[About 10:00 AM on Day 42]
The following morning, the fortress of Roche-sur-Yon is a different world. The bright banners of the tourney have been replaced by the black crepe of mourning. The celebratory air is gone, replaced by a tense, grim silence, punctuated by the quiet orders of the castle's castellan, a stern, grey-haired knight named Sir Gregoire. You and Louie stand before him in the castle's small, cold solar.
Sir Tristan de Pasteur has been dragged to the deepest dungeon, a raving, broken man who can only scream the Baron's name. Sir Gregoire looks at Louie, his expression a mixture of profound gratitude and deep unease.
"Sir Louie," he begins, his voice heavy with weariness, "the House of Faucher is in your debt. You acted with honor and clarity in a moment of madness. The Baron's son and heir has been sent for, but it will be a week before he can arrive and take command."
Louie, dressed in a simple tunic, inclines his head. "I did only what my honor demanded."
"Indeed," the castellan says, steepling his fingers. "Which brings us to a delicate matter. Your oath of fealty was sworn to the Baron. With his... passing... that oath is tragically voided. You are a man without a master once more."
Louie's face is a mask of stoic tragedy.
"Fate has dealt my house another cruel blow. I had hoped to find a home here, but it seems it was not to be."
"These are dark times," Sir Gregoire agrees.
"Until the new Baron arrives, this house is in no position to retain a champion of your caliber. You are, of course, free to go where you will." He gestures to the prize purse from the melee, which sits on the table.
"You have your winnings, and the eternal gratitude of this house. That is all we can offer for now."
The excuse has been given, and it has been accepted. You are no longer bound here. You are free agents once more.
[About 11:00 AM on Day 42]
An hour later, you and Louie ride out from Roche-sur-Yon. The guards at the gate offer solemn, respectful salutes to the hero who captured their lord's killer. You ride east, back the way you came, leaving the fortress of mourning and political chaos behind you. You ride in silence for a long time, putting the Royalist heartlands at your back.
"It is done," Louie finally says, his voice a low rumble.
"We have no patron, but we have a story. A legend. And the King has one less loyal house to call upon."
You look over at him, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on your face. You did not just make a fool of his vassal. You took one of his knights off the board, permanently, and left a strategic fortress in the throes of a succession crisis.
"It is time," you say, your voice quiet but final.
"Let's go report to the Duke."
[About 03:00 PM on Day 45]
The journey back to Bourgogne is a quiet, somber affair. The triumphant energy of the tourney has faded, replaced by the grim reality of what you have accomplished. You ride for days through the Francian heartlands, the landscape a blur of autumn fields and grey skies. Louie is a silent companion, his posture rigid in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the eastern horizon. The easy camaraderie you had begun to build has been replaced by a tense, unspoken distance.
He doesn't ask. Not at first. He lets the silence stretch for three full days, a heavy blanket between you. But on the afternoon of the third day, as you water the horses at a small, nameless stream, he finally breaks it.
"Was that the plan all along, Janus?" he asks, his voice low and rough, not looking at you. "To kill him?"
The question is not an accusation. It is a plea for understanding from a man trying to make sense of the new, blood-soaked world he inhabits.
You finish tightening the cinch on your saddle before you answer, the confession tasting like ash in your mouth.
"No," you say, your voice quiet. "The plan was to humiliate him. To break his authority and steal his charter. That was all."
You turn to face him, and for the first time, you let the cold mask of the strategist fall away, revealing the disquiet beneath.
"I did not expect him to offer you fealty. Not so soon, not so publicly. He was going to put a chain around your neck, Louie. An oath to a Royalist Baron. It would have trapped us. It would have ended the mission before it truly began. I could not stop him then, not without revealing my hand."
Sour feelings, unfamiliar and unwelcome, well within you. The clinical detachment you pride yourself on is gone, replaced by a genuine ache of regret.
"But we must remember that right now, this is not just about your honor anymore. It's about saving Francia from the weakness of its King. After this, the Duke will see your power. He will offer you the same choice, the same chain. And you will have to decide if you want to swear your loyalty to him, publicly."
You look down at your own hands, feeling like a hypocrite. "I only hope that this," you say, gesturing vaguely back toward the west, toward the fortress of mourning you created, "makes up for what I did." Your voice drops, the admission costing you more than you expected. "I feel like I have hurt a friend."
Louie remains silent for a long, heavy minute, staring into the gurgling water of the stream. He processes your words, not just the logic, but the unprecedented emotion behind them. He finally raises his head, and the tension in his face has softened, replaced by a profound, weary understanding.
"You did," he says simply, his voice devoid of anger.
"You made me swear an oath to a man you intended to ruin. You made me a liar. You made me a party to a murder."
He lets out a long, slow breath.
"And you also freed me from a trap I didn't see."
He walks over to you, stopping just a few feet away. His eyes are clear, the eyes of a man who has been through a crucible and has come out the other side harder, colder, and with no illusions left.
"You are right," he continues, his voice a low, steady rumble. "This is not about my honor. Not anymore. That died in the mud at Bordeaux. You gave me a new purpose, Janus. To be a weapon. A weapon to save my home."
He looks you dead in the eye, and the distance between you is gone, replaced by a new, grim bond forged in blood and betrayal.
"Do not mistake my silence for anger. I am... processing. I am learning the kind of war we are truly fighting."
He claps a heavy, gauntleted hand on your shoulder, the gesture not one of comfort, but of shared burden.
"We are what we are, Janus," he says, his voice final. "A sword and a plague. There is no room for hurt feelings in that. Only the mission."
He turns and mounts his horse, his back straight, his resolve absolute.
[About 04:00 PM on Day 47]
The city of Dijon has transformed in the weeks you have been away. What was a city buzzing with preparation is now a city seething with it. The fields outside the walls are choked with the makeshift camps of mercenary companies and ducal levies. The air, once smelling of wine and commerce, now hangs heavy with coal smoke, sweat, and the nervous energy of an army waiting for the order to march.
You and Louie ride toward the western gate, your approach noted by a dozen pairs of wary eyes. The guards are no longer the somewhat relaxed City Watch you saw before; they are ducal soldiers in full plate, their tabards bearing the saltire of Bourgogne. The gate is a chokepoint of supply wagons, dispatch riders, and marching columns.
A sergeant with a scarred face and a grim expression holds up a gauntleted hand, bringing you to a halt. "State your names and business." His eyes scan you both, lingering on the fine make of Louie's armor and the warhorse he rides.
Louie, sitting tall and impassive in his saddle, speaks with the cold authority of a man who has earned his place. "Louie de Braisechant, returning to report to Sir Kaelen."
The sergeant's eyes narrow slightly at the name, not in recognition of scandal, but as if checking a mental list. He gives a curt nod to one of his men, who vanishes into the gatehouse. For a moment, you are simply left to wait amidst the chaos, two quiet figures in the river of war.
Less than five minutes later, a man emerges from the gatehouse who is clearly not a common soldier. He wears the black-lacquered half-plate of the Duke's Household Guard, his crimson surcoat pristine. A lieutenant's rank is pinned to his collar. He ignores the sergeant and addresses you directly, his voice sharp and devoid of pleasantries.
"You are the ones," he states, not asks. "The Captain is expecting you. Come with me."
He turns without waiting for a reply, mounting a black charger held by a squire. Two more Household Guards, equally severe and silent, fall in behind you as you are waved through the gate. This is not an honor guard; it is a professional escort.
They lead you not through the main thoroughfares, but a winding path of back alleys and military access roads, bypassing the worst of the city's congestion. The journey is silent, the clatter of your horses' hooves on the cobblestones the only sound. You are being brought in quietly, a deniable asset returning from the field.
Finally, you emerge from the narrow streets into the grand square before the ducal keep. The fortress looms over the city, a bastion of grey stone and black iron banners that snap in the wind. The heavy iron-bound gates grind open at your approach, and you are led into the heart of Duke Charles's power.
[About 04:15 PM on Day 47]
The Household Guard lieutenant leads you from the courtyard into the keep proper. The interior is a stark contrast to the chaotic energy outside. Here, there is only a cold, focused purpose. Men-at-arms stand like statues in every alcove, their armor polished to a mirror sheen. Harried scribes and stern-faced officers stride down stone corridors, their footsteps echoing in the vaulted halls. Tapestries depicting the martial history of Bourgogne—great sieges, heroic last stands, and triumphant charges—cover the walls, a constant reminder of the duchy's ambition.
You are not led towards the grand throne room. Instead, your escort guides you up a spiral staircase to the Duke's private solar, a chamber that serves as both his study and war council room.
The heavy oak door swings open, and you are ushered inside. The room smells of beeswax, old parchment, and mulled wine. A fire crackles in a massive stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across a room dominated by a single, enormous table. It is covered in maps of Francia and the Holy Reich, littered with carved wooden markers representing armies, fleets, and fortifications.
Duke Charles "the Bold" stands before the fire, his back to you as you enter. He is a tall, broad-shouldered man in his prime, dressed not in finery but in a simple, dark velvet doublet and leather riding breeches. He cuts an imposing figure, radiating an aura of restless energy and absolute authority. At his side, a silent specter in black-lacquered plate, is Sir Kaelen, his face an unreadable mask beneath the shadows of his helm.
The lieutenant announces your names and retreats, closing the door with a heavy thud that seals you inside.
For a long moment, the Duke does not turn. He stares into the flames, allowing the silence to stretch, to weigh on you. He knows you are there. This is a deliberate exercise of power.
Finally, he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that fills the room. "My agents in Roche-sur-Yon sent word ahead of you. Faster birds than your horses, it seems."
He turns, and his eyes—the color of chipped flint—fix upon you. There is no warmth in his gaze, only a sharp, analytical intelligence assessing a tool's performance.
"Baron Faucher is dead. His champion, Sir Tristan, is in chains for the murder. His household is in chaos."
He picks up a wine goblet from the mantle, swirling the dark red liquid within.
"And his newly sworn champion, a man named Louie de Braisechant, is hailed as a hero for his valiant, if tragically tardy, attempt to save his lord."
A faint, mirthless smile touches his lips.
"It has, as I intended, venom. And a certain elegance."
He takes a slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving yours.
"A dead Baron. A destabilized fiefdom. A fine start," he concedes, his voice hardening.
"But my orders were specific. You were to humiliate the man and return with his Royal Charter of Fealty. The symbol of the King's authority in his lands."
He places the goblet down with a soft click, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He gestures with an open hand.
"Where is it?"
[About 04:16 PM on Day 47]
You answer without a flicker of hesitation, your voice calm and even in the heavy silence of the solar. "I couldn't find the opportunity to take it, so I settled for the next best outcome."
Beside the Duke, you see Sir Kaelen's posture stiffen almost imperceptibly. It is the only sign of tension from the silent knight.
Duke Charles does not react with anger. Instead, a dangerous quiet settles over him. He takes a slow step away from the fire, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the war maps on the table. He picks up a single carved marker—a golden lion, representing the King's forces—and turns it over and over in his powerful fingers.
"The next best outcome," he repeats, his voice a low murmur, tasting the words as if they were poison. "You turned my serpent's plan of political humiliation into a blacksmith's plan of simple murder."
He places the lion marker down on the map, right over the fortress of Roche-sur-Yon, and presses it firmly into the parchment. "A charter is a symbol. It can be displayed, burned, used to rally my supporters and demoralize the King's. It is a weapon of legitimacy."
He looks up, his flint-grey eyes pinning you in place. "A dead man is just a corpse. It creates a power vacuum, yes, but one the King will be all too eager to fill with a man even more loyal than the last. You have removed a troublesome piece from the board, but you have allowed the King to place a new one of his choosing."
The Duke takes another slow step toward you, his presence filling the room, becoming an almost physical pressure.
"So, explain it to me," he commands, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that is more menacing than any shout. "Justify this 'settlement'. Convince me that your improvisation was not simply the clumsy work of an assassin who lacks the subtlety for the games we play here."
[About 04:17 PM on Day 47]
You meet the Duke's intense gaze without flinching. Your explanation is a clinical dissection of the mission, delivered with the dispassionate air of a scholar presenting a theorem. You lay out the sequence of events precisely: Louie's overwhelming, almost inhuman martial prowess in the duel and melee. The crowd's adoration. The Baron's avarice, seeing not just a champion but a priceless asset.
"The success was too great, too fast," you state, your tone matter-of-fact.
"It accelerated the Baron's timeline. He saw an opportunity to bind a Silver-Tier champion to his house with an oath, publicly, during the victory feast. To refuse would have been an insult that ended the mission. To accept would have been a cage."
You pause, letting the cold logic of the dilemma settle in the room.
"The charter was the primary objective. But it was secured in his private vaults, inaccessible without an opportunity that the oath would have prevented. The mission was therefore compromised. I was left with a choice: mission failure, or the creation of a new, secondary objective."
This is where your argument pivots, moving from defense to offense.
"Yes, there is only a temporary power vacuum now," you concede, your voice taking on a new, visionary intensity.
"But a vacuum is an invitation. What happened at Roche-sur-Yon is not an ending. It is a precedent. Now, we just need to cascade it. Another Royalist lord suffers a tragic accident. A vital grain shipment meant for the King's army is lost to 'bandits'. A bridge collapses. A series of unfortunate events that, taken individually, are mere tragedies. But together..."
You let the implication hang in the air.
"...they create a narrative. A story whispered in taverns and barracks that the King cannot protect his own. That his authority is failing. That he has lost the Mandate of Heaven."
The Duke is silent throughout your explanation. He had been a coiled spring of anger, but as you speak, the tension bleeds out of him, replaced by a profound, unnerving stillness. He stops pacing. He turns his head slightly, his gaze shifting from you to Louie, truly seeing him for the first time not as a tool, but as the catalyst you described—a warrior so effective he breaks the delicate plans laid around him.
He then looks back at you. The fury in his eyes is gone, extinguished. In its place is a look of sharp, dangerous appraisal, the look a master smith gives a strange new metal that is both flawed and possesses an impossibly sharp edge. He sees the chaos you wield, the way you turn failure into a new, bloodier form of victory.
A slow, wolfish grin spreads across Duke Charles's face. It is a terrifying sight.
"A cascade," he says, the words rolling off his tongue like a promise. "I sent you to steal a piece of paper, and you bring me back a strategy for unraveling a kingdom."
He walks to the great map table, his eyes no longer on Roche-sur-Yon, but sweeping across the whole of Francia. He seems to have forgotten your failure entirely, his mind now racing, consumed by the new possibilities you have presented.
"You have given me an idea," he says, his voice alight with sudden, terrible inspiration. "A far grander stage than some backwater barony. A far more... spectacular... unfortunate event."