The command tent was a microcosm of the Vexin alliance. Within its walls, strategy and domesticity, leadership and youthful zeal, were all woven together. A single lantern cast a warm, steady light over a large map table, where Damon and Arion stood, their heads bent in quiet, focused tension. It was the nerve center of the campaign, and they were its mind and shield.
Nearby, Lysa, Kael's sister, was seated. Her face was etched with worry, a constant companion in a war that had taken her father and now threatened her brother. She was there not as a soldier, but as a pillar of their home, a living reminder of what they were fighting for. Across from her, her younger brother, Ren, was cleaning the hilt of his sword, his youthful face a study in boredom. As a squire, he was there to assist the main commanders, a young boy learning the ropes of a war his brother had ignited.
The silence was shattered by the frantic slap of a man running. A bloodied and mud-soaked soldier stumbled into the tent, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was one of the few men who had survived Kael's last stand, a desperate messenger who had ridden for three days without rest.
Damon's heart sank. He knew immediately that this man was not a harbinger of victory. "Report," he said, his voice flat.
The soldier, trembling with exhaustion and grief, tried to stand at attention but failed. "My lord... we have failed. The general... it was a trap. We were ambushed."
Arion's hand, which had been resting on the map, clenched into a tight fist. Lysa stopped mending the banner, her eyes wide with fear. Ren's sword fell to the floor with a clatter, the noise deafening in the silence that followed.
"Kael?" Damon whispered. "What of Kael?"
The soldier's chin quivered. "He bought us time, my lord. He... he dueled the general. He fought with the fury of a hero, but... he is gone. Kael... is dead."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Damon felt a cold, crushing wave of guilt. He had given the order. It was his plan, his tactic, and it had cost a life. His eyes, for a moment, were lost in a haze of grief.
Arion, ever the stoic, simply lowered his head. He did not cry, but the muscles in his jaw worked, and the silence from him was more profound than any shout. The loss was a quiet, internal wound.
Lysa rose to her feet, a hand flying to her mouth to stifle a sob. Tears began to fall freely down her cheeks, a soundless grief that represented the unbearable loss of a brother.
Ren, however, reacted with a youthful, burning rage. He strode over to the soldier, his hands clenching at his sides. "Who? Who did this? We must ride! We must avenge him!"
Damon, with a heavy sigh, looked from the terrified soldier to the grieving faces around him. The war had just become much more personal. The blood of a brother had been spilled, and vengeance, a cold and terrible thing, was now the only thought on their minds.