Throughout the annals of war, few tactics have proven as devastating as the feigned retreat, an art sharpened by clever warlords and ambitious princes who sought to turn the arrogance of their foes into their undoing. Among the most storied wielders of this stratagem was Levi von Grifenburg, the Bloody Gryphon of Faywyn, whose cunning undid the pride of Lord Tristan of House Lormat, the Third Lion of Khule.

  Scholars of war still recount the assault as a masterstroke of deception. In the years that followed, it would come to be known as one of the great fulcrums that ensured the annexation of northern Quilton, and with it, the solidification of Levi von Grifenburg’s legend as the most formidable tacticians of his age.

  …

  Excerpt from the illustrated records of the inception of the Udorian Empire - The Wars of the Great Beasts: The Rise of Udoris as a World Power by Dan Scott

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  The Border - Northern Algrim, 3rd Moon, 25th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  Lord Tristan stood upon a jagged promontory overlooking the smoldering wreckage of his baggage train. Smoke twisted skyward in thick, black plumes. Tristan’s face, a mask of iron composure, gave no outward sign of the fury churning within him. Yet his dark eyes, brooding and sharp, betrayed the storm raging beneath. The acrid stench of scorched wood, charred flesh, and burnt grain filled the air, mingling with the distant cries of wounded men and the groans of wounded pack animals still tethered to their shattered burdens.

  The devastation was total. Supplies vital for the siege of Faywyn—powder, food, tools of war—lay in ruins. His army, though intact, now teetered on the precipice of desperation. Tristan’s gaze swept the field below, taking in the scattered remnants of his once-mighty column, the disarrayed soldiers picking through the ashes in search of salvageable scraps. His jaw tightened.

  "Abel," he said at last, his voice low and commanding.

  "Yes, my lord?" The squire, barely more than a boy, stepped forward hesitantly.

  "Fetch me Captain Aelric," Tristan ordered, the words brooking no argument. The boy scrambled away, returning moments later with a weathered knight clad in steel-grey armor.

  "My lord?" Aelric said, bowing his head in deference.

  "Have my orders for fresh supplies and spare cannons been dispatched?" Tristan asked, his tone sharp as a whetted blade.

  "Aye, my lord," Aelric replied. "The riders departed ere dawn."

  Tristan gave a curt nod, though his gaze remained fixed on the wreckage below. "The pup is clever," he muttered, more to himself than to his captain. "Cleverer than I gave him credit for. This—" He gestured to the ruin before him. "—this is no common stratagem. They aim not for our swords, but for our bellies and our powder. The boy seeks not to slay us, but to starve us, to cripple our will to fight. He does not plan to meet us on the field, but to choke us out, to force us back with the slow poison of attrition."

  He turned then, fixing Aelric with a piercing stare. "No man confident in victory seeks to dissuade his foes from falling upon his blade. The Gryphon fears us, Captain. He fears what will come if we meet in open battle."

  Aelric inclined his head, though his lips pressed into a thin line. "He is cunning, my lord," the captain admitted, "but cunning is no substitute for steel. He strikes from the shadows because he knows his host cannot best ours in the light of day."

  "Perhaps," Tristan said, his voice colder now, the edge of his fury tempered into resolve. "But I have grown weary of this game. Enough." He turned his gaze back to the ruins. "Have the men sift all they can from the wreckage. Food, armor, weapons—anything that can be salvaged is to be gathered at once. Dispatch foragers into the surrounding woods. They are to scour every thicket and glen for enough sustenance to see us through until reinforcements arrive. Whatever can be spared from the cavalry is to be sent ahead to secure the supply lines."

  He straightened, his silhouette sharp against the pall of smoke behind him. "And when the work is done, we march. The Gryphon has shown his hand, but I shall grant him no reprieve. His cunning has bought him time, but time is all he will gain. Let him skulk in the shadows. Let him think himself the predator. When we reach Faywyn, I will remind him who is the hunter and who is the prey."

  Aelric bowed low, his expression grim but resolute. "Your will be done, my liege."

  Night draped the smoldering campsite in a shroud of pale silver, the moon casting its cold light upon the ruins of what had once been a bustling baggage train. Smoke curled skyward in lazy tendrils, mingling with the faint cries of nightbirds and the weary murmurs of men still searching through the wreckage. Tristan’s forces moved clumsily in the dark, their torches flickering as they sifted noisily through charred debris, hoping against hope to find something of value amidst the ruin.

  "Over here!" a soldier bellowed, his voice cutting through the stillness. The man hefted a small barrel from beneath the blackened remains of a collapsed wagon, his grin wide enough to show the gap in his teeth. "Wine!" he shouted triumphantly, the word carrying like a beacon through the gloom.

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  Sean, standing nearby, turned with a scowl that could curdle milk. "Take only what ye can carry," he hissed, his voice low but sharp enough to draw the soldier’s attention. "And be swift about it. The lord suspects the brig might return by morning, and we can ill afford to linger."

  The soldier wilted under Sean’s glare, muttering something incoherent as he hefted the barrel onto his shoulder and shuffled away. Sean paid him no further mind, his gaze sweeping over the camp with growing irritation. This was supposed to have been a simple march, a calculated return to Faywyn under the Lion’s shadow. Weeks of biting his tongue and enduring the Lord’s disdain had not been for honor’s sake but for strategy. Tristan’s interference was meant to render all resistance moot. With Faywyn’s forces diminished, vulnerable, who could have opposed the Lion of Khule?

  And yet, time and again, their plans were dashed, as though the ancestors themselves sought to toy with their ambitions. Many whispered that the Gryphon’s hand was behind these relentless strikes, but Sean knew better. The name on his tongue was another’s, one no less formidable in cunning: Lancelot.

  It has to be him, Sean thought bitterly. His fingers twitched at his side, itching for the hilt of his blade as his frustration mounted. That son of a whore.

  "We cannot endure another loss like this," he muttered, speaking to Drake, the knight standing beside him. Drake, grim and silent, watched the salvage operation with a stoicism that only deepened Sean’s irritation. "The viscount’s games are bleeding us dry. I must speak with Lord Tristan—convince him to seek another route to Faywyn, one less obvious, less vulnerable to these harrying tactics."

  Drake was quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning the horizon as though searching for unseen threats. At last, he nodded. "The Lord likely sees the same. I suspect he’s already dispatched scouts to search for alternative paths. He’s no fool, nor is he blind to our plight. The forest is vast; surely there is some hidden trail, some safer road."

  Sean’s eyes narrowed. "He had better find one, and soon." The Lion of Khule strode forward, his dark eyes blazing with suppressed fury as he surveyed the chaos around him. "I can ill afford to lose possession of Faywyn now. Not now; too much has been sacrificed already to get to this point."

  Looming on the Strega’s dark waters, hidden from sight along the opposite shore, the Codfather lay in wait. A shadow against the night, her darkened hull and deck melding with the murk of the river. Her cannons were primed and silent, each barrel aimed with cruel intent. Tristan’s forces, oblivious to the danger, scoured the ruins of their baggage train, their torchlight flickering like fireflies in the distance. From the brig’s deck, Levi watched them intently through his seeing glass, his features illuminated faintly by the moonlight.

  "Patience," Levi murmured, glancing at the crewman beside him, whose fidgeting betrayed his nerves.

  Time stretched thin, the minutes dripping like blood from a fresh wound. The night offered no sound but the rhythmic lapping of the river against the brig’s hull and the faint creak of timbers settling beneath the weight of tension. The scavengers toiled on, oblivious to the danger.

  Levi’s hand rose, fingers curling into a signal. "Fire!"

  The word cracked the night, a harbinger of ruin.

  BOOM!

  The cannons spoke as one, their roar splitting the darkness, the light of their fury illuminating the shore. Grapeshot screamed through the air, tearing into the scavengers below. Wagons splintered, barrels burst, and the men of Tristan’s host cried out in terror and agony as shot ripped through flesh and bone. The shore, so recently filled with the quiet industry of salvage, erupted into chaos.

  Men scrambled for cover, their torches dropped and extinguished as panic overtook them. Flames licked hungrily at what remained of the baggage train, illuminating the broken bodies scattered across the riverbank. From the Codfather’s deck, Levi stood unmoving, his expression carved from stone as he watched the chaos he had unleashed.

  "Reload," he commanded, his voice as cold as the night. The gunners leapt into action, working with the precision born of practice and fear.

  "Helmsman," Levi barked, his gaze never leaving the wreckage below. "Show them our portside."

  "Aye, milord!" The helmsman spun the wheel, the Codfather, aided by the current, shifting with a surprising grace, her hull turning to present her other broadside. Below, Tristan’s men scrambled, scattering toward the treeline like frightened rats, leaving behind what meager supplies they had recovered.

  Levi’s hand rose again. "Fire!"

  BOOM!

  The cannons thundered once more, their iron song a dirge for the doomed. Shot and flame tore through the trees, shredding foliage and flesh alike. The forest echoed with the cacophony of destruction, the acrid stench of burning powder mingling with the sickly-sweet scent of charred wood and flesh.

  The brig rocked gently as the recoil subsided, her crew staring silently at the devastation wrought upon the shore. Below, the remnants of the Lion’s men vanished into the shadows, their cries fading into the distance.

  Levi lowered his hand, his seeing glass snapping shut with a sharp click. "Men!” he boomed, his voice echoing in the night. “Drop anchor! Ready the guns! Fire at will!"

  From the shadowed cover of the treeline, Tristan watched as fire and iron tore through his scattered men. The screams of the dying carried faintly on the wind. His forces, once again battered and bloodied, melted into the forest like morning mist under the sun’s glare, abandoning the ruins of their salvaged supplies to the relentless assault of the Codfather’s guns.

  The Lion of Khule stood silent, his broad shoulders stiff with suppressed fury. His plans—carefully laid, meticulously calculated—were once again thwarted. Once more, the Gryphon’s dishonorable stratagems had robbed him of his prize. Once more, the boy had struck from the shadows, denying Tristan the glory of an open contest.

  Rage burned in Tristan’s chest, a slow, smoldering fire that threatened to consume him. His hand clenched tight around the pommel of his sword, the leather creaking beneath his grip. But his face betrayed none of it. His features, unyielding as the crags of the Aiga, were a mask of cold resolve.

  The boy was clever—he would grant him that. But cleverness was not strength. And strength, Tristan knew, was what would win this war. The Gryphon’s time would come. The boy could not hide behind his cannons forever. One day, he would stand before the Lion, blade in hand, with no river to shield him, no ship to bear him away. And on that day, Tristan vowed, a toll shall be paid.