Night had fallen, wrapping the valley in silence, but the camp was still awake.
Torches flickered along the palisade, casting long, dancing shadows. The air was thick with tension. Solomon had ordered strict rotations—half the men slept with their weapons, while the other half stood watch, eyes peeling the darkness for movement.
Inside the command tent, Solomon sat by a brazier, studying a map of the valley.
"Casualties?" he asked without looking up.
Lauchlan, still buzzing with adrenaline, took a breath. "Two dead, my lord. One took a throwing axe to the face—bad luck, he was in the fourth rank. The other... well, he tripped when the savages charged and cracked his head on a stake."
Solomon nodded slowly. War was rarely glorious; mostly, it was just clumsy.
"Note their names," Solomon said. "If their families are evicted, move them to Mirekeep. I keep my promises."
"Yes, my lord!" Lauchlan beamed. But then, his face clouded with confusion. He scratched his head.
"My lord... may I ask? Why didn't we chase them?"
The question hung in the air.
"They were running!" Lauchlan pressed, his voice rising. "We had them! If we had jumped the fence, we could have slaughtered them all! Why let them go?"
Solomon finally looked up. His expression was calm, almost bored.
"Sit down, Lauchlan."
Lauchlan sat.
"Tell me," Solomon asked gently. "Who are your men?"
"They are... your soldiers, my lord."
"No," Solomon corrected. "What were they three days ago?"
Lauchlan blinked. "Farmers. Potters. Tanners."
"Exactly," Solomon said, leaning forward. "They are farmers with new swords. Today, they stood firm because they had a wall in front of them and a friend beside them. They were a machine."
"But if I ordered a pursuit," Solomon continued, his voice hardening, "that machine would break."
"They would run into the open field. They would lose their formation. They would become individuals again—slow, clumsy individuals. And do you know what the Burned Men are in the open field?"
Solomon held up a hand, mimicking a claw.
"They are wolves. They would turn around, see a mob of disorganized peasants, and butcher you in five minutes."
Lauchlan's mouth opened, then closed. The excitement drained from his face as the image sank in.
"Furthermore," Solomon added, "did you look at the ground after they left?"
Lauchlan frowned, thinking back.
Solomon smiled. "Were there any bodies?"
Lauchlan's eyes went wide. He slapped his forehead.
"By the Seven... no! They took them! Even while retreating, they dragged their dead and wounded with them!"
"Correct," Solomon said. "A routed enemy drops everything and runs. An enemy that drags its dead is not routed—they are merely repositioning. If we had chased them, we would have run straight into an ambush."
Lauchlan shuddered. "I... I see now. I am a fool."
"You are learning," Solomon said kindly. "That is better than being dead."
He turned back to the map.
The situation was grim. Deepvalley Keep was surrounded by a thousand wildlings. His three hundred men couldn't break that siege directly—it would be suicide.
So we don't break it, Solomon thought. We starve it.
"We cannot enter the castle," Solomon muttered, tracing the supply lines. "So we will become the ghosts in the woods. We will hit their foraging parties. We will cut their scouts. We will bleed them by a thousand cuts until they are too weak to hold the siege."
He stood up, stretching his back. The night air was cool, smelling of pine and impending violence.
Lauchlan watched him, sensing a shift. "My lord? What about the Burned Men in the village? The ones we fought today?"
Solomon turned. The firelight caught his face, casting deep shadows that made his smile look predatory.
It wasn't the warm smile of a lord. It was the grin of a hunter who had just set a snare.
"The Burned Men?" Solomon repeated softly. "You wanted to attack them, Lauchlan? You wanted a proper fight?"
He walked to the tent flap and looked out at the dark silhouette of the enemy-held village.
"Get the men ready," Solomon whispered. "The opportunity... is coming tonight."