. And the new trade routes? Our goods reach markets we never dreamed of before."
"Do you know what would have happened if we'd stayed under Odalin's wing? We would have remained poor. Small vassals of a crumbling kingdom."
"Crumbling?"
Lilin smiled a small smile. "Odalin is now fighting on three different fronts... and now a new front against us."
"They're trying to force us back into their embrace so they can steal our profits again."
"But it's too late. The trade routes exist now. Goods are flowing. Gold is entering our pockets."
Geoffrey slowly extended his arm, running his fingers through her scattered hair strands on the pillow.
They exchanged glances, then he reassured her with a warm tone:
"Everything will be alright, my love."
Then he continued:
"They can't do anything to truly harm us. The Sacred Forest is our first and last shield... For thousands of years, the Sacred Forest has protected our ancestors from every invader. It's our northern border with Odalin. One hundred and fifty miles of trees that won't allow an army to pass."
"Odalin knows this. That's why they attack our caravans in the south, where the land is exposed. But the heart of our lands is protected by nature's own protection."
They fell silent for seconds, quiet enveloping the room. But then Geoffrey's eyes began to gleam with a special light, and a wide smile split his face.
"But more important than all of this..." he paused, as if savoring his words.
"The Black Priests are now on our side!"
He burst into strong laughter, its sound shaking the quiet room. At the same time, his fingers began caressing her waist in an attempt to tickle her.
"Imagine, Lilin!... The Black Priests themselves standing in our ranks!"
Lilin laughed despite herself, trying to escape his tickling attempts, but her laughter mixed with his in one melody that filled the room with warmth.
"Stop! Stop, you fool!" she said between fits of laughter, pushing him with her soft hands. "Let me speak!"
Geoffrey gradually calmed down, but the smile still painted his face as he looked at her, waiting for her words.
Lilin took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure despite the warmth filling her chest.
In a tone carrying gratitude and admiration, she said:
"The moment the Kingdom of Odalin launched its first attacks on us, Duke Cornell didn't hesitate for a single moment. They provided us with their strongest and greatest weapons, the Black Priests."
"And more importantly, they promised us clearly and frankly... if we enter into a real war with Odalin, an open war and not just skirmishes, then the Sendorath armies will enter the battle directly alongside us."
But during her speech, she began to notice that her husband's facial expression was gradually changing. His eyebrows furrowed, and he was no longer looking at her, but had turned to a strange sideways glance.
He was looking at the corner.
His eyes stared to the left, focusing on something in the room, his ears listening to a sound she couldn't hear.
"Geoffrey?" she said in a hesitant tone. "What's wrong with you? What's the matter?"
He quickly raised his hand, a silent signal ordering her to be quiet. "Shhh..."
Lilin immediately fell silent, her heart beginning to beat rapidly. She looked at her husband with amazement and growing concern.
Geoffrey was now staring with intense concentration toward the western corner of the room, where the massive wooden wardrobe stood.
She looked at her husband with growing concern, trying to understand what was happening.
Rustle... rustle
In the terrible silence, they heard a soft but clear sound, the sound of fabric rustling and moving, coming from inside the wooden chest…