TSA: Chapter Forty: Deployment

Chapter Forty: Deployment

Faywyn, 5th Moon, 1st Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

The keep stirred with an energy that Princess Iris had not felt since Levi’s return from his battle with the Lion. The air buzzed with hurried footsteps and muted voices, servants scurrying about with lowered heads and whispered instructions. Through the narrow window of her chamber, Iris could see men gathering in the yard below, their movements brisk and purposeful. The clang of steel rang out faintly as knights checked their arms, and the occasional shout broke through the din.

Iris turned from the window, her lips pressed into a thin line. She had been avoiding Levi ever since that audacious meeting where he had dared to suggest that her hand in marriage was the price for his aid. The memory of his calm, almost clinical tone as he presented his terms still set her teeth on edge. She had expected him to seek her out again, to press his case, but to her surprise—and no small measure of confusion—he had left her to her solitude. Aside from the occasional glance in the hall or a dismissive quirk of his brow in passing, he had made no effort to approach her.

Today, however, was different. The air of urgency in the keep tugged at her curiosity, and despite her irritation with its lord, Iris found herself stepping into the corridor. Her skirts rustled as she walked, the cold stone floors of the keep chilling even through her shoes. Servants passed her with lowered eyes, their movements brisk and distracted. She stopped one of the younger maids, a girl with a mop of red curls and a nervous expression.

“What’s all this commotion?” Iris asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

The girl’s eyes darted toward the stairs. “Best ask Mistress Sarah, my lady. She’s in the kitchens.”

The girl curtsied quickly and hurried off, leaving Iris with more questions than answers. She made her way to the kitchens, the warmth of the hearth and the scent of baking bread a welcome contrast to the chill of the upper halls. There she found Sarah, the keep’s housekeeper, her soft, matronly frame making her easy to spot amidst the bustle. The woman was directing a pair of boys carrying sacks of flour, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Mistress Sarah,” Iris called, stepping into the room.

The housekeeper turned, her expression softening slightly when she saw the princess. “My lady,” she said, bowing her head briefly. “What brings you to my kitchens?”

“The keep is abuzz,” Iris said, gesturing vaguely. “I would know why.”

Sarah’s brows lifted slightly, and she wiped her hands on her apron. “The young lord has called a muster, Your Highness. He’s declared war on Ricos.”

Iris blinked. “War?”

“Aye,” Sarah said, nodding. “He means to take the town.”

The words sent a flicker of surprise through Iris, though she masked it quickly. “So soon after battling the Lion?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Sarah shrugged, her hands on her hips. “The lad’s got the blood of his father, my lady. He moves quick when he’s set his mind.”

“Quick to folly, more like,” Iris muttered under her breath, though Sarah’s sharp eyes caught the remark.

The housekeeper’s mouth twitched, but she said nothing. Instead, she gestured toward the yard visible through the open door. “Best ask the lord himself, if you’ve a mind to understand his reasons. Though he’s a hard one to sway, even if you don’t agree with him.”

Iris stiffened. “I’ve no intention of seeking him out.”

Sarah inclined her head, her expression unreadable. “As you wish, my lady. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve work to oversee.”

Iris left the kitchens, her thoughts racing. War on Ricos. The boldness of it made her cringe. Levi’s overconfidence, his willingness to plunge Faywyn into yet another conflict, seemed to her the height of arrogance. Had he not learned from the battle that had so recently bloodied his forces? Did he think himself invincible, his every move ordained for victory?

The fool.

✥✥✥

Faywyn, 5th Moon, 7th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

The docks were alive with the clamour of war. Men hurried to and fro, their breaths clouding in the crisp morning air, while the clink of chainmail and the thud of boots on the cobblestones created a steady rhythm of urgency. Above it all, the faint cries of gulls echoed from the harbour below, where the brigs lay waiting, their masts swaying against the grey sky.

Donner stood among the assembled men, his freshly polished mail catching the pale light. The weight of his new rank pressed heavier on his shoulders than the armour he wore. A sergeant now, and barely accustomed to the title. His pike was planted firmly before him, the steel tip gleaming, while his shield, painted with the black and red of Faywyn, hung across his back. Around him, the other newly promoted sergeants shifted uneasily, some tugging at the straps of their gear, others staring intently ahead. Behind them, rows of infantrymen stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces a mix of determination and trepidation.

At the front of the yard, a makeshift platform had been erected. The good lord stood atop it, flanked by his Knight Commander. Lord Levi’s cloak billowed faintly in the breeze, the black gryphon of his house emblazoned on his surcoat. His hands rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, the pose of a man at ease but ready to act. The murmurs of the crowd quieted as he stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over the assembled ranks.

“Men of Faywyn,” Levi began, his voice carrying over the yard with practised ease, “we sail for Ricos not for conquest, not for glory, but for survival. The enemy stirs in the shadows, gathering strength, plotting their next blow. They would see our fields burned, our people starved, our walls brought down. They would strike at us when we are weakest. I will not give them the chance.”

A murmur rippled through the ranks, but Levi continued without pause. “This is not a war we sought, but one we must finish. Ricos shelters those who would see Faywyn brought to ruin. Their walls protect traitors and brigands, men who would see your children fatherless and your homes desolate. We go now to scatter them, to break their strength before it can rise against us. This is not just our right; it is our duty.”

Donner’s grip tightened on his pike as Levi’s words settled over the crowd. His own thoughts churned. The taste of the last battle still lingered bitterly in his mouth, the screams of dying men and the stink of blood-soaked earth. He had thought himself brave once, until the truth of war had stripped him bare. Yet here he stood again, bound by duty and fear alike.

Levi’s voice rose, commanding their attention. “You are not alone in this fight. Each of you stands with his brother, with his house, with his lord. Together, we are stronger than any foe. And together, we will see Faywyn safe.” He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing, his tone softer but no less fierce. “I do not ask for blind courage. Fear is a part of all men, as it should be. But let it be the fire that hardens you, not the weight that breaks you. Stand firm, and you will endure. Fight as one, and you will triumph.”

The men’s faces had changed. Where doubt had lingered, determination now took root. Donner felt it too, though the stirring in his chest was tempered by doubt. The knot of fear in his gut tightened as he watched the faces around him, their expressions alight with a fervour that unsettled him. Did they not see the folly of this? The danger they marched toward with such blind resolve? He glanced at the men nearest him, his fellow sergeants, and saw the same mix of resolve and anxiety mirrored in their eyes. They were not knights, nor lords. They were farmers and labourers, men thrust into the crucible of war by necessity. Yet they stood, ready to march, their faith in their lord’s words unwavering. Donner envied them their certainty but could not share it. He had seen enough blood spilled to know that no speech, however rousing, could shield a man from a blade or an arrow.

Lord Levi’s hand moved to the pommel of his sword, his voice steady. “When the time comes, remember this: you fight not just for Faywyn, but for the lives that depend on its strength. For your kin, your hearths, your honour. Strike true, strike hard, and let the enemy know that Faywyn does not kneel.”

A cheer erupted from the men, growing louder, stronger, until it filled the yard. Donner shouted with them, though his voice lacked the conviction of those around him. The roar of approval felt like a tide pulling him along, sweeping away his misgivings for a moment, but not erasing them. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders felt lighter, the fear dulled by the fervour around him.

Lord Levi raised his hand, and the noise subsided. His gaze swept over them once more, his expression unreadable. “Make your preparations. We sail before the sun falls.”

The men began to disperse, the yard filling with the clamour of last-minute readiness. Donner lingered, his pike still planted in the earth. He looked to the brigs in the harbour, their sails furled and their decks bristling with activity. The path ahead was uncertain, but his course was set. He adjusted the strap of his shield and fell in with his comrades, ready to face what lay ahead.