The gloom of the Young Master's chamber was saturated with the scent of rancid lavender and the metallic haze of a retreating fever. Miel, whose devotion was no mere contractual obligation but a form of blind faith, dampened the cloths with trembling hands. The young man with dark brown hair, Miguel—or what remained of him—was the sole anchor of her world. Should the heir perish, the County of Pasttó would plummet into a succession crisis that the wolves at the border would not hesitate to exploit.
Miel dropped to her knees, the crack of her joints against the cold stone being the only sound before her voice, a broken whisper, filled the void:
"O Lord, Thou who sustaineth the balance of the tides, let not this light be extinguished. Take my breath if Thou must, but restore the light to the eyes of my lord Miguel. May the Virgin of Mercy cover the invisible wounds of his mind with her mantle, and may Thy hand turn the shadow of death away from this bed. Leave us not orphaned of hope in this hour of siege. Amen."
No sooner had the echo of her prayer dissipated than a spasm rippled through the linen sheets. Miel froze. Miguel, who until moments ago appeared a marble corpse, sat up with an unnatural slowness. His eyes did not seek the maiden; instead, they scanned the air as if gazing into the firmament.
"Young master!" Miel burst into euphoric weeping. "I cannot believe it—God and the Most Holy Virgin—my prayers have been answered! Praise be to God! Master! Master, you must come!"
The massive oak door swung open, striking the stone wall. Alban Cortés, Count of Pasttó, entered with his hand still upon the hilt of his sword, followed by a Lucía de Cortés whose eyes were bloodshot from sleepless nights. Behind them, a tide of servants, from the steward to the kitchen pages, crowded the threshold, torn between protocol and the desperate need to know if the lineage endured.
"What is the meaning of this clamor, girl!?" thundered the Count, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had spent weeks directing defenses upon the ramparts. "What in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ has happened?"
"The young lord is awake, Master," Miel sobbed. "It was a miracle!"
Alban rushed toward the bed, his armor creaking. "Son! Are you well? For the love of God, son, can you hear me?"
Miguel—or rather, the man who now inhabited that body—processed the information at a dizzying speed.
"I can't believe it," Miguel thought, his fingers brushing the texture of the sheets. "After dying, I am dragged into the body of a nobleman in what appears to be an alternate timeline, with the stench of the Middle Ages seeping through the windows."
—But, let's put everything aside for now, we'll think later, now it's time for me to know WTF is happening—
His mind, sharpened by decades, began to download the memories of the "other" Miguel. Miguel Cortés... only son of Count Alban Cortés. Protector of the southern frontier of Antiochia. A buffer state against the infidels of the sea and a spearhead toward the Eternal Forests of the west.
"Father, Mother..." Miguel said. His voice sounded deeper, stripped of the youthful petulance that used to characterize him. He forced a smile—a mask of filial tenderness he had perfected over hundreds of galas in his previous life. "It gladdens me to see you at last. I have returned."
Miguel spoke with such sincerity, a performance worthy of an Oscar, that tears began to well up to make way for an uncontained happiness... or so it seemed.
Lucía lunged at him, smothering him in an embrace that smelled of incense and tears. Miguel remained rigid for a millisecond before reciprocating. Internally, the 45-year-old man felt a strange cognitive dissonance. This woman was not his mother, yet his body responded to her scent with a surge of dopamine. "I have to play the part," he told himself. "If they suspect their son's soul has been supplanted, the next miracle I see will be that of the Inquisition... if such a thing exists here."
"Son, you had us gravely concerned," Count Alban said, regaining his military composure and signaling for the servants to withdraw, leaving only the family and Miel in the room. "Especially now, when we can least afford ill news. We must maintain the cohesion of the High House; morale in the lower city falls every time the sun sets."
Alban's tone shifted. He was no longer a father; he was a commander briefing his officer. "The Marquess of Narico has crossed the line. His unilateral aggression has culminated in the siege you see from that window. But your fall was no accident, Miguel."
Miguel arched an eyebrow. "A spy among us," he stated, more as a conclusion than a question.
Alban nodded, surprised by his son's sharpness. "We captured one of the stable hands attempting to flee. After an... intense interrogation, he confessed. Narico knew my personal guard is impenetrable, so he chose you. The stable hand threw you from the window hoping it would look like an unfortunate accident, but he did not count on Miel's close protection; without her, we wouldn't have caught him in time. But there is more."
The Count approached the table and pointed to a map of the city of Pasttó. "The plan was not just to kill you. The spy was to torch the wooden communal hall in the city center tonight. That bonfire would be the signal for Narico to know the heir has fallen and chaos reigns. In the midst of that fire, five other infiltrated spies would attack the North Gate from within to open it at dawn. The Marquess's army is stationed two leagues away, ready to march without resistance."
Miguel looked at the map. He saw the weaknesses of the North Gate—a straight path with no major distractions toward the heart of the town—the absolute defeat of numerically inferior forces dispersed throughout the city, the wind direction that would spread the communal hall fire, and above all, the golden opportunity this represented.
"It is a dire situation, Father," Miguel said, rising from the bed. Though his legs trembled slightly, his presence filled the room. "But the Marquess of Narico has made the mistake of believing his plan is still in motion."
He turned to his father with a cold gaze the Count had never seen in his son. "I believe I have a way to use this information to end the war with the Marquess once and for all. We are not just going to survive the night, Father. We are going to decapitate his ambition before the sun rises."
Miguel walked toward the window. In the distance, a few watchfires from Narico's camp shimmered like wolves' eyes in the dark. "If the Marquess expects a fire to attack, we shall give him a fire. But not the one he anticipates."
"The plan is as follows," Miguel said, walking toward the table where the rustic map of the city rested. "We will set the communal hall ablaze, but in a controlled manner. We will have teams of commoners ready with water buckets to quench any spreading flames, and we will place stones and debris around the hall to prevent any further ignition. Simultaneously, all men of the city must report for military service; dress them in military garb, bring the warriors into the city, and prepare an ambush at the North Gate once the invaders have passed through. All of this must be done in the darkest hour of the night, just before daybreak, so the enemy marches at dawn but lacks sufficient light to see the finer details."
With a somewhat bewildered look directed at his son, Count Alban seemed to be weighing the viability of the plan, until after a minute he said, "Very well. It shall be done as my son says. Miel, fetch Captain Francisco at once."
"Yes, my lord!"