Bambarro Bazanne leaned back in his high seat, watching the Myrish general Mitridas stab at the war map with a long pointer.
"Here!" Mitridas declared, voice booming through the council hall. "Swordbreak Fort on the eastern bank of the Disputed River — the choke point of Volantis's entire supply line! Take this crossing and my legion can pour straight into their heartland, unopposed! We must hammer our hardest nail right here!"
He swept the rod across the map. "Tyrosh has committed twelve full battle groups. Myr will send thirty centurions as the core. And my Lysene allies — I need your toughest mercenary companies. The Second Sons, the Cats of Myr, the White Company…"
"Honored General Mitridas!" A smooth, slightly oily voice cut in.
Gastor Ferrero rose from the side benches, face the picture of humble respect while his eyes glittered with something darker. He bowed deeply toward the Lysene triarchs at the head table.
"First Triarch, and General Mitridas, forgive my interruption of such brilliant strategy." Gastor's tone was perfectly deferential. "As a loyal son of Lys, I too lie awake thinking how best to secure victory for the alliance."
He let the flattery linger, then struck.
"However, regarding the placement of the White Company… I have a small concern. Everyone knows Captain Jules and his men have a fine reputation. But in truth, the White Company numbers only a few thousand — far smaller than veteran outfits like the Second Sons or the Cats. Placing them directly at Swordbreak Fort, that meat-grinder of a front line… might that be a little… unwise?"
"Lord Gastor, what exactly are you suggesting?" Mitridas frowned.
Gastor's face settled into an expression of earnest worry. "My suggestion is simple: send the White Company to guard the rear. They are too few to form a decisive independent force in a major battle, yet numerous enough to hold a vital defensive line!"
He stepped to the great map, pointer in hand.
"Gentlemen, look here." Gastor traced the Disputed River. "The river's headwaters rise in the Myr Hills and the Disputed Plateau, splitting into two streams that feed two lakes — Myr Lake and the Lake of Disputes."
He continued, voice confident and practiced. Merchants like him lived and died by geography, numbers, and knowing every road and river.
"Myr Lake flows west through a gap in the hills, across the Myr plains, and into Myr Bay — an east-west route that turned Myr into the strongest of our three cities. The Lake of Disputes, however, pours straight north from the plateau, carving through the Disputed Lands before emptying into the Summer Sea — a north-south flow that splits the region between us and Volantis."
"If that were all, we could never stand against them. At their peak, Volantis fielded over thirty tiger-cloaked legions, countless war elephants, and more ships than we could count. But!" Gastor's pointer jabbed triumphantly at a narrow strip of land running north-south between the river and the coastal hills, plus a small peninsula jutting into the Summer Sea.
"Gentlemen, we control the Flank Corridor — and our pride, the glorious Lysland region!"
"This corridor may look barren, but it is the artery of our entire position. It links our richest inland colonies to the front line along the Disputed River. Lys has built straight, wide roads here, with markets, strongpoints, ports, and fortresses to protect our sea supply. If this corridor falls, we will be forced to retreat farther back, suffering losses we cannot afford."
He straightened, voice ringing with conviction. "A position this critical can only be trusted to loyal, battle-hardened veterans! I believe stationing the White Company and the Lightning Company here is the wisest choice. Their iron discipline and Captain Jules's proven command will keep our rear secure, freeing our frontline troops to fight without fear. This is putting good steel exactly where it is needed most!"
He turned to Lysandro and the other triarchs, expression sincere. "Young Lord Lysaro is taking the field for the first time. While he naturally seeks glory, throwing him straight against Volantene war elephants and heavy infantry squares carries far too much risk. Guarding the Flank Corridor allows him to gain real experience while keeping him safe. Is that not the perfect balance?"
In his heart, Gastor was sneering.
Lysaro! Tiberius! You want glory? You want to shine? Fine — I'll stick you in the rear guarding warehouses and goat paths. Let's see you win any honors there! When the frontline victory reports roll in and my son becomes Lys's greatest hero, you two can sit in the back and listen. Your names will never appear on the roll of honor!
A low murmur rippled through the hall. Several triarchs exchanged glances, clearly finding Gastor's reasoning sound.
Lysandro frowned slightly. He knew his son wanted to prove himself in the thick of battle, but… safety was safety. And Gastor's argument about protecting the vital rear was hard to dismiss without looking reckless.
In the end, after some debate and under pressure from the Ferrero faction and their allies, the deployment plan was revised. The markers for the White Company and Lightning Company moved from the bloody front at Swordbreak Fort to the rear Flank Corridor.
When the news reached the White Company camp, Vito kicked over a water bucket in fury.
"That backstabbing bastard Gastor! He's trying to dry us out like salted fish on a rack!"
Jules's face was stone, but his eyes burned. He understood exactly what this meant — not just lost glory, but being deliberately sidelined from the war's decisive theater. A devastating blow to the company's reputation.
Lysaro was more direct. He nearly screamed, cursing the entire Ferrero family as shortsighted idiots and petty villains.
Tiberius sat in silence, listening, one finger slowly tracing the map over the "Flank Corridor."
Inside, he was almost cheering.
Perfect.