Chapter 20: The Plan
The War Room of Vaelmont Castle was a chamber built upon the long-crumbled foundations of hope. The massive map of Erethandril spread across the heavy oak table looked faded, Vaelmont's borders marked by lines that seemed to blur from being pointed at too often by anxious fingers.
Old wine stains from past council meetings had seeped into the wood, looking like dark scars. This was where King Alaric had once devised his legendary victories. Now, the room was filled only with panic, the faint scent of dried blood from Gregor's armor, and a fierce debate that threatened to tear apart the fragile remnants of the kingdom.
Eldrin felt like a prisoner being dragged to the gallows. Commander Gregor had pulled him here, insisting that "His Grace must see the situation firsthand." What he saw was hell.
The report from the Willow Creek survivor was laid out in horrifying detail by Captain Hanssen, his usually spirited voice now flat and tense, every word weighing heavily in the air.
The village wasn't just attacked; it was annihilated. Houses were burned, granaries looted, and the recovered corpses showed signs of unnatural decay.
"...the wounds are surrounded by a reddish-brown rust that seems to creep across the flesh," Hanssen reported, his voice almost trembling as he recalled the sight. "Our healers couldn't stop it. They said their healing Aether seemed to be rejected by the wounds. This is a disease, not just an ordinary injury."
The Rust Disease. Eldrin felt his stomach churn. In the game, this was a terrifying debuff, a status effect that slowly drained HP and couldn't be cured with standard potions. Seeing it described as something real, something happening to actual human flesh and blood, made him want to vomit. This was no longer just about bandits or political intrigue. It was the physical manifestation of the dark fantasy genre that had now become his reality. Something straight out of a nightmare was now roaming his lands.
"We must strike back with full force!" Hanssen's voice rose again, filled with unbroken youthful fervor, shattering the horrifying silence that followed his report. "We know the general location of their nest in the Shadow Woods. Send the Palace Guard to hunt those monsters down to their very roots!"
"A blind offensive?" A heavy, raspy voice, like grinding stones, answered from across the table. Ser Wilfredo Oconnell, a veteran knight known as "The Rock," stood representing the Ancient Faction. His thick, antique armor, adorned with the engravings of the old Vaelmont crest, stood in stark contrast to the lighter, more practical armor of the Guards. "That is a fool's tactic, Captain. Marquess Althario would say that this is the result of our neglect of the layered defense doctrine passed down by our ancestors! The 'Shield and Stake' doctrine dictates that the borders must be fully secured before a counterattack is even considered. We must fortify our border outposts, not march our soldiers into a trap."
"Doctrines won't fill a soldier's belly or sharpen their swords, Ser Wilfredo!" retorted another equally sharp voice. Earl Salvador Sloan, a former commander with the keen eyes of a logistician, spoke on behalf of the Reformist Faction. "Lady Nyelle would agree with me that if the royal treasury wasn't spent restoring moth-eaten tapestries in the main hall, we could afford decent equipment for the Border Guard! Your doctrine was written when we still had the funds for three full legions. Now we can't even afford to replace the border patrols' boots!"
The debate had only just begun, and fuel was already being poured on the fire.
"Moth-eaten tapestries?" A cold, precise voice cut through Earl Sloan's words. Count Tracey Conway, a gaunt old man in impeccably tailored robes, glared at Sloan from the Ancient Faction's side. As the faction's unofficial treasurer, every word he spoke was weighed like gold coins. "What you call 'moth-eaten tapestries', My Lord Earl, is the Chronicle of King Alaric's Triumph at the Battle of Shadow Gate. It is a symbol. And in times like these, when our morale is at rock bottom, symbols are the only things left to unite us. Perhaps if your faction wasn't so busy proposing new tax schemes that only confuse the merchants and cause them to hoard goods, our coffers would have enough for both."
"Unite us in starvation, perhaps!" A clear, passionate voice rang out from the Reformist Faction's side. Viscountess Ingrid Lamb, a young woman with fiery eyes, stood up. She was known as the master orator from the Port City of Sunstone. "The people in Willow Creek didn't die from a lack of symbols, Count Conway. They died because our Border Guards are armed with rusted spears and shields made more of prayers than wood! My father was a merchant in Sunstone. I know exactly what it means to lose an entire cargo because the Guard didn't have enough arrows! All while this council debates the proper color of banners for the next ceremony!"
The debate erupted into total chaos. Voices talked over one another. The Ancient Faction blamed the abandonment of tradition. The Reformist Faction blamed corruption and inefficiency. The Ironblood Faction, through Harold Whitney, merely sat in silence with a smirk, enjoying the spectacle of ruin they had helped orchestrate.
In the corner of the room, Caelan observed in silence. *Fools*, he thought, coldly analyzing the argument. They were all wrong. A frontal assault was suicide. Building fortresses was too slow. And squabbling over the budget when the enemy was already at the gates was a luxury they didn't possess. They didn't even understand what they were facing.
Eldrin simply stood frozen at the head of the table. He stared at the map, but he didn't see it. His mind was blank, overwhelmed by a deafening noise. He didn't hear their bickering. He heard the screams of Willow Creek, the screams from the original Eldrin's memories, the echoes of Alfin's own trauma. He had no answers. He wasn't a commander. He wasn't a king.
He just wanted it all to stop. He wished an earthquake would swallow this castle and end his suffering.
"ENOUGH!"
A calm yet commanding voice cut through the clamor like an axe. It was Count Beryl Patterson, the ruler of the neutral Crossroads Duchy. His shrewd face looked incredibly weary. He was a veteran politician who had watched this kind of bickering for decades.
"Your arguments will not stop those monsters," he said, his piercing eyes meeting each faction leader one by one. "All I hear are ways to spend money we do not have and pointing fingers at one another."
He pointed at Hanssen. "A frontal assault will drain what's left of our treasury in a week." He turned to Ser Wilfredo. "Building new fortresses will take months we don't have." He stared at Earl Sloan. "And your budget reforms, no matter how noble, will not forge a single sword by tomorrow morning."
He paused, letting the bitter truth sink into the room.
"While you stand here arguing," he continued, his voice dropping to a cold whisper, "the trade routes through the Twin Bridges in my territory will paralyze out of fear. The merchants will stop coming. Vaelmont will starve to death before those monsters even reach the gates of Nightholm."
Count Patterson then did something unexpected. He shifted his entire attention, the full weight of his political presence, to the head of the table.
He looked straight at Eldrin.
"Your Grace, we need a solution. A solution that is fast... and, forgive my insolence, cheap. If not, the only logical option remaining is to seal the capital gates, recall all troops, and leave the border villages to their own fate."
The brutal, pragmatic suggestion silenced the entire room.
Slowly, the silence radiating from Eldrin's blank stare began to spread, infecting everyone. One by one, the arguing commanders fell quiet. Their passionate arguments evaporated in the face of their prince's unyielding stillness.
To Gregor, the silence was a test. He stared at the Prince, his heart pounding with desperate hope, praying for a flicker of fire within him.
To Morcant, who had just arrived and stood near the doors, the silence was entertainment. He watched his nephew freeze under pressure, finding the sight deeply satisfying.
To Caelan, the silence was a calculation. He believed the Prince was weighing a hundred possibilities in his mind, letting his weaker enemies exhaust themselves with their own arguments before delivering the final blow.
The silence felt heavier than any scream.
They all waited.
Waiting for a word. An order. A miracle.
And Eldrin could only stand there, trapped in the quiet, alone in the center of an arena of starving wolves.