The rhythmic drum of hooves and the distant crack of muskets wove through the barracks courtyard as Caelan strode purposefully along the gravel path. The day’s drills were progressing well—infantry formations held steady, cavalry units maneuvered with increasing precision, and even the artillery teams were showing signs of improvement. His officers had taken his directives seriously, and that was promising.

Yet, even as he observed his soldiers, his thoughts lingered elsewhere. Reforming an army was not merely about discipline and tactics—it was a delicate balance of politics, logistics, and vision. Each change he introduced rippled outward, affecting not only his forces but the very foundations of the duchy.

As he walked, a figure approached from the direction of the officer’s hall. The man moved briskly, his uniform neat but his expression betraying urgency. It was Lieutenant Davet, the sharp-eyed officer who had voiced skepticism in the morning meeting. His usual composed demeanor was tinged with something else now—concern.

Caelan stopped, fixing him with a steady gaze. “Lieutenant?”

Davet came to a halt, saluting crisply. “A courier arrived not long ago, my lord. He carried a sealed letter from Valmont. It bears the ducal crest.”

Valmont. His home.

For the briefest moment, an unease settled in Caelan’s gut. A letter bearing his father’s seal meant something of importance—urgent enough to be dispatched by courier rather than waiting for his return.

“Where is it?” Caelan asked.

“In the officer’s hall, my lord. The courier awaits your response.”

Without another word, Caelan turned, his stride quickening as he made his way toward the hall.

Inside, the officer’s hall was quieter than the training grounds, its high ceiling absorbing the muffled sounds of the drills outside. A few officers sat at a long table, reviewing troop reports, while others exchanged brief words before heading back to their duties.

Near the entrance, a young man in a dust-streaked travel cloak stood at attention, his posture stiff with military formality. The courier. His boots bore signs of a long ride, and a satchel hung from his shoulder. As Caelan approached, the man immediately straightened further, reaching inside his cloak.

“My lord,” the courier said, bowing as he withdrew a sealed parchment. The wax bore the unmistakable sigil of House Forneaux. “A message from Valmont. The Duke instructed me to deliver it to you personally.”

Caelan took the letter, feeling the slight weight of the parchment in his palm. He turned it over once, studying the seal before breaking it with a firm press of his thumb. The paper unfolded with a soft whisper, revealing his father’s familiar, precise handwriting.

Caelan,

A matter has come to my attention that requires your immediate presence. Return to Valmont at once. Further details will be discussed upon your arrival. This is not a request.

—Adrien Forneaux

Brief. Direct. Unyielding.

Caelan read the letter twice, his mind already parsing the possible reasons behind its urgency. His father was not a man to summon him frivolously. If Adrien had sent a courier, it meant something of significance had transpired. But what?

He exhaled slowly, folding the letter between his fingers.

“My lord?” Davet’s voice was cautious, measured. The other officers in the hall had taken notice now, their quiet conversations fading into an expectant silence.

Caelan turned to the courier. “Did the Duke mention anything else?”

The man hesitated. “Only that time was of the essence, my lord. He did not disclose the details to me.”

That, at least, narrowed it down. If his father had been willing to trust a courier with the message but not the information itself, then the matter was likely delicate—possibly political, possibly military. Either way, it required his immediate attention.

He glanced toward Davet and the assembled officers. “I’ll be leaving for Valmont within the hour,” he said. “Captain Leclerc will oversee today’s drills in my absence. The training schedule remains unchanged.”

Davet nodded, his sharp gaze flicking briefly to the letter before returning to Caelan. “Understood, my lord.”

Turning back to the courier, Caelan gave a curt nod. “You’ve done your duty. Rest here for a few hours before returning.”

The man bowed. “Thank you, my lord.”

Without further delay, Caelan strode toward the exit, his thoughts already shifting toward what awaited him in Valmont. Whatever this was, it would change the course of his plans—one way or another.

And he intended to meet it head-on.

Caelan wasted no time as he stepped out of the officer’s hall, his boots striking the stone floor with measured intent. The urgency of his father’s message left little room for delay, but his departure had to be handled properly. His officers needed to know where he was going, and the chain of command had to be reinforced in his absence.

He made his way toward the Marshal’s office, where Marshal Valran, the highest-ranking military officer under his father’s command, oversaw the broader logistics of the duchy’s armed forces. Valran was a veteran—seasoned and pragmatic, with decades of experience. Unlike Leclerc, who handled the immediate drilling of troops, Valran focused on overall strategy, deployments, and political maneuvering within the military ranks.

The guards at the door straightened as Caelan approached, one of them stepping forward to open the heavy oak door. Inside, the air smelled of ink and parchment, the soft scratch of quills filling the room as scribes worked over reports.

At the center of it all, behind a sturdy wooden desk piled high with maps and documents, sat Marshal Valran. His grizzled features were set in deep concentration as he reviewed a set of logistics reports, his steel-gray eyes scanning the details with a precision honed over years of service.

The moment Caelan entered, Valran looked up, setting his quill aside. Unlike most officers, he did not immediately rise or salute—his years of service afforded him certain allowances in formality. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together.

“My lord,” Valran said, his tone neutral but keen. “I take it something urgent has come up?”

Caelan strode to the desk and placed the folded letter down in front of him. “A summons from my father. I am to return to Valmont immediately.”

Valran picked up the letter, his brow furrowing slightly as he scanned the contents. He exhaled through his nose, setting it back down. “Short and direct. That certainly sounds like the Duke.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Which means it’s serious,” Caelan replied. “And he doesn’t trust the details to a letter. That leaves me with little choice.”

The marshal nodded slowly. “I assume Leclerc will oversee training in your absence?”

“Yes. He has his orders, and the drills will continue without interruption.” Caelan crossed his arms. “I expect my absence will be brief, but in case it isn’t, I want you to keep an eye on the weapons development project. I have no doubt the Bureau will have questions regarding the flintlock prototypes soon.”

“I’ll ensure their progress remains steady,” Valran assured him. He paused for a moment, then added, “Your father isn’t the type to summon you without reason. Do you expect this to be political?”

Caelan exhaled, his jaw tightening slightly. “It’s difficult to say. If it were strictly political, he may have waited for me to return on my own. But the urgency…” His gaze flickered toward the window, where the sound of drills carried through the air. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

Valran studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Very well. Ride swiftly, my lord.”

Caelan inclined his head, then turned on his heel and strode out the door.

By the time Caelan reached the stables, his horse had already been prepared. His personal black destrier, Argant, stood tall and powerful, its coat gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The estate guards assigned to accompany him—four men in Forneaux blue, equipped with cuirasses and sabers—were already mounted and waiting.

Lucien was there as well, standing beside his own horse, adjusting the straps of his saddle. He glanced up as Caelan approached, his expression unreadable. “I take it you won’t tell me what this is about?”

Caelan smirked faintly as he grabbed the reins of his horse and swung into the saddle. “I would if I knew.”

Lucien sighed, shaking his head. “That’s not reassuring.”

“Nor was the letter,” Caelan admitted.

With a sharp click of his tongue, he guided Argant forward. Lucien mounted his own steed, and the small escort followed suit. The gates of the barracks swung open, and within moments, they were off—riding hard toward Valmont.

----------------------------------------

The journey back to Valmont took several hours, the setting sun casting golden hues across the rolling hills as the road wound through forests and open fields. The dust kicked up by their horses trailed behind them, and the sound of hooves on packed dirt filled the air.

As the evening deepened, the walls of Valmont rose in the distance—familiar, imposing, and steady. The city sprawled beyond them, its streets alive with the flickering glow of lanterns as the last remnants of daylight faded. The Forneaux estate loomed above the rest, perched on the northern hill, its silhouette outlined against the dusky sky.

The city gates opened without question at their arrival, the guards recognizing Caelan immediately. They rode through the main streets, past merchants closing their stalls, past watchful townsfolk who murmured at the sight of the young lord returning so suddenly.

The estate gates were next, swinging open as Caelan and his escort rode through the courtyard. Grooms rushed forward to take the reins as the riders dismounted, their horses’ flanks lathered with sweat from the hard ride.

As Caelan landed on the cobbled ground, he rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiffness of the journey settle in his limbs. He barely had time to gather his thoughts before a familiar voice called out from the steps of the estate.

“Caelan.”

He turned, his sharp gaze landing on Juliette, his younger sister. She stood at the top of the steps, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. The soft glow of lanterns illuminated her features, highlighting the slight furrow in her brow.

“You’re back faster than I expected,” she said, descending toward him. “Father’s been waiting.”

Caelan gave a small smirk. “And I take it you already know why?”

Juliette huffed softly. “Not entirely. He’s been unusually tight-lipped about it. But whatever it is, he seems… restless.”

Restless. That was unlike their father. The Duke was a man of measured control, rarely shaken by events outside of his calculated expectations.

Caelan exhaled, adjusting his gloves. “Then I won’t keep him waiting.”

Juliette stepped aside, watching as he strode toward the estate doors. As he passed her, she added in a quieter voice, “Be careful, Caelan. Something about this feels… off.”

He paused briefly, meeting her gaze before nodding once. Then, without another word, he pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

Duke Adrien Forneaux stood near the tall windows, his broad frame silhouetted against the moonlit sky beyond. He was dressed in a deep navy coat with silver embroidery, his posture as straight as ever, though there was something in the rigid set of his shoulders that spoke of unease. A half-empty glass of wine rested on the nearby desk, untouched for some time.

At the sound of his son’s entrance, the Duke turned, his sharp gray eyes assessing Caelan in an instant. For a moment, there was no greeting—just silence as father and son measured one another, the weight of unspoken matters thick between them.

Then, Adrien gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”

Caelan moved without question, lowering himself into the seat. He folded his hands together atop his knee, waiting. His father was not a man to waste words, nor was he one to summon him without due cause. Whatever this was, it was serious.

The Duke remained standing for a moment longer, exhaling slowly as he moved toward his desk. He set down a small, folded parchment—a different letter from the one he had sent earlier. Then, finally, he spoke.

“You’ve been busy at the barracks,” Adrien said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable weight. “I’ve received reports of your new methods. Unconventional, but promising.”

Caelan met his father’s gaze steadily. “I take it that’s not the reason you called me back.”

A faint smirk touched the Duke’s lips—brief, almost imperceptible. “No,” he admitted, lowering himself into the chair behind his desk. He tapped a single finger against the parchment before him. “This is why I called you back.”

He slid the folded letter across the polished wood. Caelan took it without hesitation, unfolding it carefully. His eyes scanned the words, his sharp mind processing each line swiftly.

Then, he stilled.

His fingers tightened slightly around the parchment, though his expression remained unreadable. He read it again, slower this time.

When he finally looked back at his father, his voice was calm but edged with steel.

“When did this arrive?”

“This morning,” Adrien replied, leaning back in his chair. “A courier from the capital delivered it directly to me.”

Caelan exhaled through his nose, his thumb pressing against the edge of the paper as he gathered his thoughts. The contents of the letter were unexpected, but more than that—they were dangerous.

He looked back up at his father. “And what do you intend to do about it?”

Adrien regarded him carefully. “That depends on you.”

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken implications. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across the study walls, the weight of the moment settling into the very air around them.

Caelan leaned back slightly, his mind already working through the possibilities. The game had changed once again.

And now, it was time to make his next move.

Caelan held the letter between his fingers, its edges slightly worn from the brief tension of his grip. The paper itself was unremarkable—standard parchment, sealed with an unassuming mark, no elaborate crest or ostentation. But the words written upon it carried a weight that settled heavily in his mind.

His father’s gaze remained locked onto him, impassive yet expectant. There was no further explanation, no immediate elaboration—just the calculated patience of a man waiting for his son to think, to process, and to understand the full gravity of what had been placed before him.

The flickering candlelight made the shadows in the study dance along the walls, casting Adrien’s features in shifting contrast—one moment illuminated, the next veiled in darkness. It suited him. The Duke had always been a man of deliberation, never one to move recklessly. That he had summoned Caelan so abruptly meant this was not something he could—or would—handle alone.

Caelan exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to release the tension in his grip as he folded the letter once more and set it down upon the desk. He traced a finger idly across the grain of the polished wood, his thoughts running through the possibilities.

“It must be important if you didn’t trust this to a second-hand report,” Caelan finally said, his voice carefully measured. “And urgent, considering you sent for me immediately.”

Adrien nodded once. “It is both.”

Caelan leaned back slightly in his chair, watching his father with that same assessing sharpness that had earned him his reputation even before his memories as Napoleon resurfaced. “Yet, you hesitate.”

A flicker of something crossed the Duke’s expression—approval, perhaps, or the slightest recognition that his son had caught onto his deliberate restraint. He clasped his hands together, resting them upon the desk. “There are matters,” he said carefully, “that require more than just understanding. They require commitment. And once you take that step, there is no turning back.”

Caelan’s lips twitched in the faintest ghost of a smirk. “You think I’m the type to turn back?”

Adrien exhaled through his nose, not quite a chuckle, but something close. “No,” he admitted. “Which is why I needed you to see this for yourself.”

His father reached forward, tapping the folded parchment once, as if reinforcing the gravity of what lay within. “Read it again,” he said simply. “And this time, think not as a soldier—but as a statesman.”

Caelan’s fingers found the parchment once more, smoothing it open with deliberate slowness. The words awaited him, unwavering in their implications.

Whatever was written here… it would change everything.

End of Chapter 12