The Duke sat in grim silence beside Alaric, both hunched over a worn table where an ancient map lay unfurled. The candlelight flickered against the parchment, casting dancing shadows like ghosts of war yet to be fought.
Alaric nodded, his finger tracing across inked landmarks."The cultist castle lies fifty thousand feet west of the entrance. Guarded by Greyhounds. Ruthless. Loyal. But predictable."He tapped the trees just northeast of the fortress."A graveyard of dead trees surrounds them. Perfect for concealment."
Alaric's voice dropped, steady and cold."Our assault unfolds in three stages."
"First—Ignition Zone.""The knights, cloaked in silence, will infiltrate the outer perimeter and lay down oil and straw in a wide ring. Not close enough to alert them, but near enough to trap them. This will be our fuel."He paused, then continued."Then, we dig. A firebreak trench encircling the entire zone—deep and wide—to halt the flames from spreading beyond our control."
"Second—Ignition."The Duke closed his eyes, murmuring a low incantation as a faint heat stirred around him."I will summon the flames myself. The forest will burn as judgment incarnate."
"Third—The Sweep."Alaric's hand clenched into a fist."Once the fire has devoured the stronghold's walls and broken their line, I will lead the knights in. We finish what the flames began. No survivors."
The Duke's eyes blazed like embers in the dark."Let the fire speak for us."