The heavy oak door to Duke Adrien de Forneaux’s office loomed ahead, its brass handle polished to a shine. Caelan stood before it, his designs clutched tightly in one hand. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was bound to be a challenging conversation. The Duke was not a man who embraced change lightly, especially changes that disrupted the foundations of his carefully managed duchy.
Knocking twice, Caelan waited until the deep voice of his father called from within. “Enter.”
Pushing the door open, Caelan stepped inside. The office was just as imposing as the man who occupied it. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with treatises on governance, economics, and military history. A massive desk of dark mahogany dominated the room, and behind it sat Duke Adrien, his expression one of faint irritation as he looked up from a stack of documents.
“Ah, Caelan,” Adrien said, leaning back in his chair. “I assume this is about the flurry of activity you’ve stirred up these past few days?”
“Indeed,” Caelan replied, closing the door behind him. He strode forward, placing the folder of designs on the desk. “These are the plans for the military reforms I’ve been working on. I wanted to present them to you personally.”
Adrien raised an eyebrow, pulling the folder toward him. “You mean the reforms you’ve already begun implementing without consulting me?” His voice was calm, but the sharpness in his tone was unmistakable.
Caelan met his father’s gaze evenly. “I took initiative where it was necessary. The duchy’s military is in need of modernization, and waiting for approval at every step would only slow us down.”
Adrien opened the folder, his sharp eyes scanning the sketches of muskets, cannons, and uniforms. For a long moment, the room was silent, save for the faint rustle of parchment. Finally, he looked up.
“These are... ambitious,” Adrien said, his tone measured. “New weapons, new artillery, new uniforms—and I assume you’ve already commissioned the latter?”
“I have,” Caelan admitted, standing tall. “The Tailoring Guild is producing samples as we speak. Once approved, full production will begin.”
Adrien’s expression darkened. “You’ve taken significant steps without consulting me, Caelan. Do you understand the risk you’re courting? Modernizing an army isn’t as simple as drawing sketches or issuing orders. It requires resources—money, manpower, time. And if these changes fail, the cost will fall squarely on this house.”
Caelan placed his hands on the desk, leaning forward slightly. “I understand the risks, Father, but I also understand the greater risk of inaction. Our military is outdated, fragmented, and vulnerable. The reforms I’m proposing will not only address these weaknesses but position the Forneaux duchy as a dominant force in Frankia.”
Adrien’s gaze remained fixed on Caelan, his lips pressed into a thin line. “And what makes you so certain these reforms will succeed? You’ve been uncharacteristically confident as of late, as if you’ve suddenly become an authority on warfare.”
Caelan paused, choosing his words carefully. “Because I’ve studied, Father. I’ve spent countless hours analyzing the tactics and strategies of this world—and I’ve found them lacking. The methods I propose are tried and tested. They emphasize mobility, precision, and cohesion. With the right tools and training, they’ll give our soldiers an edge no enemy can match.”
Adrien leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. “Even if I were to approve these reforms, there’s no guarantee they’ll succeed. Soldiers resist change, officers cling to tradition, and the coffers aren’t bottomless. Have you considered how you’ll navigate these obstacles?”
“I have,” Caelan said confidently. “The soldiers will adapt because they must. Their training will emphasize discipline and cooperation, and the new uniforms will instill a sense of pride and unity. As for the officers, I’ve already met with Marshal Valran and his senior staff. While there’s resistance, I’m confident they’ll come around once they see the results of these changes.”
“And the coffers?” Adrien pressed. “Your plans involve expensive commissions, from uniforms to weapons to artillery. How do you intend to finance this?”
“The economic reforms I’ve initiated will generate additional revenue,” Caelan replied. “The modernization of our mines and vineyards, coupled with the development of the western port, will create new trade opportunities. I’ve also secured the attention of the Montclair guild, which will provide the tools we need to produce better weapons and infrastructure.”
Adrien’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re not only reforming the military but also the economy?”
“Both are necessary,” Caelan said. “A strong economy supports a strong military, and a strong military protects the economy. They’re two sides of the same coin.”
Adrien sat in silence for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke.
“You’ve clearly given this a great deal of thought,” he said, his voice heavy with both approval and caution. “But initiative alone doesn’t guarantee success. If these reforms fail, it won’t just be you who bears the consequences—it will be the entire house.”
“I understand,” Caelan said firmly. “But I won’t fail.”
Adrien sighed, leaning forward to close the folder. “Very well. You have my approval to proceed with the uniforms and to commission prototypes of the weapons and artillery. But I want regular updates on your progress, and I expect results—not just promises.”
“You’ll have them,” Caelan said, relief washing over him.
“Good,” Adrien said, his tone softening slightly. “You’ve taken bold steps, Caelan. I only hope your ambition doesn’t outpace your ability.”
“It won’t,” Caelan said, his voice steady. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Adrien waved a hand. “That will be all for now. Go. You’ve work to do.”
As Caelan left the office, the weight of the conversation began to lift. His father’s approval was tentative but sufficient for the time being. Now, the real work would begin—overcoming the obstacles of tradition, skepticism, and resource constraints to bring his vision to life.
Yet, as he walked through the halls of the estate, his mind drifted to Lucien’s words earlier. Have I changed so much? he thought. Perhaps I have—but for the better. This is what must be done.
His focus turned back to the reforms. The Tailoring Guild would soon deliver the uniform samples. The Weapons Bureau and Shipbuilding Guild awaited his meetings. And there was still the matter of assembling a cohesive standing army from a fragmented militia system.
----------------------------------------
The meeting room within the Forneaux Weapons Research and Development Bureau (WRDB) was an austere yet functional space, illuminated by the afternoon sun filtering through tall windows. The air smelled faintly of oil and smoke, a testament to the work that occurred in the forges and workshops just outside. Caelan entered the room with measured steps, carrying a leather-bound portfolio containing his designs. His gaze swept over the table where six men awaited him, each with expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism.
The group comprised the bureau's leading engineers, gunsmiths, and metallurgists. At the head of the table sat Master Engineer Renard Gaultier, a stout, balding man with a reputation for being both brilliant and stubborn. His round spectacles rested precariously on the bridge of his nose as he looked up from a stack of blueprints. Beside him was Germain Lacoste, the bureau’s chief metallurgist, a wiry man with perpetually stained fingers and an air of cautious pragmatism. The rest of the table included younger craftsmen, assistants, and a junior inventor whose nervous energy stood in contrast to the older men’s steady confidence.
As Caelan approached, Renard rose halfway from his chair and offered a polite nod. “My lord,” he began, his voice gravelly. “We’ve been eagerly anticipating this meeting, though I must admit, your recent requests have raised... some questions.”
“I expected no less,” Caelan replied evenly, taking his seat at the head of the table. “The changes I’m proposing are ambitious, but ambition is necessary for progress. Today, I’ll outline my vision for the Forneaux military’s modernization, and together, we’ll determine how best to make it a reality.”
Renard raised an eyebrow but gestured for him to continue. “Very well, my lord. We’re listening.”
Caelan opened the portfolio and laid out several sheets of parchment on the table. The first was a detailed sketch of the Charleville M1777 musket. The design was rendered with precision, from the elegant lines of the stock to the meticulous notations of its specifications. The engineers leaned forward, their eyes narrowing as they examined the drawing.
“This,” Caelan began, “is the Charleville musket. It is a flintlock firearm designed for reliability, ease of production, and battlefield effectiveness. The specifications are as follows: a caliber of 17.5 millimeters, a barrel length of 44.8 inches, and a muzzle-loaded firing mechanism. Its construction balances durability and weight, allowing infantrymen to carry it with ease during long campaigns.”
He paused to let the men absorb the details. Renard’s fingers tapped against the table as he studied the drawing.
“You’ve designed it for a flintlock system,” Renard said, his tone neutral but probing. “A marked improvement over the matchlocks currently in use, I’ll grant you that. But flintlocks require precision components, particularly for the lock mechanism. Our current forges aren’t equipped to produce such components in large quantities. This will require significant investment in new equipment.”
“And labor,” Germain added. “Flintlock locks are intricate. You’ll need craftsmen skilled in fine machining, and such men aren’t easy to come by.”
“I’m aware of the challenges,” Caelan replied. “But the benefits outweigh the costs. Matchlocks are unreliable in damp conditions and slow to reload. Flintlocks will give our soldiers a decisive advantage in both speed and durability.”
One of the younger engineers, a dark-haired man in his mid-twenties, spoke up hesitantly. “My lord, even if we overcome the manufacturing hurdles, there’s still the matter of training. Soldiers accustomed to matchlocks will need time to learn the flintlock system. And then there’s the question of ammunition—how do you intend to standardize it?”
Caelan nodded, appreciating the question. “The ammunition will be standardized to the specifications of the musket—17.5-millimeter musket balls with measured black powder charges. As for training, that will be handled separately, but rest assured, every soldier will receive comprehensive instruction before these weapons are deployed.”
Renard leaned back, his arms crossed. “It’s a sound design, but it’s still a gamble. Even with the right investments, it could take years to produce enough muskets to outfit the entire army.”
“Then we start small,” Caelan said. “A prototype first. Once it’s proven effective, we scale production incrementally, focusing on the most critical units first.”
The room fell silent for a moment. Renard exchanged glances with Germain, who gave a reluctant nod. Finally, Renard sighed.
“A prototype is feasible,” Renard admitted. “But it won’t be quick, and it won’t be cheap.”
“I wouldn’t expect it to be,” Caelan replied firmly. “But it will be worth it.”
With the musket design addressed, Caelan moved on to the artillery sketches. He laid out the designs for the Gribeauval cannons, their sleek lines and standardized components a stark contrast to the bulky, outdated pieces currently used by the Forneaux artillery.
“These cannons are based on a proven system,” Caelan explained. “They’re lighter, more mobile, and easier to produce than the current models. The 12-pounder, 8-pounder, and 4-pounder variants will provide flexibility on the battlefield, while the 6-inch howitzer adds ranged support.”
Renard leaned forward, his expression skeptical. “Lighter cannons mean thinner barrels. How do you intend to maintain durability and range without risking structural failure?”
“Through improved metallurgy,” Caelan said, gesturing toward Germain. “I assume you’ve experimented with higher-carbon alloys?”
Germain frowned. “We’ve dabbled, but such alloys are expensive, and they require precise control of temperature during forging. It’s not something we can replicate easily at scale.”
“Then we develop the techniques necessary to replicate it,” Caelan countered. “If we need to bring in expertise from outside the duchy, we will. These cannons will redefine our artillery corps, but we can only achieve that if we’re willing to innovate.”
Another voice cut in, this time from a burly gunsmith seated near the end of the table. “Even if we build these cannons, transporting them will be another issue. The roads in the duchy aren’t suited for heavy equipment, and our horses aren’t trained for such loads.”
“Which is why infrastructure development is part of the broader reform plan,” Caelan said. “Railroads, better roads, and stronger draught animals will ensure mobility.”
The gunsmith grunted, his skepticism unabated. “Sounds like a lot of ifs, my lord.”
“It is,” Caelan admitted, meeting the man’s gaze. “But every great achievement begins with uncertainty. My job is to ensure those ifs become certainties—and I intend to see it through.”
The room fell into another tense silence. Renard’s fingers drummed against the table once more as he considered Caelan’s words.
“Very well,” Renard said at last. “We’ll begin work on the prototypes. But you’ll need to prepare for delays and setbacks—these aren’t simple projects, my lord.”
“I understand,” Caelan said. “And I’ll ensure you have the resources and support you need.”
As the meeting concluded, Caelan left the bureau with a sense of cautious optimism. The engineers and craftsmen were skeptical, but they were also intrigued. The seeds of change had been planted, and while the path ahead would be fraught with challenges, the first steps had been taken.
Let me know where you'd like to take this next! We could shift to the naval reforms or explore developments within the barracks as Caelan begins implementing his tactical doctrines.
----------------------------------------
The Forneaux Shipbuilding Guild’s headquarters sat on the edge of the western docks, its sprawling complex overlooking the sea. The salty tang of the ocean air mixed with the scent of freshly sawed wood and hot tar, carrying the hum of shipwrights hammering at hulls and fitting planks. This was where the duchy’s merchant and naval vessels were born—a place of creation, labor, and tradition.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
As Caelan entered the large, timber-framed meeting hall, the mood inside was markedly different from the military-focused discussions he’d just left. A half-dozen men, all prominent members of the guild, stood around a central table cluttered with maps, ship plans, and ledgers. Their conversations dropped to murmurs as Caelan stepped into the room, his leather portfolio tucked under one arm.
The man at the head of the table—Guildmaster Alphonse Merlet—turned and offered a slight bow. Alphonse was a wiry man with a weathered face and sharp eyes, his features shaped by decades of work on the docks. His position demanded respect, and he commanded it with an unassuming but firm presence.
“My lord,” Alphonse greeted, “an honor, as always. I must admit, we were surprised to hear you wished to meet with us directly. The shipwrights aren’t often visited by nobles.”
“I don’t intend to waste your time, Guildmaster,” Caelan replied, nodding politely to the other guild members. “I’ve come to discuss the future of the duchy’s navy.”
Alphonse exchanged a glance with his colleagues, some of whom looked intrigued while others appeared guarded. “The future of the navy, you say?” Alphonse gestured to a seat at the table. “Then please, enlighten us.”
Caelan took his seat, carefully placing his portfolio on the table. He opened it, revealing a series of sketches and plans he had prepared the previous night. The first was a diagram of the duchy’s current fleet—a modest collection of galleons, mostly converted merchant ships with limited firepower.
“This,” Caelan began, “is the current state of the Forneaux navy. Functional, yes, but inadequate for what lies ahead.”
A burly shipwright with graying hair and thick arms crossed over his chest—Mathieu Durand—spoke up. “With respect, my lord, the navy’s served us well enough for decades. We use galleons because they’re versatile—cargo haulers in peacetime, warships when needed. What exactly do you find ‘inadequate’?”
Caelan leaned forward slightly, meeting Mathieu’s gaze. “Versatility is not superiority. Our galleons may suffice for merchant duties or minor skirmishes, but they are not purpose-built warships. Against a dedicated navy, we’d be outmaneuvered and outgunned. If the Forneaux duchy is to safeguard its coastal trade and assert dominance over the western seas, we need specialized ships.”
He gestured to the next page in his portfolio: a sketch of a frigate. The sleek design emphasized speed, maneuverability, and moderate firepower, with a lower profile than the bulky galleons.
“This,” Caelan continued, “is a frigate. Smaller and faster than a galleon, it’s ideal for reconnaissance, patrolling trade routes, and engaging enemy vessels in one-on-one combat.”
He flipped to the next sketch, revealing a ship-of-the-line—a massive, multi-decked warship bristling with cannons.
“And this,” he said, “is a ship-of-the-line. Heavily armed, built to anchor fleet battles and dominate the seas. While we may not need many of these right away, having even one would be a deterrent to any rival house that dares to threaten our waters.”
The room was quiet as the shipwrights studied the designs. Alphonse’s brow furrowed in thought, while Mathieu scratched his chin, his skepticism slowly giving way to grudging interest.
----------------------------------------
“You’ve clearly put thought into this, my lord,” Alphonse said after a moment. “But building a fleet like this is no small task. Frigates and ships-of-the-line require more resources than galleons—denser timbers, more complex rigging, specialized cannons. And that’s before we consider the cost of crews and maintenance.”
Mathieu nodded in agreement. “Not to mention dock space. We’d need to expand the shipyards to accommodate vessels of that size. That’s a massive investment, even for a duchy as prosperous as Forneaux.”
“I’m not suggesting we overhaul the entire fleet overnight,” Caelan replied. “This isn’t a plan to be rushed. It’s a long-term project—one that starts with a single frigate. We’ll construct a prototype, refine the design, and evaluate its performance. If it meets expectations, we’ll expand production gradually.”
“And what of the armament?” another shipwright, a younger man named Luc Moreau, asked. “Our galleons use older culverins and sakers, but the heavier guns for ships-of-the-line would require a completely new approach. Does this tie into your military reforms?”
“It does,” Caelan confirmed. “The new artillery designs I’ve commissioned will include naval variants. Our ships won’t just be floating targets—they’ll carry the firepower to dominate any engagement.”
Luc whistled softly, clearly impressed. “That’s... ambitious.”
----------------------------------------
Alphonse tapped a finger on the table, his expression thoughtful. “My lord, while I respect the vision, I must ask: why the sudden push for a navy? The duchy’s trade routes have been stable for years, and the rival houses to the east don’t yet have significant naval presences. Is this a preemptive measure, or do you know something we don’t?”
Caelan hesitated for only a moment. “Consider it preemptive. Stability is fleeting, and the eastern lords are expanding their influence. If they turn their attention west, we must be ready. A strong navy will ensure our trade routes remain secure and our position unchallenged.”
The guildmaster nodded slowly. “I understand your reasoning, my lord. But even with a phased approach, this project will demand considerable resources—timber, iron, skilled labor. We’ll need to coordinate closely with other guilds to ensure everything runs smoothly.”
“That’s why we’re starting small,” Caelan reiterated. “Focus on the frigate prototype for now. I’ll personally ensure the other guilds provide the necessary support.”
The conversation shifted to practical matters: timelines, costs, and logistics. The shipwrights raised valid concerns at every turn, but Caelan countered each one with calculated solutions. By the end of the discussion, the room’s initial skepticism had softened into cautious optimism.
Alphonse rose from his chair, extending a hand toward Caelan. “You’ve given us a lot to think about, my lord. We’ll begin work on the frigate prototype as soon as we finalize the plans. It won’t be easy, but if you’re willing to see it through, so are we.”
Caelan shook the guildmaster’s hand, a faint smile touching his lips. “I wouldn’t have come to you if I wasn’t serious, Guildmaster. Together, we’ll build a navy worthy of the Forneaux name.”
As the meeting adjourned, Caelan stepped out onto the docks, the sea breeze tugging at his coat. The shipwrights would need time, but that was a luxury this project afforded. For now, the foundation had been laid, and with it, the promise of dominance over the western seas.
----------------------------------------
The rhythmic clatter of wheels against cobblestones filled the carriage as it trundled along the road toward the Forneaux estate. Caelan sat with one elbow propped against the window frame, his gaze drifting over the passing countryside. The late afternoon sun bathed the fields in a golden light, but his thoughts were far from serene.
Today had been productive, but it had also been taxing. The meetings with the Weapons Research and Development Bureau and the Shipbuilding Guild had revealed cracks in the foundation of his plans—cracks he hadn’t anticipated.
He replayed the conversations in his mind.
----------------------------------------
The Engineers’ Doubts
The WRDB had been skeptical of the flintlock design. Precision manufacturing, the lack of skilled labor, and the logistical challenges of scaling up production had all been valid concerns. While Caelan had answered them as best he could, he knew their hesitation wasn’t baseless.
“We’ll start small,” he murmured to himself, echoing his own words from earlier. A prototype first, then incremental progress. But even with a prototype, he’d need to secure additional craftsmen skilled in intricate mechanisms. That meant either training locals or enticing talent from beyond the duchy—both costly and time-consuming endeavors.
----------------------------------------
The Shipwrights’ Reservations
The shipbuilders had raised equally pressing issues. Specialized warships required more than just timber and iron; they demanded larger docks, new tools, and crews capable of managing their complexities. And then there was the matter of cannons—the designs he’d presented to the engineers weren’t even prototypes yet.
The sheer scope of the project loomed in his mind. Even if the frigate prototype succeeded, it would be years before the duchy could field a fleet worthy of its ambitions.
“It’s not about speed,” Caelan reminded himself softly, exhaling as he leaned back against the seat. “It’s about setting the foundation.”
----------------------------------------
As the carriage rolled on, his hand absently traced the edges of his leather portfolio, now resting beside him. His eyes flickered back to the passing landscape, but the familiar sight of vineyards and rolling hills did little to ease the weight pressing on his shoulders. His plans were grand, but they demanded endless attention to detail, contingency planning, and resources—resources that stretched the Forneaux estate to its limits.
He sighed softly, turning his head away from the window. His gaze shifted to the interior of the carriage, landing on Lucien, who sat opposite him.
Lucien had been silent for most of the ride, his arms crossed casually as he leaned against the cushioned backrest. His dark hair was still damp from the wash he’d taken after training, and his sword rested upright by his side. As Caelan’s eyes lingered on him, Lucien tilted his head and broke the silence.
“You’ve been awfully busy these days,” Lucien said, his voice low and measured. “Running from one meeting to the next, drafting plans, giving orders... You’ve barely stopped to catch your breath.”
“I’ve had much to do,” Caelan replied evenly, though the exhaustion in his tone was clear.
Lucien shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re working yourself into an early grave, my friend. There’s no point in rushing if you collapse from sickness before you see any of these grand plans come to fruition.”
“I’m fine,” Caelan said dismissively, but the weariness in his posture betrayed him.
Lucien leaned forward slightly, his arms resting on his knees. “You always say that, but I’ve seen the way you’ve been running yourself ragged. Do you even remember the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”
Caelan’s brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to retort, but the truth silenced him. Sleep had been a luxury these past few nights, sacrificed to late-night sketches, correspondence, and strategy sessions. He sighed again, this time with a trace of resignation.
“I can’t slow down, Lucien,” Caelan said at last. “There’s too much at stake. If I let up now, even for a moment, the momentum I’ve built will falter.”
“And what good is momentum if you burn out before the race is over?” Lucien countered, his tone firm but not unkind. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know. You’ve got people who can help—me, for one.”
Caelan looked at his friend, his expression softening. Lucien had always been the steady presence in his life, someone who spoke plainly when others dared not. Despite his status as a knight and vassal, he treated Caelan with the honesty of a childhood friend, unafraid to voice his concerns.
“I know,” Caelan said quietly. “And I appreciate it. Truly. But this is different. These plans—they require my vision. I can’t delegate the foundation to someone else.”
Lucien studied him for a moment before leaning back with a sigh. “Just... don’t let that vision blind you, Caelan. No kingdom is built in a day, and no empire is forged by a single man.”
Caelan smiled faintly at the irony of Lucien’s words. He had tried to forge an empire alone once before, in another life. And he had failed. This time, he would not make the same mistake.
“To that point,” Caelan said, shifting the conversation, “how has your family been? I haven’t spoken to them in some time.”
Lucien raised an eyebrow at the sudden change in topic but answered without hesitation. “They’re well, for the most part. My father’s still overseeing the training of the retainers, and my younger brothers are as unruly as ever. My mother... well, you know how she worries.”
Caelan nodded. Lucien’s family had always been fiercely loyal to House Forneaux, but they had their own struggles to contend with. The Armand du Lac estate wasn’t as wealthy as it once was, and keeping their retainers well-trained and equipped was an ongoing challenge.
“She worries about you,” Lucien added after a moment, his tone quieter now. “She says you’ve been... different lately.”
“Everyone seems to think that,” Caelan said with a soft chuckle. “Even you.”
Lucien’s gaze was steady. “That’s because it’s true. But whatever’s driving you now, just remember—you don’t have to carry it alone. I’m with you, as I always have been. As long as you stay true to what you told me in that story of yours, I’ll follow you wherever this path leads.”
Caelan felt a flicker of gratitude at his friend’s words. “Thank you, Lucien. That means more than you know.”
Lucien shrugged, his familiar smirk returning. “Well, someone’s got to keep you out of trouble.”
The two shared a quiet laugh, the tension easing slightly as the carriage continued its journey toward the estate. Caelan rested his head against the cushioned seat, his thoughts still racing but his resolve strengthened by his friend’s unwavering support.
Unseen through the window, the Forneaux estate loomed in the distance, the setting sun casting long shadows over its walls. There was still so much to do, but for now, Caelan allowed himself this small moment of reprieve.
----------------------------------------
The shadows of the Eastern stronghold stretched long across the rugged hills as the sun dipped below the horizon. Deep within the fortified manor of Lord Antoine de Vervaine, the most influential of the eastern lords, a secret council convened. The chamber was dimly lit, the flickering glow of torches casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. Around a heavy oak table sat five men, their expressions grim and their voices hushed.
Lord Antoine, a lean man with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes, presided over the meeting. His gaunt face was framed by graying hair, and his fingers drummed impatiently against the table as the others debated.
“The Duke of Forneaux grows complacent,” said Lord Charles d’Ormont, his voice dripping with disdain. He was a rotund man with an air of arrogance, his jeweled fingers fidgeting with the stem of a goblet. “His vineyards flourish, and his coffers swell, but his strength lies in trade and his fields, not his armies.”
“We’ve waited long enough,” growled Baron Alaric Rouvray, a grizzled warrior with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. “The Forneaux duchy is ripe for the taking. If we strike swiftly, the heartland will fall before they can muster a proper defense.”
“Patience, Alaric,” Antoine interjected, his voice smooth and commanding. “A brute’s charge is not what is needed here. The Duke’s position is strong enough to repel a simple raid, even with his scattered forces. If we are to succeed, we must ensure his house is fractured before the first sword is drawn.”
Lord Philippe Desmarets, a thin, pale man with a cunning smile, leaned forward. “You mean we must sow discord within his court? Divide his vassals, perhaps?”
Antoine nodded. “Precisely. The Duke’s strength lies in unity—his vassals are loyal, his house stable. We must poison that stability before we move. A few rumors in the right ears, a few alliances tested, and the Forneaux duchy will crumble from within.”
“And what of the Crown?” asked Viscount Henri Lemoine, the youngest of the group. His tone was uncertain, betraying his unease. “The Royal Court still holds sway, and if they catch wind of our actions, the King will send his forces to crush us.”
Antoine waved a dismissive hand. “The King is a figurehead—a shadow of his former self. His court is rife with schemers and sycophants. If we play our cards correctly, we can ensure his eyes remain turned away until it’s too late.”
----------------------------------------
The room fell silent as the heavy wooden door creaked open. The lords turned their heads sharply, hands instinctively moving toward the hilts of their daggers. A figure stepped into the room, cloaked in deep gray, their face obscured by a hood. They moved with quiet confidence, their boots barely making a sound on the stone floor.
“Who dares interrupt this council?” Alaric growled, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword.
Antoine raised a hand, silencing the baron. “Peace, Alaric. I invited them.”
The figure reached the table and lowered their hood, revealing a face shadowed by the faint torchlight. It was a man with strikingly sharp features, dark eyes that glittered with intelligence, and a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“This,” Antoine said, gesturing to the newcomer, “is Émeric, our ear within the Royal Court. He has news—news that will shape the course of our plans.”
Émeric inclined his head, his tone calm but firm. “My lords, I bring word of both opportunity and warning. The court grows restless. Factions are forming, alliances shifting. The second prince, Mathieu, consolidates power and has begun pressing his claim to the throne. The first prince’s allies are disappearing—some silenced by coin, others by the sword.”
The lords exchanged uneasy glances, their murmurs growing louder. Antoine raised a hand for silence, his gaze fixed on Émeric.
“And how does this concern us?” Antoine asked.
Émeric leaned forward, placing his gloved hands on the table. “It concerns you because the tide of power is shifting. If you act now and align yourselves with Prince Mathieu, you may gain his favor—and the rewards that come with it. But if you delay, you risk alienating him entirely. Worse still, if he discovers your ambitions toward the Forneaux duchy, he may act to crush you before you can move.”
“Align with Mathieu?” Charles scoffed. “The boy is ambitious, yes, but he’s reckless. What guarantee do we have that he will succeed?”
“You have no guarantees,” Émeric replied smoothly. “But consider the alternative: if you wait and Prince Mathieu takes the throne without your support, he may see your inaction as disloyalty. And make no mistake—he will not tolerate disloyalty.”
Henri frowned, his hands fidgeting with the edge of the table. “But what of the Forneaux duchy? If we focus on aligning with Mathieu, we may lose our chance to strike against the Duke.”
Émeric’s smirk widened. “On the contrary, the Forneaux duchy may be the very key to securing Mathieu’s favor. If you present him with a weakened Duke—one ripe for the taking—he will see you as valuable allies. Strike the Duke swiftly, destabilize his house, and offer the spoils to Mathieu as a gesture of loyalty.”
The room fell silent as the lords mulled over Émeric’s words. Antoine’s expression remained impassive, though his eyes gleamed with calculation.
“And what of the Duke himself?” Antoine asked. “What news do you bring of his state?”
Émeric hesitated, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “The Duke remains... steady, for now. But there are whispers of changes within his house—changes led by his heir, young Caelan. It seems the boy has been stirring things up, though the specifics remain unclear.”
Antoine’s fingers drummed against the table, his gaze distant. “The boy is a minor concern. If he proves troublesome, we’ll deal with him as we deal with all nuisances.”
“Underestimate him at your peril,” Émeric warned. “Whatever changes he’s making, they’ve been enough to attract attention. The Forneaux duchy is no longer as complacent as it once was.”
Alaric snorted. “Then we strike sooner rather than later. A boy cannot save a duchy from what’s coming.”
Antoine’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Perhaps. But Émeric is right—we must tread carefully. The Forneaux duchy may be changing, but it cannot change fast enough to withstand the storm we bring. Proceed as planned. Target their alliances, weaken their vassals, and ensure the heartland is divided before we march.”
The lords murmured their assent, their resolve hardening. Émeric stepped back, his hood falling into place once more as he faded into the shadows.
As the meeting concluded, Antoine stood, his gaze turning eastward. “The Duke may sit securely in his estate tonight, but his time is ending. The winds of change blow from the east, and they carry with them the end of Forneaux’s dominion.”
End of Chapter