The candlelight flickered across the parchment as Julius leaned over the map table, fingers tracing the river valleys where the coming conflict would spill first.
His mind was sharp, calculating.
Amaury.
The boy had fire, that much was clear.
But fire without direction always consumed its wielder first.
Still, a sliver of doubt wormed through Julius's thoughts.
Would he truly strike first?
Or would he skirmish and skulk until his royal father dragged him home by the collar?
Julius had seen lesser nobles hesitate at the brink, hoping bluster would earn them spoils without war.
Perhaps Amaury was the same — all posture, no iron.
He stared at the border markings once more, deep in contemplation.
Could he afford to wait?
Could he afford not to?
Then, like the sudden crack of a lightning bolt, a shout tore through the quiet.
"To arms! To arms! Enemy sighted at the western rise!"
The tent erupted.
Chairs scraped.
