Chapter 7
The air over Biscay was heavy with smoke and salt, the cries of gulls drowned beneath the sound of men screaming, steel clashing, and banners snapping in the coastal wind.
Commander Inigo stood at the vanguard, his black hair tied back tightly, his spear gleaming under the afternoon sun. He had been in countless battles, but this one felt different. Castile's forces, seasoned and many, had surged into Navarrese territory with frightening precision. Already, the shoreline and the nearby hills echoed with the thunder of hooves and the groans of men cut down.
Navarre's troops were holding, but barely. Their lines wavered under the relentless press of Castilian steel. The enemy commander, hidden somewhere behind the frontline, had sent wave after wave of soldiers to push them back toward the sea. Biscay's coast was no place to retreat. To lose here was to lose the gate to Navarre's northern flank.
Inigo stepped forward.
"Hold the line!" his voice thundered, clear even over the din. His spear lashed out, piercing the chest of a charging Castilian knight, unseating him. With a swift pivot, he spun the weapon, hooking another rider off his horse and sending him crashing into the dirt.
His presence was like fire spreading through dry brush. The Navarrese, weary and bloodied, felt their spirits stir. A commander who fought in the front with them—who bled beside them—was a man worth following.
One soldier gasped, "It's the commander! Inigo fights with us!"
A roar followed. Spears leveled. Shields braced. The Navarrese line surged forward again.
Inigo's spear was everywhere. It thrust, swept, and cracked like a serpent striking in every direction. He moved with practiced grace, each step measured, each strike deliberate. When a Castilian cavalry charge threatened to break the flank, he sprinted ahead, planting his spear into the ground to vault himself upward. In midair, he wrenched the weapon free and drove it into the throat of the lead horse. The beast toppled, flipping its rider into the mud. The charge faltered, and the Navarrese pressed the gap with a deafening war cry.
Within two hours, what had seemed like a doomed defense had turned. The tide shifted. Castile's soldiers, once fierce and confident, began to falter. Some pulled back. Others outright fled, trampling comrades to escape Navarre's counterattack.
By late afternoon, Biscay was safe—for now. The Castilian banners retreated beyond the hills, horns blaring in withdrawal.
The Navarrese roared in triumph, but Inigo did not smile.
His brow furrowed, sweat mixing with blood that wasn't all his own.
"Too fast," he muttered. "They left too quickly. Armies don't scatter like that—not trained ones. Not Castile."
One of his lieutenants wiped his blade and said, "Commander, we've won! Biscay is safe. Surely they saw your strength and lost their will to fight."
Inigo didn't answer. He stared at the horizon where Castile's banners had vanished. His gut twisted. This wasn't over. This was a move on a larger board.
And he knew it.
Meanwhile, inside the thick stone walls of Pamplona's castle, Lope was having a very different battle.
After finishing his bath, he paced his room, the headache from system integration finally subsiding. Much better, he thought, rubbing his temples. His mind shifted to practical matters. Workers. Soap. Construction. I can't waste time.
"Ochoa," he called, sitting cross-legged on his bed, "I need to hire people for work around the castle. Construction. Thirty men, no fewer."
"Yes, my lord," Ochoa replied, bowing slightly.
"And another thing," Lope continued, voice steady. "Get me supplies. Fat or oil—the kind they use for cooking. Buckets of wood ash water. And clean water. Lots of it."
Ochoa tilted his head, clearly confused. "May I ask what for, my prince?"
Lope smirked faintly, leaning back with a glint in his eyes. "I'm planning something."
The Queen interrupted as ochoa leaves
Lope had just been organizing his notes for the cesspool system when Ochoa announced, "My lord, the Queen requests your presence."
Lope froze. He hadn't expected her so soon.
The Queen entered the room, her golden hair gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Her green eyes softened when they found him, and before he could react, she smiled warmly.
"My sweet boy," she said gently, "I wanted to check on you. And remember, your fiancée will be arriving in a week. Has everything been arranged?"
Lope blinked, caught completely off guard. Fiancée? he thought, his heart racing. "I… I've sent word, mother. Everything should be ready for her arrival."
She nodded approvingly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Good. Make sure you are prepared. I'll be nearby if you need anything."
Lope stood still, stunned. A fiancée he didn't even know—and he had just sent a message to her. Great… now I have to deal with that, he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples.
Night Inquiry
Later, under the cover of darkness, Lope found Rosa sweeping the hall.
"Rosa," he whispered. "Tell me about my fiancée."
She hesitated but then spoke: "I've also only heard rumours of her they say she has Brown hair, brown eyes. Extremely beautiful. Outspoken, spoiled, and arrogant."
Lope thought, "rosa is so blunt, but i guess that's a good thing
Sword Practice
That afternoon, Lance strode into the training yard, a wooden sword resting on his shoulder. His voice was steady, practical.
"Afternoon, my lord. Let's begin training."
Lope tightened his grip on his own practice blade and nodded. No chatter, no ceremony—just straight into the clash. The spar was brutal, sweat dripping from his brow as Lance pressed him hard, forcing him to react, to adapt.
Minutes bled into an hour. Lope felt his body straining, but there was a strange rhythm to the movements now—less clumsy, more instinctive. By the time Lance finally called for a pause, Lope dropped his sword, panting hard, his shirt clinging to him.
He leaned back against the fence, wiping sweat from his face, and opened the system tab:
Current Stats
• Strength: 4 (+1)
• Stamina: 4 (+1)
• Speed: 3
Skills
• Beginner Swordsmanship – Level 35
Lope smirked through his exhaustion. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Worker Organization
By midday, Ochoa returned with thirty men. Lope assigned positions: diggers, stone carriers, carpenters, and laborers. Tomorrow, construction on the cesspool and soap production would begin.
He rubbed his hands together. Tomorrow, this castle will stop stinking.
The Twist in the Castile Offensive
Back on the battlefield, Inigo's suspicions deepened. Castile's retreat from Biscay was far too orderly, too sudden. The king had expected a push toward La Rioja. But the enemy did not march south.
Instead, they pivoted east, toward Araba.
Strategically, it was a masterstroke. ControllingAraba gave Castile dominance over key passes and routes between Castile and Navarre. By cutting araba, they isolated Navarre from its northern Basque territories, creating a strategic buffer and safer troop movement.
Inigo's eyes narrowed. The danger was far from over.
⸻
The Navarrese would soon learn that the fight for Biscay was only the beginning. Araba awaited, and Castile's cunning had just set the stage for disaster.