The chill of Ost-Kamen seeped into my bones, a damp, pervasive cold that felt less like weather and more like the very breath of the mountain. I stood before the Royal War College’s grandest war table, a monstrosity of polished darkwood and meticulously carved terrain. Carved tokens representing home pikemen and invading dragoons were spread across its surface like hungry ants, waiting for a god’s hand to move them.
“The ‘Saintess’ of Skarn,” Colonel Borin’s voice grated, cutting through the heavy silence. His eyes, the color of wet slate, swept over me with a contempt that could curdle milk. “A child of prophecy, they say. One who divines the enemy’s movements through… divine inspiration.” He paused, letting the word hang like a bad omen. He was a man carved from granite and tradition, his uniform immaculate, his face a roadmap of ancient grudges.
Beside him, Lord Marshal Marek Sova sat impassively, a predator in repose. His dark hair was swept back from a severe face, and his gaze, sharp as a whetted blade, offered nothing. He was the realm’s grim hope, its most ruthless defender, and my unwilling patron. I felt the slow burn of borrowed power within me, a subtle hum that was both a lifeline and a timer.
“Colonel Borin seems unconvinced, ‘Saintess’ Zosia,” Marek’s voice was a low rumble, surprisingly even. “Perhaps you’ll offer him a demonstration.”
Borin scoffed, reaching into a small pouch at his belt. His fingers, thick as sausages, extracted a single, polished grain of rice. He held it up, letting it catch the dim light from the iron chandeliers. Then, with a theatrical flick, he slid it across the table’s smooth surface until it rested precisely where my token, a crude wooden doll, should have been.
“Prophecy is the last refuge of the desperate,” Borin declared, his voice booming. “Show us a miracle, girl. Tell us how this… grain of rice… will hold the southern pass against Commander Vrol’s double envelopment.” His challenge was plain: I was nothing, easily crushed, inconsequential.
My lips twitched. A grain of rice. How very humble. I knew Vrol’s maneuver, or rather, I knew its historical analogues. The invaders, for all their mystic reputation, fought with predictable, if brutal, efficiency. Their grand offensive was a classic double envelopment, a tactic as old as Cannae, but one that local commanders, mired in defensive fortresses and linear formations, struggled to repel.
I stepped forward, my gaze sweeping the table. Our royal forces, cast in dark iron, clustered in a tight, almost static defensive posture in the foothills of the Kyrov range. The enemy, leaden figures with horned helmets, coiled like twin serpents, poised to strike from the north and west.
Petyr, my lanky, perpetually worried bodyguard, coughed softly from his spot against the far wall. “Saintess,” he murmured, so low only I could hear. “Maybe don’t upset the Colonel too much.” Common sense. Always from Pike. I ignored him.
“Colonel Borin’s deployment,” I began, my voice clear and steady, “assumes Commander Vrol will commit to a full frontal assault once the jaws close. A logical, if somewhat optimistic, assumption given Vrol’s historical preference for attrition.” I picked up a small, heavy piece representing an imperial artillery battery. “But Vrol doesn’t need to break the line. He only needs to *pin* it.”
A ripple of murmurs went through the council. Borin’s face tightened. He liked his battle plans simple, his enemies dunderheads.
“The hostile northern flank,” I continued, moving a cluster of mounted raiders. “They won’t engage the bulk of our forces directly. They’ll sweep wide, through the Sunderwood Pass, not to outflank, but to *block* our retreat routes to the Valen Peaks. A feint to draw our attention, yes, but their true purpose is to trap.” My fingers deftly rearranged the lead tokens, pulling a significant contingent of their northern force away from the main thrust and sending them in a looping arc towards a narrow mountain pass previously left undefended.
Borin leaned forward, a frown creasing his brow. “Madness! That leaves their northern arm dangerously thin, vulnerable to an assault from our reserves in Kaelburg.”
“Kaelburg reserves are two days’ march away, Colonel,” I replied, my voice gaining an edge. “And Vrol knows it. He also knows your attachment to the ‘impenetrable wall’ defense. So, he won’t try to break the wall. He’ll make the wall irrelevant.” I moved the grain of rice, my proxy, to a small, unassuming defile nestled between two hills. “This position, at the mouth of the Whisperwind Gap, is where the *real* battle will be fought. Not a glorious clash, but a bottleneck. A slaughterhouse.”
I began to move our line units, pulling them from their rigid lines. A company of archers to a ridge overlooking the Whisperwind Gap, not in a firing line, but spread out, concealed. A small detachment of skirmishers, previously guarding a non-existent threat, I sent to fortify the approach to the gap from the opposing southern column. It was a counter-intuitive, almost cowardly, retreat from the main battle line, sacrificing ground to gain a tactical advantage. It was a strategy of fluid defense, of elastic lines, of turning the enemy’s strength against itself. Concepts alien to the kingdom’s ancient military texts.
Borin watched, his jaw slack. “You are suggesting we abandon the Kyrov lines? Retreat into a *trap* of our own making?”
“I’m suggesting we turn their trap into ours,” I corrected, my gaze locking onto his. “You operate from a playbook written by men who fought with bronze and prayer. Vrol, for all his superstition, understands logistics and choke points. Your textbook strategies, Colonel, are not obsolete because they’re old, but because they’re predictable. An enemy scout could tell you your next move before you even draw breath.”
The silence that followed was absolute, sharp with Borin’s public humiliation. Some of the younger officers shifted in their seats, their expressions a mix of awe and terror. Borin’s face was a mask of furious red, his eyes narrowed to slits. He looked as though he wanted to tear me limb from limb.
Marek Sova, however, remained still as a statue. His gaze, no longer impassive, was fixed on me, a flicker of something new—fascination, perhaps, or a dangerous curiosity—shining in their depths. The corners of his mouth, just barely, curved upward.
He pushed himself away from the table, a low scrape of wood against stone. He walked around Borin, ignoring the fuming officer, and stopped directly in front of me. His height was formidable, his presence a heavy cloak. He leaned in, his voice a low command, just for my ears.
“You have my attention. Now, you have one week to prove this isn’t a parlor trick, or the headsman will finish what the Colonel started.”