Simon’s proposal was extremely tempting, and Derek thought it had a good chance of success. If they could keep those twenty thousand remnants behind, next year’s pressure would be much lighter.

Derek paced back and forth, his mind racing.

“First, let us sort this out. What do we gain if we raid them under cover of night? We might wipe out all twenty thousand men, perhaps even capture a count alive. The ransom alone could be worth a barony, along with a royal reward. Next year will be far easier.”

He listed the benefits one by one. The knights’ breathing grew heavier.

“But if this is a trap, everything is over. Birch Fort will fall, followed by Saint Miller Province. If we are lucky, we escape alive and spend the rest of our lives as exiles.

“But if we do nothing, every one of us already has a title, and some of us have fiefs. We have each claimed part of Saint Miller Province’s industries. Given time, those gains will become strength. Next year, the Holy Cross may send more troops, but our pressure will be lower instead. Even if we accomplish nothing else for the rest of our lives, it will be enough to pass our names down.”

As he spoke, Derek calmed down himself. The reward was great, but so was the risk. Had he reached the point where he needed to gamble his life?

No. He had the Panel. Time was on his side.

When he had owned nothing, staking his life had made sense. Now he held land, rank, and power. Why gamble all of it on one pursuit?

The knights calmed as well. The reward was not great enough to justify the danger. Holding Birch Fort would earn royal rewards, and many of their new fiefs would likely be enlarged. The tens of thousands of Holy Cross dead beneath the walls were proof enough of their merit. They did not need one last victory.

“I understand, Your Excellency,” Simon said. “We will watch them withdraw. Once we have saved enough strength, we can make them pay next year.”

“Correct. But that does not mean we do nothing. Simon, take a banner company of cavalry and ‘escort’ Count Connor out. The main army must not move, but light cavalry can watch the Holy Cross men and test what is real.”

Simon left with a banner company. The Holy Cross retreat was extremely hurried, leaving supplies scattered along the road. They even passed separated serf soldiers. It made Simon more certain that the enemy had simply collapsed. The winter solstice had passed, heavy snow was coming, and if the army delayed, half those serfs might freeze to death.

“The Viscount is too cautious,” Simon muttered, tempted again by the easy prizes scattered before him.

But long habit had taught him to trust Derek's judgment. He suppressed the impulse, however reluctantly.

Eager to track the enemy, Simon had no time to examine the road carefully. He did not notice that some scattered defeated soldiers had healthy complexions and looked nothing like serf troops.

Once the banner company passed, a serf soldier lying on the ground leapt up. His rags could not conceal his sturdy body. After running for some distance, he slipped into a small wood.

Had Simon followed, he would have found many private troops of Holy Cross nobles hidden there.

“My lord, a Locke cavalry unit passed just now. About one banner company.”

The scout’s report delighted the commander in the woods. “Good. The Count’s plan has worked. Those must be Locke scouts. Stay hidden. Do not let them discover us.”

They had spent too long beneath Birch Fort, suffering dreadful losses and swallowing their anger. Wars between the two kingdoms had always gone back and forth; the Holy Cross nobles refused to believe they were simply inferior. Their only problem, they told themselves, was Derek's refusal to leave his walls.

Now they could finally teach him a lesson.

The news spread swiftly. From the sky, one could have seen thousand-man units using woods, valleys, and other terrain to conceal themselves. It was not perfect, but it formed a rough fishing net. If Locke’s men pursued, the net would catch them.

Count Connor had not wasted his month beneath Birch Fort. After the first day's setback, he recognized the enemy's discipline. While maintaining pressure on the fortress, he sent men to survey the surrounding terrain and used that knowledge to prepare the ambush.

Everything ahead of Simon was bait—more than ten thousand men Connor had already written off. They would die to the snow and cold or to Locke's pursuit. Connor did not mind paying those lives for a victory that might restore his name.

The Holy Cross’s resolve was greater than many imagined.

Simon knew none of this. Such was the danger of incomplete information: careful inspection might have exposed the trap, but war rarely granted time for certainty. Opportunities vanished in moments, forcing commanders to balance caution against speed.

Still, the farther Simon pursued, the stranger it felt.

Military theory in this world remained primitive. Great commanders did not spread their household knowledge everywhere. Most capable generals either explored by talent alone or inherited scattered family wisdom.

Derek, however, possessed a comparatively complete military understanding and filled in details within that framework. It did not cover everything, but it was broadly complete. Simon and the others did not understand how valuable what they had learned was.

Now, those lessons stirred at the sight before him. A Holy Cross army could not march without resting. They were withdrawing, not yet fully routed. Though some soldiers had run off, the basic military structure remained. They still camped and cooked, and such traces were hard to hide.

No matter how cunning Count Connor was, the limits of his age shaped his thinking. Certain details had never occurred to him.

Simon walked once around the traces of a camp and immediately found the cause of his unease.

“The cooking fires. There aren't enough of them.”

This was a detail every commander of the age ignored. Armies needed to cook. Even serf soldiers would provoke backlash if morale was wholly disregarded. The number of cooking fires normally did not vary much.

Simon remembered the Viscount saying that if an enemy’s cooking fires changed in number, part of its army had certainly been hidden. If troops vanished during a retreat, where had they gone?

Cold sweat soaked him. If the main army had pursued, it would have walked straight into the trap.

“The Viscount was right. This retreat is a trap.”

But once he saw through it, it was no longer frightening. Simon pretended to notice nothing and continued following the Holy Cross army. After the first night, while dawn was still gray, he had his men cut branches and feed the horses well.

“That old Connor is too crafty. Let me fool him once more.”

Soon the hidden Holy Cross army saw dust rising toward the sky. Even in the dim light, broad clouds of dust suggested several thousand men.

“When did those damned Locke men arrive? Report to the Count!”

When Count Connor received the message, he did not doubt it. He was simply furious that his subordinates had left so many holes that they had not noticed the enemy approaching.

“Fortunately, we prepared for this. Order every unit to advance steadily and close off the Locke men's room to maneuver. I do not want them slipping away unseen again.”

The Holy Cross’s numerical advantage had been useless in a siege. But this was open country. He would make Locke regret it.

Simon drove his cavalry across the countryside until the Holy Cross commanders began closing their net. Knowing his small force would be destroyed if it met the enemy's main body, he discarded the branches and quietly slipped into another area.

When the Holy Cross troops pounced, they found no sign of Locke. If several groups of scouts had not confirmed it, they might have thought it a mistake.

When Count Connor learned this, the familiar feeling returned.

“Derek truly is a genius. Search! We must catch him, or he will become a lasting threat.”

He sensed a familiar hand behind the series of actions. He was convinced the enemy had not vanished without a trace; they had used some method to blind him. But could an army of several thousand really hide perfectly?

Connor believed he was close to catching them. He even moved the bait serfs to search for this Locke force.

Meanwhile, Simon appeared and disappeared. No matter how the Holy Cross army searched, he always led his small cavalry force around the encirclement. When he occasionally met enemies, no one thought this was the large Locke army they sought. They assumed it was merely scouts; no traces at all would have been stranger.

Seven days passed, and the Holy Cross army was exhausted. Count Connor had lost his original confidence. So many days without finding the enemy was clearly not a mistake.

“What did the Locke men use to escape my sight?”

Simon was exhausted too. Moving within the Holy Cross encirclement was both dangerous and stressful. But he raised his head to the leaden sky and smiled.

“The heavy snow is coming.”

After the winter solstice, the northern snow never failed to arrive. The Holy Cross army had wasted a week and would not make it home in time. Beneath heavy snow, all men were equal. How many of that army would return?

“Is this what the Viscount meant by subduing an army without fighting?”

Simon tossed away the dry straw at the corner of his mouth, mounted, and said, “Erase the tracks. We are going home.”

Their purpose had been achieved. There was no reason to continue provoking the Holy Cross army.

After two days without finding any sign of Locke, Count Connor finally understood.

"Fools! Every one of us! The Locke men have made fools of us."

He looked to the sky and admitted his own mistake. "A bitter joke, isn't it? Several dozen men have toyed with tens of thousands. Now we are truly in trouble."

The Holy Cross officers lowered their heads and committed Derek's name to memory. Unease spread through the ranks. They assumed Connor meant the coming snow, but he had sensed a deeper danger.

If such a brilliant commander survived, the Holy Cross would face years of trouble. Connor dreaded the thought of meeting Derek again.

“When we return, gather every scrap of information on Viscount Derek von Augusta.”

Connor suspected the trouble had only begun. Without thinking, he had used Augusta rather than Ferreira—an acknowledgment that Derek had truly taken possession of his new name and land. If the man could be won over, the Holy Cross could offer him another barony, or far more.

...

In contrast to the Holy Cross’s gloom and the difficult journey ahead, Birch Fort celebrated. Once it was confirmed that the Holy Cross had withdrawn, even the dreadful casualties seemed bearable.

Derek placed some outposts along the border and increased communication with the rear. Count Perez’s scouts had appeared behind Birch Fort half a month earlier. A week ago, once it was confirmed that the Holy Cross army facing them was withdrawing, reinforcements had rushed toward the fort.

Even after the withdrawal was certain, the old count personally brought his knightly order to Birch Fort. Simon returned with his report and told his story before everyone.

All were dumbfounded. Count Perez even asked Derek, “Which house is this young man from?” Such sharpness was impressive.

In truth, Simon’s talent was merely above average. Derek’s training was what made the difference. At such a time, Derek gladly let Simon earn a name and share some of the attention.

“He is my squire, a free commoner from my family’s lands.”

Some nobles would belittle even a brilliant achievement once they learned it belonged to a farmer's son. Others would find his rise all the more admirable. Simon could not satisfy everyone, but his record could silence them.

Simon stood tall beneath every gaze. Victory was honor. Strength was truth. Sword and steel gave him the confidence to meet their eyes.

They would also be Derek’s foundation. He had already seen the trouble coming. But this was Saint Miller Province—his territory.