Amaury sat alone in the solar chamber of Calverne's high keep, the stained-glass light behind him casting fractured halos across the war table.
Maps and missives were strewn in chaotic spirals — none of them good.
None of them hopeful.
He hadn't slept in two days.
His wine had gone untouched.
And the voices hadn't stopped.
Not the ones in his head — he wasn't mad, not yet — but the real ones, clawing at the door of his court, murmuring through parchment and broken protocol.
Why did we burn our own homes, my lord?
Where are the armies you said would invade?
Was this your will, or the gods'?
The truth was worse than any whisper.
He didn't know anymore.
He'd been so sure.
Three raids, three fronts — well-coordinated, executed with precision, driven by noble zeal and sharpened doctrine.
They were meant to provoke the Romanus into overextending.
Meant to draw them into costly reprisals across scattered terrain.
Instead?
Silence.
Three assaults.
Three massacres.
