The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Caelan’s room, bathing the chamber in a warm golden light. He stood at his desk, his hand carefully gathering the notes he had prepared the previous night. The soft rustle of parchment filled the otherwise quiet room, punctuated by the faint chirping of birds from the gardens below. Today would be another day at the barracks, another opportunity to mold the soldiers of the duchy into the disciplined force he envisioned.
As he tucked the notes neatly into his satchel, a familiar knock sounded at the door. He turned to see Juliette leaning against the doorframe, her usual confident smirk playing across her lips.
“Good morning, brother,” she said, stepping into the room. “Before you disappear into your world of drills and tactics, I thought I’d let you know—I’ve managed to schedule that appointment you wanted with Margot.”
Caelan raised an eyebrow, his interest immediately piqued. “Tomorrow?”
Juliette nodded. “She’ll be here in the afternoon. It wasn’t easy convincing her, mind you. She’s not exactly fond of being summoned, even by nobles. But I made it clear it was a matter of importance.”
A small smile tugged at Caelan’s lips as he crossed the room. “You’ve done well, Juliette. Thank you for handling this.”
“Don’t mention it,” she replied with a casual shrug. “Just remember—you still owe me for this favor.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Caelan said with a chuckle. “And I’ll make good on it, I promise.”
Satisfied, Juliette left him to finish his preparations. Slinging the satchel over his shoulder, Caelan adjusted his coat and made his way downstairs, where his carriage awaited.
The carriage stood ready in the courtyard, its dark wood polished to a fine sheen, flanked by six mounted guardsmen. These were not ordinary soldiers. They were the Forneaux Guardsmen, an elite group handpicked from the duchy’s military to serve as the family’s personal protectors. Each man carried himself with an air of discipline and readiness, their uniforms pristine and their weapons gleaming under the morning light.
As Caelan climbed into the carriage, he spared a glance at the escort forming around him. Two guardsmen rode ahead as the vanguard, their eyes scanning the road for any sign of danger. Another pair flanked the carriage on either side, while the last two rode at the rear, ensuring no threat approached unnoticed.
The guardsmen worked in pairs, each unit operating in perfect synchronization. One of each pair managed the reins of their horse, ensuring smooth and steady movement, while the other carried a loaded matchlock rifle, ever vigilant for signs of an ambush. These rifles, rifled rather than smoothbore, gave the guardsmen superior range and accuracy—a critical advantage for intercepting attackers before they could close the distance.
Their equipment was meticulously designed for both protection and versatility. Each guardsman wore a shot-proof cuirass, a sturdy breastplate capable of deflecting musket fire at medium range. Beneath the cuirass was the Forneaux Guardsman uniform, a deep blue coat trimmed with silver, a mark of their elite status and loyalty to the family. On their heads, they wore dragoon helmets—steel helms adorned with a black horsehair plume, offering both protection and an imposing presence on the battlefield.
Beyond their primary matchlock rifles, each guardsman carried a matchlock pistol as a sidearm, a weapon quick to draw in close-quarters combat. A cavalry sword hung from their belts, its sharp, curved blade ideal for slashing from horseback, while a dagger provided a backup option in the direst of situations.
The guardsmen’s boots were crafted from tough black leather, designed to withstand the rigors of prolonged patrols and combat. Each carried a gunpowder pouch and an ammunition pouch filled with at least thirty lead balls and paper wads, ensuring they were never short of firepower. A two-meter rope, used as the slow-burning match for their rifles, coiled neatly on their belts, ready to be lit at a moment’s notice.
To Caelan, the guardsmen represented a balance of tradition and efficiency. Their matchlock rifles, though slower to reload than the flintlock designs he envisioned for the army, were unrivaled in precision. In his mind, he couldn’t help but compare them to his Imperial Guard from his past life—men who had marched under his eagle standard, loyal to the last breath. The Forneaux Guardsmen lacked the sheer scale of his old force, but they made up for it in their precision and adaptability.
The carriage rolled out of the estate gates, the horses’ hooves clattering against the cobblestones as the guardsmen maintained a tight formation around it. The countryside stretched out before them, fields and forests bathed in the soft light of the morning sun. Despite the tranquility of the scene, the guardsmen remained alert, their eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement.
Inside the carriage, Caelan leaned back, his mind drifting between the tasks of the day. He trusted the guardsmen implicitly—every one of them had been handpicked for their loyalty, discipline, and skill. Yet, his thoughts couldn’t help but linger on their potential.
They’re well-equipped, he thought, but they lack the flexibility of my Imperial Guard. They’ve been trained in skirmishing and area denial tactics, which suits their role as escorts, but they could be so much more.
The comparison brought a faint smile to his lips. The Imperial Guard had been his hammer and anvil, a force capable of turning the tide of battle with their sheer presence. These guardsmen, while smaller in number, carried the same potential for excellence. All they needed was the right guidance—and the right leader.
As the carriage continued its journey, Caelan resolved to revisit their training regimen once the army’s broader reforms were underway. For now, their current role was sufficient, but he couldn’t shake the thought that these men could be the foundation of something greater.
The rhythmic sound of hooves and wheels filled the air as the barracks came into view on the horizon. The day’s work awaited, and Caelan was ready to face it head-on.
The rhythmic drumming of hooves against cobblestones slowed as the carriage approached the tall iron gates of the capital barracks. Flanked by gray-stone walls and narrow watchtowers, the barracks loomed ahead, its stark practicality a testament to its purpose. From within came the hum of activity—marching feet, the bark of orders, the clang of weapons, and the steady rhythm of drills.
The Forneaux Guardsmen escorting the carriage formed up with precision. Two of the mounted riders peeled off, trotting ahead to announce the arrival of their lord. Their blue uniforms, trimmed with silver, gleamed under the morning sunlight, and the metallic creak of cuirasses accompanied the steady clink of reins.
Inside the carriage, Caelan shifted slightly in his seat, his satchel resting on his lap. The documents inside contained the morning's agenda and detailed notes about the soldiers' progress, but his mind was elsewhere. He let his gaze linger out the window, watching the high walls of the barracks come into view.
The guards at the gate recognized the Forneaux insignia immediately and stood at attention. The gate creaked open slowly, a heavy sound that cut through the ambient noise like a blade. Beyond it, the barracks unfolded—a hive of disciplined chaos.
As the carriage passed through the gates, Caelan took in the sight before him. Soldiers stood in long lines on the training grounds, muskets held at attention. Officers moved among them, barking commands or correcting postures with sharp gestures. Nearby, a small contingent of cavalry was dismounting, their horses stamping impatiently as stable hands hurried to lead them away.
When the carriage came to a halt in front of the central building, Caelan could see a group of men waiting at the entrance. Among them stood Captain Edric Leclerc, his tall, broad-shouldered frame unmistakable even at a distance.
The guardsman at Caelan’s side dismounted swiftly, moving to open the carriage door with a precise, fluid motion. “My lord,” he said, standing at attention. “We’ve arrived.”
Caelan stepped down from the carriage, his boots striking the stone courtyard with a deliberate weight. The warm breeze carried the faint scent of gunpowder and freshly turned earth, mixing with the sharper tang of metal. For a moment, he simply stood there, his sharp gaze sweeping across the grounds.
The barracks seemed as he had left it—alive with purpose and activity—but he could already sense subtle shifts. The soldiers moved with a taut energy, their postures more rigid, their movements more precise. Even the officers seemed sharper, their voices carrying a weight of authority that hadn’t been as pronounced before.
He turned toward the group by the entrance as Captain Leclerc stepped forward, his heels clicking together in a crisp salute. “My lord,” Leclerc greeted, his deep voice steady. “We’re honored by your presence.”
Caelan inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the salute. “Captain Leclerc,” he said, his tone measured. “I trust the men are ready for the day’s drills?”
“They are, my lord,” Leclerc replied. His expression was composed, but there was a flicker of something else—pride, perhaps, or a quiet determination. “Though I suspect your presence will make them all the more eager to prove themselves.”
“Let’s hope so,” Caelan said, his gaze drifting momentarily to the soldiers lined up on the training grounds. “Discipline is a foundation, but motivation is the mortar that holds it together. Lead me inside, Captain. I’d like to review the day’s plans before we begin.”
“Of course, my lord,” Leclerc said with a nod. He gestured toward the central building, where the officers’ meeting room awaited.
The heavy oak doors of the building swung open as two guards stepped aside, their uniforms pristine and their expressions carefully neutral. Inside, the air was cooler, the thick stone walls offering a reprieve from the sun outside. The corridor was wide and lined with modest banners bearing the Forneaux crest—a silver phoenix on a blue field.
Caelan walked with measured steps, the sound of his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. Behind him, Captain Leclerc followed, his own steps purposeful but slightly less pronounced, a reflection of his deference.
The officers’ wing was a place of quiet efficiency. A few clerks bustled between rooms, carrying stacks of reports or delivering messages to the officers within. The smell of parchment and ink mingled faintly with the ever-present scent of gun oil.
As they approached the meeting room, Caelan slowed slightly, his sharp gaze taking in the details around him. The doors to the other rooms were labeled with brass plaques—“Quartermaster’s Office,” “Armory Records,” “Strategy Chamber.” Every detail was carefully curated, functional but unpretentious.
Leclerc stepped ahead, opening the door to the meeting room and standing aside to let Caelan pass. “The officers are assembled, my lord,” he said.
The room was modest in size but well-lit, with tall windows that let in the morning light. A long oak table dominated the center, its surface already covered with maps, charts, and neatly stacked reports. Around it sat a handful of officers, their uniforms crisp and their expressions attentive.
As Caelan entered, they all rose to their feet in unison, saluting sharply.
“At ease,” Caelan said, his voice calm but authoritative. He moved to the head of the table, setting his satchel down before taking his seat. The officers followed suit, their movements disciplined but unhurried.
Leclerc took the chair to Caelan’s right, the de facto second-in-command of the capital barracks. The other officers were a mix of seasoned veterans and younger men, their ranks denoted by the stripes and badges on their uniforms.
One of them, a wiry man with a scar running across his cheek, leaned forward slightly. His name was Lieutenant Armand Davet, and his sharp eyes betrayed a keen intellect despite his otherwise unassuming appearance.
“My lord,” Davet began, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity. “Before we proceed, may I ask—what are your expectations for today’s drills? Shall we continue with the routines we’ve established, or is there a specific focus you’d like us to prioritize?”
Caelan met Davet’s gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment before he spoke. “Today, I want precision,” he said. “Not just in the drills, but in the leadership. The men look to you for guidance, and it’s your responsibility to set the standard. We’ll review the formations in detail and adjust as needed. I expect full participation from every officer.”
Davet nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Understood, my lord.”
Caelan’s gaze swept across the room, lingering briefly on each officer in turn. “This is not just another day of drills,” he continued. “This is the beginning of a transformation. The men will follow if they see that their leaders are invested. Let’s not waste this opportunity.”
The officers exchanged glances, a ripple of determination passing through the group.
Leclerc cleared his throat lightly, drawing attention back to him. “We’ve prepared a preliminary schedule for the day’s drills, my lord,” he said, gesturing to the charts on the table. “Shall we begin?”
“Let’s,” Caelan said, leaning forward to examine the charts.
The faint rustle of parchment filled the room as Caelan leaned forward, his sharp eyes scanning the charts spread across the table. The officers shifted in their seats, watching him intently. The air in the room was heavy with a mix of curiosity and skepticism, and Caelan could feel it pressing in like a fog.
The charts detailed the current tactical drills employed by the duchy’s military—a combination of traditional line formations, static defense strategies, and reliance on overwhelming numbers. It was effective in its own way, but to Caelan’s eyes, it was archaic, sluggish, and entirely ill-suited for the conflicts he envisioned.
He reached out, his gloved hand brushing against a small wooden piece representing an infantry regiment. With deliberate precision, he placed it at the center of the map. “Let’s start with the infantry,” he said, his tone calm but carrying an undercurrent of authority.
The officers leaned forward slightly, their gazes fixed on the map.
“In most battles,” Caelan began, “the infantry serves as the backbone of the army. Traditionally, we’ve relied on static formations—dense lines that are slow to maneuver and vulnerable to flanking attacks. What I’m proposing is a shift to a more dynamic system.”
He moved the infantry piece forward on the map, tracing a narrow path with his finger. “The line infantry will hold the center, deployed in long, straight lines to maximize their firepower. Their goal is to maintain a steady advance, firing in volleys to weaken the enemy’s ranks.”
He paused, glancing at the officers to ensure they were following.
“Now,” he continued, “flanking maneuvers will be executed by light infantry and skirmishers. These units will move independently, harassing the enemy with accurate fire and disrupting their formations. They’ll target officers, artillery crews, and any weak points in the enemy line.”
Captain Leclerc nodded slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. “That’s a bold strategy, my lord. But how do you plan to coordinate these movements on the battlefield? Our infantry isn’t exactly accustomed to such precision.”
“That’s where training comes in,” Caelan replied. “Drills will focus not just on discipline but on adaptability. Every soldier must understand their role in the larger formation. It will take time, but it’s possible.”
Caelan moved a pair of cavalry pieces to the map’s edges, flanking the infantry. “The cavalry will operate on the wings, providing mobility and the ability to exploit weaknesses in the enemy’s lines. Heavy cavalry, like cuirassiers, will be used for decisive charges, while light cavalry handles reconnaissance and skirmishing.”
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He added a few artillery pieces behind the infantry. “And this,” he said, tapping the pieces lightly, “is the key to breaking enemy formations. Artillery will be placed at the center and the flanks, bombarding the enemy with concentrated fire. Their role is twofold: to weaken the enemy before the infantry engages and to cover our own advances.”
The room was silent as the officers absorbed the information. Lieutenant Davet broke the silence, his tone cautious. “With respect, my lord, these tactics sound... ambitious. Coordinating such movements would require a level of precision we’ve never attempted before. And what of the musketeers? Matchlocks are cumbersome to reload. If our infantry is advancing while reloading, they’ll be vulnerable to counterattacks.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Another officer, a stocky man named Sergeant Hargrave, folded his arms. “He’s right, my lord. A well-trained matchlock musketeer can manage one shot per minute. That’s not enough firepower to sustain an advance like you’re describing. We’d be sitting ducks in between volleys.”
Caelan straightened, his gaze sharp as he addressed the room. “I understand your concerns. And you’re correct—our current weapons are inadequate for the tactics I’m proposing. That’s why I’ve taken steps to address this issue.”
The officers exchanged puzzled glances. Leclerc leaned forward, his expression carefully neutral. “What do you mean, my lord?”
Caelan rested his hand on the edge of the table, his voice steady as he spoke. “Several days ago, I commissioned the Forneaux Weapons Development Bureau to design a new type of firearm—a flintlock musket. Unlike the matchlock, this weapon will be faster to reload, more reliable in adverse weather, and capable of sustaining the rate of fire necessary for these tactics to succeed.”
The room erupted in murmurs. Leclerc raised a hand, silencing the officers before turning back to Caelan. “Flintlocks, my lord? I’ve heard of them in theory, but I’ve never seen one in practice. Do you truly believe they can be manufactured and implemented on such a scale?”
“They can,” Caelan said firmly. “The Bureau is already working on the first prototypes. Once they’re complete, I’ll personally oversee their testing and demonstrate their effectiveness to you and the men. This is the future of our military, gentlemen. And it’s closer than you think.”
The officers exchanged uneasy glances. Hargrave scratched his chin, his skepticism plain. “With respect, my lord, it’s hard to imagine such a weapon working as you describe. And even if it does, how long will it take to arm the entire army with these flintlocks? We can’t afford to rely on something we don’t have yet.”
Caelan met Hargrave’s gaze, his expression unwavering. “Your doubts are valid, Sergeant. But change always comes with uncertainty. I’m not asking you to believe in the weapon just yet. I’m asking you to trust in the vision—to trust that we’re moving toward something greater than what we have now.”
Leclerc nodded slowly, his skepticism giving way to a cautious optimism. “Very well, my lord. If these flintlocks are as effective as you say, they’ll be a game-changer. Until then, we’ll continue drilling with the weapons we have and prepare the men for the tactics you’ve outlined.”
“Good,” Caelan said, his tone final. “Because once those flintlocks are ready, there will be no turning back.”
Caelan straightened his posture, his hands resting lightly on the table as he swept his gaze over the officers. The tension in the room hadn’t dissipated, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity now—a sense that the scope of the discussion was broader than any of them had expected.
“Now,” he began, his tone measured but firm, “coming back to the Cavalry and Artillery Corps. I also have plans to modernize them so that they can coordinate better with the infantry.”
He reached for another map, this one depicting an idealized battlefield layout with cavalry, infantry, and artillery units positioned in strategic formations. With precise movements, he slid several wooden pieces across the map to illustrate his points.
“The cavalry is, and always will be, one of the most mobile and versatile arms of any army,” Caelan said. “But mobility alone isn’t enough. If they’re poorly equipped or poorly trained, they become nothing more than a blunt instrument—easily countered and ineffective.”
He moved a cavalry piece to the map’s flank. “In the new doctrine, heavy cavalry like cuirassiers will continue to serve as shock troops. Their role will be to break through weakened enemy lines or crush routed infantry. For this, they need heavier armor and weapons that allow them to dominate close combat.”
The officers nodded, their expressions contemplative. Heavy cavalry was a familiar concept, and they understood its potential.
“But,” Caelan continued, moving another piece into position, “the light cavalry will have a more nuanced role. They will be the eyes and ears of the army, scouting ahead, harassing the enemy flanks, and cutting off retreating forces. For this, they need to be fast, lightly armored, and armed with weapons suitable for both ranged and melee combat.”
“Fast and lightly armored,” Leclerc repeated, his brow furrowing slightly. “That means sacrificing protection, my lord. Are you certain that’s wise?”
Caelan met his gaze evenly. “Yes, Captain. Light cavalry isn’t meant to hold the line. Their strength lies in speed and flexibility. We’ll equip them with lighter cuirasses, sabers, and possibly carbines for ranged engagements. They’ll be trained to strike where the enemy is weakest and retreat before they can be pinned down.”
Caelan’s attention shifted to the artillery pieces on the map. He tapped one lightly with his finger, his expression turning serious.
“The artillery, however, is in greater need of reform,” he said. “Right now, we’re relying on outdated cannons—slow to load, difficult to move, and limited in range. If we’re to make artillery a decisive element of our army, we need to rethink everything.”
One of the officers, an older man with a thick mustache named Major Gilles Chavanne, leaned forward. “What do you propose, my lord?”
“Lighter field guns,” Caelan replied without hesitation. “The current models are too cumbersome to reposition during battle. I’ve instructed the Weapons Development Bureau to study the designs of more mobile cannons, similar to the Gribeauval system I’ve described in my notes. These guns will be lighter, faster to load, and capable of firing at a greater range.”
He moved the artillery pieces forward on the map, positioning them behind the infantry and cavalry. “With these improvements, our artillery will support infantry advances more effectively. They’ll be able to bombard enemy lines, cover retreats, and counter enemy artillery with precision. Mobility is the key—an immobile cannon is a dead cannon.”
The officers exchanged glances, murmuring quietly among themselves. Before they could raise any questions, Caelan raised a hand, drawing their attention back to him.
“Of course, none of this will matter if we can’t solve the army’s logistical problems,” he said. “An army is only as strong as its supply lines. Food, ammunition, powder, weapons—if any of these falter, the entire structure collapses.”
Lieutenant Davet nodded slowly. “You’re suggesting more supply caravans, my lord?”
“More than that,” Caelan replied. “I’m suggesting the creation of a dedicated logistics corps. Soldiers trained specifically to manage and transport supplies efficiently. They’ll work alongside engineers to build and maintain roads, bridges, and other infrastructure that will keep our supply lines secure and functional.”
As murmurs of surprise filled the room, Caelan turned his attention to a broader issue. He moved to a blank section of the map, where he began sketching out rough circles to indicate industrial centers.
“To implement all of this,” he said, his voice steady, “we need more than just plans. We need infrastructure. I intend to establish state-run factories here in the duchy. Weapons manufacturing will no longer be left entirely in the hands of private blacksmiths and artisans. Instead, we’ll centralize production under direct state control to ensure quality and consistency.”
“State-run factories?” Major Chavanne echoed, his tone cautious. “That’s... ambitious, my lord. Do you believe we have the resources to sustain such an endeavor?”
Caelan nodded. “We do. The Forneaux Duchy is rich in iron, timber, and other resources necessary for production. By centralizing manufacturing, we’ll not only increase output but also maintain strict standards. Every musket, every saber, every cannon will meet the same level of quality.”
He turned his attention back to the officers. “And it doesn’t stop there. I’m also planning the construction of an ammunition factory. Our soldiers waste valuable time loading muskets because they’re carrying powder, wads, and lead balls separately. Paper cartridges will change that.”
“Paper cartridges?” Hargrave asked, his skepticism returning.
Caelan smiled faintly. “Yes, Sergeant. A pre-measured amount of powder and a lead ball wrapped in paper. The soldier bites off the end of the cartridge, pours the powder into the barrel, and loads the ball in one smooth motion. It reduces reloading time significantly—seconds instead of minutes.”
The room fell silent as the officers digested this new information. Even the most skeptical among them couldn’t deny the potential benefits of such a system.
Caelan stepped back from the table, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the officers. “This is not a small undertaking,” he said. “It will require time, resources, and unwavering dedication. But if we succeed, the Forneaux army will become a force unlike anything this continent has ever seen.”
The officers exchanged glances, their initial skepticism giving way to cautious optimism. Leclerc was the first to speak, his tone resolute. “You have our support, my lord. Whatever it takes to bring this vision to life, we’ll see it through.”
“Good,” Caelan said with a nod. “Because what we’re building here isn’t just an army. It’s the future.”
The heavy oak doors of the officers' meeting room creaked open, and the small party of officers filed out into the wide stone hallway. The soft clink of boots on polished floors echoed faintly, accompanied by the shuffle of papers and the faint murmurs of soldiers outside. Sunlight streamed in through tall arched windows, casting long, broken patterns of light and shadow on the walls lined with banners bearing the Forneaux crest.
Caelan walked at the head of the group, his coat swaying faintly with each measured step. The officers fell into a loose formation behind him, their collective silence a testament to the weight of the morning's discussions.
As they moved toward the training grounds, Caelan’s voice broke the quiet. “For today, we’ll keep things simple,” he said, his tone steady but deliberate. “Each corps will drill separately—infantry, cavalry, and artillery. There’s no need to rush into combined maneuvers just yet. Let the men master their individual roles first. Discipline and precision come with time, not haste.”
The officers exchanged glances, nodding in agreement. Captain Leclerc, walking closest to Caelan’s side, folded his arms thoughtfully. “That seems wise, my lord. If we introduce too much too quickly, the men will struggle to adapt, and that could lead to frustration—or worse, complacency.”
“Precisely,” Caelan said, his gaze fixed ahead as they turned a corner. “We’ll bring the pieces together once they’ve mastered the fundamentals. By then, they’ll have the confidence and the skill to execute combined maneuvers without faltering.”
As they walked, Caelan’s mind drifted for a moment, his thoughts carried back to his past life. He remembered standing on the windswept fields of Europe, surrounded by lines of infantry stretching far into the distance. The crisp sound of marching feet, the rhythmic pounding of drums, and the stirring notes of military songs filled his mind as vividly as if it were yesterday.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips—a rare, genuine expression that caught the attention of the officers closest to him.
“My lord?” Leclerc ventured, his brow furrowing slightly in curiosity.
Caelan glanced at him, his smile softening into something more contemplative. “Do we have a military band stationed here, Captain?” he asked, his tone lighter now, almost casual.
Leclerc blinked at the unexpected question. “A band, my lord? Yes, we do. Though I’ll admit they’re more accustomed to ceremonial duties than field marches.”
Caelan’s smile grew, a spark of enthusiasm creeping into his voice. “Good. Then we’ll put them to work. There’s something I’d like them to learn—French marching songs.”
The officers exchanged puzzled looks, unsure if they had heard him correctly. Lieutenant Davet, always bold enough to voice what others hesitated to say, spoke up. “French, my lord? I’m not sure I understand.”
“French,” Caelan confirmed, the word rolling off his tongue with a confidence born of familiarity. “A language unfamiliar to the men here, I know. But the songs themselves have a purpose beyond their lyrics. They bring unity, rhythm, and spirit to an army on the march. When sung in unison, they’re more than music—they’re a rallying cry.”
Hargrave, the stout and skeptical sergeant, cleared his throat. “With respect, my lord, how do you intend to teach them songs in a language they don’t understand? Won’t that... confuse the men?”
Caelan chuckled softly, his gaze steady. “They won’t need to understand the words at first. The rhythm and melody are enough to start. But in time, I’ll translate the lyrics for them. The songs will give them something to focus on during long marches, something to lift their spirits and keep them moving as one.”
Leclerc nodded slowly, a faint smile breaking through his usual stoicism. “I see your point, my lord. Marching songs do have a way of making the miles feel shorter. And if nothing else, it will certainly keep the men’s attention during training.”
“That’s the idea,” Caelan said, his voice carrying a subtle warmth. “It’s not all about tactics and discipline. Morale is just as important. An army marches on its stomach, yes, but it marches better when its spirit is strong.”
The officers seemed to relax slightly, the conversation breaking the tension of the morning’s strategic discussions. Davet even allowed himself a wry grin. “I can’t wait to see their faces when they’re asked to sing in a language they’ve never heard before,” he said.
“Neither can I,” Caelan replied with a glimmer of humor in his eyes. “Though I suspect the band will have their hands full before we get to that point. If they can master the songs, the rest will follow.”
They reached the end of the corridor, the sunlight from the open courtyard spilling across the stone floor. Outside, the sounds of drills were already audible—the rhythmic stomp of boots, the clash of swords, and the crack of muskets firing in controlled volleys.
Caelan paused at the threshold, taking in the sight of the soldiers hard at work. He turned back to the officers, his expression settling into its usual composure. “Let’s not keep the men waiting,” he said. “They’ve got a long road ahead of them—and so do we.”
With that, he stepped into the courtyard, his boots clicking against the stone. The officers followed close behind, ready to put his plans into motion.
The sunlight spilled into the courtyard as Caelan stepped out, his gaze sweeping across the bustling training grounds. Officers barked commands, musketeers formed and re-formed lines, and the faint thud of hooves from the cavalry drills echoed in the distance. It was the sound of progress, of an army beginning to take its first steps toward transformation.
Caelan turned to face his officers, who stood waiting for further instruction. He clasped his hands behind his back, his expression calm but purposeful. “Gentlemen, you have your assignments. Captain Leclerc, ensure the infantry’s drills focus on discipline and formation. Lieutenant Davet, I want the light infantry prepared for mobility exercises by tomorrow. Sergeant Hargrave, the artillery corps needs to prioritize cannon placement and quick redeployment. I trust you to oversee these tasks.”
Each officer saluted sharply, their expressions a mix of determination and resolve.
“Dismissed,” Caelan said, nodding once. The officers dispersed, their footsteps echoing faintly as they moved to their respective duties.
Caelan lingered for a moment, his gaze following the soldiers at their drills. Then, with a subtle inhale, he adjusted his coat and turned toward the small building near the western side of the courtyard. This modest structure housed the military band—a group of musicians typically reserved for parades and ceremonial functions. Today, however, their purpose would shift.
The bandleader, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a neatly trimmed beard, looked up as Caelan entered. His name was Master Marceau, a talented musician with a keen eye for detail. He rose from his seat immediately, offering a crisp bow.
“My lord,” Marceau said, his tone polite but curious. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
Caelan offered a faint smile, stepping forward to the large central table where sheets of music lay scattered. “Master Marceau, I have a task for you and your band. One that is, admittedly, outside your usual scope.”
Marceau tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “We are at your service, my lord. What is it you require?”
“I want to introduce a new concept to the men,” Caelan began, taking a seat at the table. He placed his satchel down, retrieving a blank sheet of parchment. “Marching songs. Songs meant to be sung by the soldiers as they march—songs that inspire unity, morale, and rhythm.”
Marceau’s brows furrowed slightly as he leaned forward. “Songs, my lord? For the soldiers to sing?”
“Yes,” Caelan said, dipping a quill into the inkwell. “The language of these songs will be unfamiliar, but that’s irrelevant for now. I’ll provide you with the lyrics and musical notes. Your task is to teach the band these songs so that they, in turn, can teach the soldiers.”
He began to write, the sharp strokes of his quill filling the silence as Marceau watched with growing curiosity. “The soldiers will learn by ear at first,” Caelan continued, “repeating what they hear until the melody and rhythm are ingrained. In time, I’ll translate the lyrics for them. But today, I want to show you the first song.”
Caelan set his quill down, pushing the parchment toward Marceau. On it, the lyrics of a song were written in his neat, precise hand:
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“Chant des Soldats” (The Soldiers’ Song)
Au pas, camarades, suivez la lumière,
Le soleil qui brille, la route qui éclaire.
Ensemble nous marchons, une armée, un destin,
Pour la gloire, pour la patrie, jusqu’à la fin.
Refrain:
Chantons, chantons, nos cœurs en feu,
La victoire nous attend au loin, joyeux.
Avec courage, nous levons l’épée,
La liberté, notre cause sacrée.
Les tambours résonnent, les clairons sonnent,
Nos pas martèlent la terre qui frissonne.
Unis par la force, unis par la foi,
Nous sommes l’espoir, nous sommes la loi.
(Refrain)
Chantons, chantons, nos cœurs en feu,
La victoire nous attend au loin, joyeux.
Avec courage, nous levons l’épée,
La liberté, notre cause sacrée.
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Caelan stood as Marceau read the lyrics, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. “I’ll demonstrate,” he said, stepping toward the small piano in the corner of the room.
Marceau’s eyes widened slightly. “You play, my lord?”
“I do,” Caelan replied simply. He sat at the piano, testing the keys with a few soft notes before launching into the melody. The song began with a steady, marching rhythm, its cadence designed to mimic the sound of boots on the ground.
As he played, Caelan began to sing, his voice steady and clear. Though the language was foreign to Marceau, the meaning was unmistakable—a call to unity, courage, and freedom. The melody rose and fell, building toward a powerful refrain that seemed to fill the room with its intensity.
When the final notes faded, Caelan turned to find Marceau staring at him, his expression a mix of awe and thoughtfulness.
“It’s beautiful, my lord,” Marceau said at last. “The men will find strength in this. I can already see its effect.”
“Good,” Caelan said, rising from the piano. “I’ll leave this in your hands, Master Marceau. Teach the band first. Once they’ve mastered it, we’ll introduce it to the soldiers.”
Marceau bowed deeply. “It will be done, my lord. You have my word.”
Caelan retrieved his satchel, his mind already turning to the day’s other tasks. As he stepped out into the sunlight, the faint echoes of the melody lingered in his mind, a reminder of the power of unity and purpose.
The soldiers of the Forneaux Duchy might not know it yet, but they were marching toward something greater—something that would echo through history like the song he had just shared.
The courtyard was alive with activity as Caelan stepped out of the band’s quarters, his mind already focused on the tasks that lay ahead. The soft hum of marching songs drifted faintly behind him as the band began their rehearsals, their instruments tuning to match the melody he had demonstrated.
The sun hung high in the sky now, casting sharp shadows across the stone-paved grounds. Soldiers moved in tight formations, their boots striking the earth in synchronized rhythms. Officers shouted commands, their voices carrying over the clamor of drills, while the occasional crack of musket fire punctuated the din.
Caelan paused briefly at the edge of the grounds, his eyes scanning the scene. He had set much in motion today—reforms to tactics, the introduction of marching songs, and plans for modernization that would reshape the very core of the duchy’s military. But there was still more to do.
Adjusting his coat, he turned toward the cavalry drills in the distance, where plumes of dust rose from the earth as mounted soldiers charged in precise patterns. Or perhaps he would visit the artillery range next, to see firsthand how the gunners were handling the current drills.
One step at a time, he reminded himself, his resolve firm. The transformation he envisioned wouldn’t happen overnight, but with each passing day, the pieces were falling into place.
With that, Caelan strode purposefully across the training grounds, his boots crunching against the gravel path. The men saluted as he passed, their movements sharp and respectful. He returned their salutes with a nod, his mind already turning to the next challenge.
The army will march to the beat of its own destiny, he thought. And I’ll make sure they never falter.
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End of Chapter