[About 01:20 PM on Day 41]
The melee devolves into a brutal endgame. The remaining four knights, seeing Louie as the greatest threat, form a desperate, unspoken alliance to take him down. They converge on him from all sides, a wall of dented steel and grim intent. The crowd holds its breath. To them, this is the final test, the moment the upstart will be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. But as you watch from the stands, your focus drifts from the chaos of the lists. Your eyes are not on Louie, the nexus of the battle.
They are fixed on the Baron's pavilion. You watch Baron Faucher, who is leaning forward, his knuckles white on the arm of his chair. You see the undisguised avarice in his eyes, the look of a merchant who has just discovered a priceless diamond in a beggar's bowl. He is no longer just a Royalist lord; he is your first target, the gateway to the King's court. You analyze his posture, his reactions, his guards. You are not watching a tourney; you are mapping a battlefield for a war that has not yet been declared.
How do you use a man like this?
How do you break him?
Do you turn him into a puppet, or do you simply drain his resources and leave him a hollow husk for the Duke to clean up?
The possibilities unfold in your mind, a web of elegant, cruel strategies.
CRASH!
A deafening impact from the lists snaps your attention back to the present. Louie has met the four-man charge not with a defense, but with a suicidal, all-out assault. He spurred his mare directly into the weakest of the four, his shield taking the man's blow while his own sword crashed down on the knight's helm. The sheer, unadulterated violence of the impact sends the knight and his horse stumbling, breaking the coordinated attack.
In the heartbeat of chaos that follows, Louie is a whirlwind of steel. He doesn't fight like a tourney knight. He fights like a monster hunter, with brutal, efficient, crippling blows. A sword thrust to a joint in the armor. A shield bash to an exposed face. A horse maneuver that trips another steed. It is not a duel. It is a slaughter. One by one, the last of the King's men fall, yielding to the relentless, unstoppable force that is Louie de Braisechant.
Finally, only he remains. He sits astride his panting mare in the center of a field littered with defeated, groaning knights. His armor is scarred, his shield is battered, but he is unbroken. The silence of the crowd lasts for a single, stunned heartbeat. Then it explodes. The roar is not just for an underdog; it is for a legend born before their very eyes.
[About 01:45 PM on Day 41]
You and Louie are once again standing in the Baron's pavilion. This time, the mood is entirely different. The two household knights who were flanking the Baron are gone. The air is not tense with suspicion, but thick with the scent of opportunity. A heavy purse of gold, the prize for the melee, sits on the table.
Baron Faucher is standing, a goblet of wine in his hand, a broad, predatory smile on his face. He looks at Louie not as a petitioner, but as his most prized possession.
"Magnificent," the Baron booms, his voice echoing in the enclosed space.
"Absolutely magnificent! That was not the skill of a tourney knight, Braisechant. That was the fury of a true warrior. The kind of man a lord needs to guard his house in these uncertain times."
He sets his goblet down and walks toward Louie, clapping him on his steel-plated shoulder.
"A manticore-slayer indeed." He steps back, his smile unwavering, but his eyes are sharp as a hawk's. The time for games is over. The offer is now a demand.
"The position is yours. You will be my household champion. You will have a handsome salary, a place of honor in my court, and the finest equipment my armory can provide. Your retainer," he says with a brief, amused glance at you, "will be well cared for." He extends a hand.
"Swear your fealty to me, Louie de Braisechant. Swear your sword to House Faucher, and the honor you seek will be returned to you tenfold."
The Baron's hand, thick with rings and authority, hangs in the air between them. The offer is not just for a position; it is for a chain of fealty, a binding oath. You remain silent, a shadow by the entrance flap. Your role is played for now. This is Louie's stage, his test. You watch, your face an unreadable mask, wondering how this new chain will be wielded to serve the Duke's distant ambitions.
Louie does not hesitate. He has seen the path you've laid, and he walks it without faltering. He moves with a grace that seems impossible in the heavy, battered armor.
He goes down on one knee before Baron Faucher, the scrape of steel on the pavilion's wooden floor a sharp, resonant sound. He removes his gauntlet, letting it fall to the floor with a soft clatter. He places his bare hand into the Baron's outstretched one.
"I, Louie de Braisechant," he says, his voice clear and strong, ringing with a conviction that feels utterly genuine,
"Swear my sword and my service to you, Baron Faucher. I will be your shield against your enemies and your champion in the lists. I will serve you faithfully, and in so doing, restore the honor of my house." The Baron's predatory smile widens into a look of genuine, triumphant satisfaction. He clasps Louie's hand firmly, a master sealing a bargain for a priceless tool.
"Rise, Sir Louie," the Baron booms, pulling him to his feet. "Rise as the Champion of House Faucher!"
He retrieves his wine goblet and raises it high.
"Tonight, we will feast! We celebrate not just a tourney victory, but the welcoming of a new lion into my pride!"
[About 07:00 PM on Day 41]
The Great Hall of Roche-sur-Yon is a cavern of noise and light. Torches smoke in their sconces, casting a flickering, golden glow on a hundred celebrating knights. The air is thick with the smells of roasted boar, spilled ale, and the sweat of men who have spent the day in armor. Louie sits at the high table, to the right of Baron Faucher himself. He is the guest of honor, the hero of the hour. He has been given a fine set of clothes, the Baron's own livery, and his battered armor has been taken away to be polished and repaired by the castle's master smith.
Lords and knights approach him constantly, offering toasts, clapping him on the back, and asking to hear the tale of his victory. He plays the part of the stoic, humble champion perfectly, his answers short, polite, and revealing nothing. You are where a retainer should be. You stand against the far wall, near the shadows, a tankard of ale in your hand.
You are invisible, just another servant in the chaos of the feast. From here, you have a perfect vantage point. You watch the flow of power in the room. You see which knights are in the Baron's inner circle, which ones are jealous of Louie's newfound favor, and which ones are too drunk to be a threat.
Sir Tristan de Pasteur is also here. He sits at the far end of the high table, his face a thundercloud of silent, simmering rage. He drinks heavily and speaks to no one, his cold eyes occasionally flicking toward Louie with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. The Baron has his champion. Louie has his patron. You have your infiltration. The first phase of your mission is a complete success. You stand in the heart of a Royalist stronghold, a quiet, unassuming plague, and nobody even knows they are sick yet. The night is long, and the hall is full of opportunities.
The feast rages on, a roaring bonfire of celebration. The air is hot and thick with the smells of sweat, spilled ale, and roasting meat. Sir Tristan de Pasteur sits at the far end of the high table, a thundercloud in a sea of revelry. He has been drinking steadily and heavily, his knuckles white where he grips his tankard, his eyes never straying for long from Louie, who is playing the part of the celebrated champion to perfection. This is the moment. A silent, pre-arranged understanding passes between you and Louie.
Amidst a fresh round of toasts, Louie leans toward the Baron and murmurs a polite excuse, citing the need for a moment of fresh air after the heat of the hall and the day's exertions. The Baron, flushed with wine and victory, gives a magnanimous wave of his hand, dismissing him. Louie rises and walks with a steady, noble gait toward a side exit, vanishing from the Great Hall. His departure is the signal. From your position in the shadows, you turn your full, undivided attention to the festering wound of pride and rage at the end of the table. You focus your will. It is not a spell to be cast, but a sickness to be administered.
A single, invisible thread of your power snakes through the chaos of the feast hall, bypassing the guards and the revelers, and sinks into the mind of Sir Tristan de Pasteur.
You don't plant a new thought.
You find the embers of his rage and pour pure, conceptual gasoline upon them. You take his humiliation and magnify it.
You take his sense of injustice and twist it into a profound feeling of betrayal.
In Tristan's wine-addled, rage-filled mind, his perception shifts. He looks at Baron Faucher, who is now laughing at some jest from another knight.
But Tristan no longer sees a lord celebrating.
He sees a man mocking him.
He sees the Baron who cast him aside for a disgraced upstart.
The laughter seems directed at him, a cruel, final twist of the knife.
His honor, his reputation, his entire world has been shattered, and the man responsible is laughing.
The alcohol and your subtle influence burn away the last vestiges of his reason. A low, animalistic growl rumbles in his chest. With a screech of wood on stone, Sir Tristan shoves his chair back and rises to his feet.
The sudden, violent motion causes the knights near him to fall silent, turning to stare. His hand goes to the sword at his hip. Not the blunted tourney blade, but the live, razor-sharp steel of a duelist's sidearm.
SHIIIING.
The sound of the blade being drawn is a sharp, vicious hiss that cuts through the noise of the feast like a guillotine. The Great Hall falls silent. Sir Tristan de Pasteur stands with a naked blade in his hand, his handsome face a twisted, unrecognizable mask of pure, murderous rage.
His eyes, clouded with a madness you have carefully cultivated, are locked on one man. Baron Faucher. The Baron's smile freezes on his face, his wine goblet halfway to his lips. His household guards, a step too slow, are just beginning to reach for their own weapons.
Tristan takes a single, staggering step toward the high table, raising his sword. "Traitor," he snarls, his voice a choked, inhuman thing.
He is going to kill him. Right here. Right now.
[About 09:15 PM on Day 41]
Your plan is a simple, brutal equation: an enraged champion, a vulnerable Baron, and a perfectly timed savior. You watch from the shadows, a silent god pulling the strings of a passion play.
Tristan doesn't hesitate.
He doesn't make a speech.
He lunges.
With a guttural roar of pure, undiluted hatred, he closes the distance to the high table in two powerful strides. The knights seated nearby scramble to get out of his way, toppling chairs in their haste. The Baron's household guards are still a crucial ten feet away, their own swords only half-drawn, their faces masks of panic. Baron Faucher is frozen in his chair, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief. He is a politician and a commander, not a duelist. He is utterly defenseless. The longsword rises, a streak of silver in the torchlight, aimed in a vicious, two-handed downward arc at the Baron's exposed neck.
This is not a duel; it is an execution.
The blade begins its descent. In that same instant, the side door Louie had used just minutes before bursts open with a splintering crash. Louie stands silhouetted in the doorway. He took no more than a few steps outside before the sudden, shocking silence of the hall, followed by the shriek of drawn steel, alerted him. He took in the scene in a single, lightning-fast glance: the descending blade, the helpless Baron, the panicked guards. He is thirty feet away.
The sword is less than a second from its target.
There is no time to charge. No time to shout a warning.
The Baron is going to die.
Time stretches, pulling taut like a bowstring. The sword descends.
From your position in the shadows, you don't move a muscle. Your will, however, lashes out like a serpent's tongue. A silent, invisible, and utterly irresistible thread of Conceptual Kinesis coils around the descending blade.
You are not trying to stop it.
You are aiming it.
Louie is a blur of motion, a comet of steel about to intercept the assassin. He is a fraction of a second from impact. He is too late. Your will is faster than his body. The subtle, surgical push of your kinesis corrects Tristan's aim. Just as Louie's armored shoulder is about to slam into Tristan's side and deflect the blow, the point of the longsword finds its mark. There is no clang of steel on armor, no ragged tear of flesh.
There is only a soft, wet, final thump as the blade plunges deep into the unprotected flesh of Baron Faucher's throat. The Baron's scream of agony is cut off in a gurgling choke. His eyes, wide with the ultimate shock, lock onto his killer's face. A fountain of arterial blood erupts from the wound, painting the high table and Tristan's silvered gauntlets in a glistening, horrific crimson.
CRASH!
In the next instant, Louie's body impacts Tristan's with the force of a battering ram. The timing is perfect. It looks not like a salvation, but a retribution. A hero arrives a single, tragic heartbeat too late. The dead Baron slumps forward onto the table, his head landing in a platter of roasted boar with a soft thud. The assassin and the hero crash into a nearby table, a tangle of limbs and steel amidst shattered goblets and spilled wine.
For a single, eternal second, the Great Hall is utterly, profoundly silent. The revelry, the music, the laughter—all of it is gone, replaced by a vacuum of pure, uncomprehending horror. Then, the world breaks. A woman screams, a high, piercing sound that shatters the stillness.
The Baron's household guards, their faces masks of white-hot rage, finally reach the dais. They do not shout challenges. They roar like animals, their swords raised not for an arrest, but for a summary execution. Knights throughout the hall leap to their feet, swords drawn, the entire celebration instantly transformed into a bloodbath waiting to happen. In the center of it all, Louie shoves the stunned, blood-spattered Tristan away from him.
Tristan, his eyes wide with a madness that is now permanent, scrambles to his feet, raising his dripping sword to meet the oncoming tide of guards. The Baron is dead. The assassin is cornered. The hero is in the middle of the fray. And you, the architect of it all, are just a quiet, unassuming face in a crowd that is about to explode.
[About 09:15 PM on Day 41]
The Great Hall is a tinderbox, and you have just struck the spark. As the Baron's household guards surge forward with vengeance in their eyes, their swords raised to butcher the assassin, Louie moves. He does not charge the guards. He does not try to reason with them.
He acts.
With a speed that seems impossible in his heavy plate, he pivots on the wine-slicked floor. He ignores the guards entirely and drives a powerful, steel-shod kick into the back of Sir Tristan's knee. The joint buckles with a sickening crunch.
Tristan cries out, not in rage, but in pure, animal pain, and collapses to the floor, his sword clattering from his numb fingers. In the next instant, Louie scoops the fallen blade from the floor and places its point against Tristan's throat, pinning the writhing, snarling knight to the ground. He then raises his free hand, a universal sign to halt, toward the charging guards.
"STOP!"
Louie's voice is a thunderclap of pure command that cuts through the chaos and the screams.
"This man murdered your lord! He will not have a quick death in a brawl! He will face the King's justice!"
The guards skid to a halt, their rage checked by the cold, undeniable authority in Louie's voice. He has not just subdued the assassin; he has offered them the promise of a slower, more satisfying vengeance. The logic, as brutal as it is, holds them in place. The immediate violence is contained.
The Great Hall is a wreck of overturned tables, stunned knights, and the cooling body of a murdered Baron. Louie de Braisechant, the disgraced scion, the newcomer, stands victorious and in control over the assassin, the tragic hero who was a heartbeat too late to save his lord, but just in time to secure justice.