That night, the war council meeting felt less like a meeting to plan and more like a pack of wolves circling a wound. The tension was real, like the smell of old paper and beeswax in my father's study, which was very quiet. Maps were spread out on the blackwood desk, with thick lines showing the lifelines of our House. These lifelines were now being systematically cut off.
Father sat enthroned in his heavy chair, a silent volcano of controlled fury. Damian stood ramrod straight before the map detailing the capital trade routes, a general already calculating troop movements and counter-strikes. I occupied a space near the hearth, feeling the familiar pressure of expectation shift towards a domain I barely understood – politics, economics, the subtle poisons of courtly warfare. And Elias… Elias was different. He stood apart, near the door, not with his usual sullen slump, but with a straight-backed alertness, his face pale but his eyes holding a sharp, almost feverish, calculation. The immediate threat seemed to have burned away his apathy, replacing it with a nervous energy I hadn't seen before.
"This is a declaration of war," Damian finally stated, his voice a low growl that vibrated with barely contained aggression. He stabbed a finger at the Triumvirate Bridge on the map. "A trade embargo by another name. They probe our defenses, test our resolve. They expect supplication. We must meet it with strength. A full legion, Father. Ready within a day. We escort the next caravan ourselves, straight through their illegitimate checkpoint. Let the Imperial Knights dare enforce Vane's fabricated 'tariff' against five hundred Ashworth spears."
Bold. Simple. Steeped in the proud, unyielding tradition of our House. A classic Ashworth response. Meet force with greater force. It was also, I realized with a sickening lurch in my gut, precisely the reaction House Vane must have anticipated. A perfectly laid trap, baited with our own fierce pride.
"And when they do?" I asked quietly, my voice cutting through the martial certainty. All eyes snapped to me. Damian's, sharp and questioning. Elias's, surprised I wasn't advocating for aggression. Father's, merely waiting, weighing. "When the Imperial Knights – loyal to the Crown, remember, not to us – declare your 'escort' an act of military aggression against the capital?" I continued, holding Damian's gaze. "When House Vane, feigning outrage, presents 'evidence' to the Royal Council that the 'barbaric border lords' are marching on the heartlands, violating Imperial decrees? You'll be branded a traitor, our House charged with insurrection. Your legion pinned down, possibly destroyed, hundreds of miles from home. Vane achieves total victory without drawing a sword. We will have walked willingly into their snare."
Silence descended, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the fire's crackle. Damian's jaw worked, but he offered no rebuttal. He saw the cold, brutal logic. The trap was obvious, now illuminated.
"Then we do nothing?" Elias interjected, his voice sharp with frustration, echoing his earlier sentiment but now colored by a dawning comprehension of the intricate game being played. "We let them choke us? Let the capital jackals dictate terms? We sit here and wait for our coffers to run dry, our allies to abandon us?" He looked genuinely distressed, the threat to the House seemingly outweighing his personal grievances for the moment.
Then, he did something unprecedented. He straightened his shoulders, took a deliberate step towards the desk, and addressed our father not as a petulant second son, but as a potential strategist. His voice, though tight with nerves, was clear and steady. "Damian is right, we must act," he began, his gaze firm. "And Lancelot is right, overt force is suicide. This is not, as Lancelot implied, solely a soldier's problem. Not yet. It is a courtier's problem. A political problem, requiring a political solution." He seemed to draw strength from his own words, standing a little taller.
He took a breath, clearly stepping onto unfamiliar ground but determined to hold it. "Vane controls the main artery. A military escort is folly. So, we bypass the artery. We carve a new path." He moved to the map, his finger tracing a route through the rugged territories to our south. "House Sterling," he declared, tapping their crest. "Their lands border the southern plains. They have access to the Azure River trade – routes that flow directly to the southern ports, bypassing the capital entirely. If we secure an exclusive trade agreement, a partnership… we ship our ore downriver. We cut Vane, and the capital's stranglehold, out of the loop. We turn their blockade into an irrelevance."
I watched him, genuinely impressed. It was sound. Well-reasoned. And it played directly to Elias's strengths.
"I have known Lord Alistair Sterling since we were pages," Elias pressed on, sensing the shift in the room, his voice gaining confidence. "His son, Marius – no relation to the Volanti peacock, thank the ancestors – squired with me. We share history, respect forged in shared training. He understands border pressures. He values the old ways, the bonds Vane and their ilk seek to erode. He will listen to me. Send me, Father." The plea was naked, yes, but layered with undeniable logic. "Let me prove that a well-placed word, a carefully negotiated alliance, can be as powerful as a spear in this kind of war. Damian is our shield, Lancelot our blade. Let me be our voice."
He wasn't just vying for position; he was arguing for his relevance, for the value of his skills in a conflict that baffled traditional Ashworth might. He was offering a solution rooted in his world, the world of courtly maneuvering. And for the first time, it felt like a genuine contribution, not just a grasp for attention.
My father observed him for a long, silent moment. He looked at Damian, the steadfast shield. He looked at me, the unpredictable blade. And he looked at Elias, the potential diplomat, finally stepping out of his brothers' shadows with a plan of his own making.
"A multi-pronged strategy has merit," the Count rumbled finally. "Ignoring this is not an option. Neither is walking into their trap." He looked at Damian. "Reinforce the borders. Increase patrols. Make a show of strength. Let them see the wolf is neither sleeping nor starving. You are the shield." Then, his gaze settled on his second son. The weight of his attention was immense. "Elias. You will have your chance. Take a small, diplomatic envoy. Choose wisely. Ride to House Sterling. Secure this alliance. Your tongue must be sharper than any Vane dagger. Do not fail."
A flicker of pure triumph lit Elias's eyes, quickly masked by formal deference. He had won. He had carved out a critical role using his own strengths. He bowed sharply. "Thank you, Father. I understand the stakes. I will not disappoint you." He left the study with a new purpose in his step. Damian watched him go, a complex expression – surprise? grudging respect? – on his face.
The plan was sound. On paper. Yet, that cold knot of unease remained in my stomach. Elias was walking into a game where the rules had changed, armed only with the strategies of the past. He was an olive branch offered in good faith. And I had a terrible feeling he was about to encounter something far colder and sharper than mere political maneuvering.