The journey through the inner wards of Oakhaven Fortress felt surreal to Lysander. The air here was less acrid with smoke and fear, replaced by the hushed efficiency of a command center. Wounded soldiers, their faces pale but resolute, hobbled past. Messengers, their tunics stained with dust and urgency, darted like startled birds. Yet, through it all, the gravity of what he had done at the West Gate weighed heavily. He hadn't just survived; he had spectacularly, violently, and undeniably changed things.
Sir Reginald, his scowl now a permanent fixture of grim disbelief, led the way directly to the main keep. Lysander walked beside him, his battered body aching, but his mind sharply focused. This wasn't about physical combat anymore; this was about rhetoric, about control of the narrative. This was where the "exiled noble plotting his return" truly began to unfold its strategic layers. He had bought himself time and a fighting chance, but now he had to justify his gamble to the very people who held his new life in their hands.
They were ushered into a grand, oak-paneled chamber, lit by flickering hearth-fire and the glow of numerous oil lamps. Maps lay spread across a massive central table, covered in troop movements and strategic markings. Around it stood several grim-faced officers, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and intense focus. But all eyes, as Lysander and Reginald entered, snapped to the formidable figure at the head of the table.
This was High Commander Valerius. A man in his late fifties, his silver hair was cropped short, and his face was a roadmap of old scars and weathered determination. His uniform was immaculate, despite the siege, and his eyes, sharp and piercing, missed nothing. Lysander knew from the novel that Valerius was a legendary tactician, utterly ruthless, and deeply devoted to the realm. He also knew Valerius abhorred insubordination. This was not a man to trifle with.
Valerius's gaze, cold and analytical, swept over Lysander, pausing on his dust-caked, bruised appearance, then moving to Sir Reginald. The silence in the room was heavy, almost suffocating.
"Sir Reginald," Valerius's voice was a low, gravelly rumble, betraying no emotion. "Your report indicated the West Gate was breached. Yet, the enemy's assault there has ceased. Explain."
Reginald saluted, his gaze flickering nervously to Lysander. "High Commander, the West Gate was breached. The Brute Trolls had broken through the primary barricades. But… Private Thorne, here, took action. Unorthodox action, Commander."
All eyes, now fully hostile, turned to Lysander. The air crackled with suspicion. Lysander felt the weight of their scrutiny, the unspoken accusation of cowardice or madness that lingered around his inherited name. This was the moment.
Lysander stepped forward, drawing himself up despite the throbbing pain in his ribs. He adopted a tone of calm professionalism, deliberately mirroring Valerius's own composure. "High Commander, the situation at the West Gate was beyond dire. Our primary defenses were failing. Casualties were mounting, and the Brute Trolls were moments from full breach, which would have meant the rapid collapse of our entire western flank." He spoke clearly, concisely, cutting straight to the critical facts.
He continued, his voice steady. "Recognizing the immediate and overwhelming threat, and recalling obscure historical schematics of the fortress's ancient defenses, I observed that the main gate's counterweights, though long unused, possessed immense destructive potential. Their release, while dangerous, offered the only means to halt the overwhelming force we faced." He omitted the part about him lying to Reginald about Joric already heading for the lever. He chose his words carefully, weaving a narrative of foresight and calculated risk.
Valerius's eyes narrowed slightly. "Obscure historical schematics? And you, Private Thorne, a noble of… leisure, recall such details in the heat of battle?" There was a cynical edge to his voice, a clear disbelief.
Lysander didn't flinch. "High Commander, in my… previous studies, I developed a particular fascination with ancient fortifications. While others might have overlooked such details as mere historical footnotes, I saw them as dormant potential. In that moment, with the gate collapsing around us, that knowledge became our only weapon." He allowed a hint of desperate conviction to color his tone, portraying himself not as a genius, but as a man who desperately used every scrap of his oddball knowledge to save his life and, by extension, the fortress. It was a cunningly fabricated truth – he did have the knowledge, but the "fascination" was a convenient narrative.
"And your decision to bring down the arch on our own men?" Valerius pressed, his voice like flint. "Casualties have been reported."
Lysander inhaled slowly, steeling himself. "A grim necessity, High Commander. The gate was already lost. The enemy was already pouring in. Had the arch remained, we would have suffered total annihilation at that point, and the horde would have swept through unchallenged. By sacrificing the few, we decimated the main assault force and created an impassable barrier. It was a tactical withdrawal in the face of overwhelming odds, transforming a breach into an insurmountable wall of rubble. We turned a guaranteed defeat into a bloody, but decisive, victory for the West Gate."
He watched Valerius's face, searching for any flicker of reaction. The High Commander remained impassive, but his gaze now held a calculating intensity. He didn't seem convinced of Lysander's character, perhaps, but he was undoubtedly impressed by the outcome. The battlefield reports would corroborate the crippling losses at the West Gate.
"Remarkable," Valerius finally said, his voice still low, but with a new, dangerous edge. "A highly… unconventional tactic. And effective, it seems. You saved the West Gate, Private Thorne. Though the cost was… extreme." He paused, his eyes drilling into Lysander. "You are either a madman, or a strategist of terrifying clarity. I confess, I had heard… different things about your family's disposition."
Lysander allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smirk to touch his lips. "Circumstances, High Commander, can reveal hidden depths in any man." He threw in a subtle jab at his inherited reputation, acknowledging it, but subtly dismissing it. He was laying the groundwork for a new Lysander Thorne, one that could be useful.
Valerius watched him for another long moment, then turned to a map, his finger tracing a line near the collapsed gate. "The enemy's main assault has indeed faltered since the West Gate's collapse. It bought us time, time we desperately needed." He looked back at Lysander. "You've proven your… resourcefulness, Private. For now, you are relieved of duty at the West Gate. Report to my personal adjutant at dawn. I have a new assignment for you. One that requires… unconventional thinking."
Lysander felt a surge of triumph so potent it almost buckled his knees. Not only had he avoided punishment, but he'd been noticed. He'd gone from cannon fodder to being personally summoned by the High Commander for a "new assignment." This was the very essence of the "exiled noble plotting his return" – not through brute force (yet), but by masterfully navigating the treacherous waters of power and perception. The first step of his true rise had been taken. He had inserted himself into the very fabric of the story, not as a victim, but as a player.
As he was dismissed, Lysander glanced at Kaelen, who had remained silent during the entire exchange, watching with an intense, unreadable expression. Kaelen's brow was still furrowed, his eyes following Lysander as he left the room. The hero was clearly bewildered. Lysander Thorne was supposed to be dead, or at least a weeping mess. This unexpected Lysander, the one who survived and spoke with such chilling logic, was an anomaly Kaelen couldn't compute. And that, Lysander thought with a cold satisfaction, was exactly how he wanted it. The future was now unwritten, and he, Lysander, would be its author.