Some time later, James arrived at the camp where his army had gathered, the banners of his kingdom rippling in the cold wind. Soldiers snapped to attention as he passed, their discipline a testament to the man who commanded them. Without pause, James strode purposefully toward his command tent, his cloak billowing behind him like a dark omen.

"Sanders, follow me," James commanded, his voice cutting through the air like steel.

"Sire, it is good to see you in such good health," Sanders replied, falling into step beside him. His polished armor gleamed, but the concern in his voice was barely hidden. "We’ve amassed a force of 120,000 soldiers here, along with the 50,000 under Erik’s command, ready to repel any invasion from that barbarian horde. The Glaser’s Gate remains secure, with its garrison of 40,000 still under the command of Sir Reginald Blackthorn."

James nodded sharply as they entered the tent, the air inside heavy with the scent of parchment and ink. He moved to the large table at the center, where a detailed map of the region lay spread out, its surface dotted with figurines representing armies, fortifications, and key supply routes.

"Good. And what of the strength of the reserve forces, should we require reinforcements or a garrison defense?" James asked, his piercing gaze scanning every detail of the map.

"The reserves are formidable, sire—300,000 men, ready and waiting for deployment at your word," Sanders replied with confidence.

James’s eyes flickered with satisfaction as he traced a line on the map with his finger. "Excellent. Relay my orders: Companies 2, 4, and 6 are to march immediately. Their objective is the remnants of the capital. They will establish a camp at Butcher’s Hill, where I will join them by tomorrow."

Sanders hesitated briefly, shifting his weight. "And the rest of our forces, sire?"

"Tell them to be prepared to march. It won’t take long to capture the capital," James replied, his tone brooking no argument.

Sanders frowned slightly, a shadow of doubt crossing his face. "But sire, isn’t that an overwhelming number of men for one engagement? If they see such a force advancing, won’t they reinforce their defenses? That would work in their favor."

James allowed a thin, calculating smile to cross his face. "That’s exactly what I want," he said, his tone heavy with forethought.

Across the land, in the distance, another camp sat ready to defend the capital. The air was thick with tension, and soldiers moved with quiet determination. Inside a large command tent, lit by the flickering light of oil lamps, Commander Edrin leaned heavily on the edge of a table. His body bore the marks of recent battle, bandages visible beneath his armor.

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"Commander, urgent news from our scouts!" A soldier burst into the tent, his face flushed with urgency.

"Speak," Edrin commanded, his voice hoarse but firm.

"Detachments numbering 30,000 have been spotted marching toward the capital from the Frostbane army. The BlackBear clan has yet to be spotted," the soldier reported, his breath coming quickly.

Edrin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "Understood. Relay my orders to the reserve. We need an additional 30,000 men immediately," he said, his tone brooking no dissent.

The soldier hesitated, his brow furrowing. "But sir, that’s 70,000 men just here... It will stretch us thin across the territory."

Edrin’s gaze turned icy, and his voice carried a cold fury. "We will make them bleed here. We’ll whittle down their numbers where we have the advantage. Let them think they can overwhelm us. They’ll regret it."

The soldier saluted, his hesitation fading under the weight of Edrin’s resolve. Once he was gone, Edrin straightened with visible effort, his mind churning with the implications. He stared at the map before him, tracing the potential movements of his enemy with a gauntleted finger.

"What could you be planning, James?" he muttered, knowing full well that his opponent always had a trick up his sleeve.

The next day, James sat in his command tent, his expression unreadable as he studied the latest reports. Sanders entered briskly, a scroll in hand.

"Sire, our scouts have spotted the Windstride forces. They now number 70,000 men in the capital. Our spies have informed us that they maintain a standing army of 90,000 men, with an additional 40,000 stationed in Fort Hisinberge to guard their territorial lands. They also have a garrison of 200,000 men they can call upon at any time," Sanders reported, his voice steady but edged with concern.

James listened in silence, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. When Sanders finished, he leaned forward, his gaze hard and calculating. "Understood. Tell Platoons 2 to march toward the capital and meet them on the outskirts. Have Platoons 4 and 6 take the rear to prevent any encirclement. I want them to retreat to Butcher’s Hill once the enemy commits 40% of their defending forces."

Sanders hesitated, his face etched with worry. "At once, sire," he said, though doubt lingered in his tone.

James’s eyes narrowed, his resolve sharpening. Sanders turned to leave but paused, compelled to voice his unease.

"Sire, if I may ask... shouldn't we bring more men to the army? The enemy forces are overwhelming."

James looked up sharply, his gaze piercing. "No. Let them think they’ll slaughter us," he said, a faint, chilling smile playing on his lips. "We will draw them in, make them believe they have the upper hand. That’s when we’ll strike."

Sanders nodded slowly, uncertain but trusting his king’s foresight. As the messenger departed to relay the orders, the weight of impending conflict settled over the camp like a storm cloud.