"Did you find a good place for an ambush—or at least one we can defend?"
Matthew's question hit sharply.
Sir Haven flushed with embarrassment.
They'd ridden far, but the land offered little: no valleys, no cliffs, not even a decent river to use as cover.
His silence said everything. The whole camp grew quiet.
Bernas just looked at Matthew—waiting for orders.
After the first ambush's success, the old mercenary had accepted the young noble as his superior. The boy had wit, nerve, and a predator's sense for timing.
For northerners like Bernas, things were simple: the strong commanded, and the wise deserved to lead.
Matthew's eyes gleamed under the dim starlight. He had far more to weigh than anyone else.
Should he think ahead—or think now?
The refugees Haven had brought meant slower travel, weaker maneuvering, and a higher chance of ruin if pursued.
But… what choice did he want to make?
He raised his head, looking at the scattered stars. They glittered faintly—like the eyes of old heroes still watching the living.
As his thoughts drifted, an old tale stirred in his mind:
Liu Bei had once chosen not to abandon the people when fleeing from Xin Ye.
If you want to build something from nothing—if you want a name—you take risks.
Success or failure would depend on fate… and courage.
Matthew's lips curled into a grin. He dropped his gaze to Haven, eyes steady and bright.
"Go," he said. "Bring them here."
Sir Haven blinked—half wanting to laugh, half struck by the commanding tone.
He thumped a fist against his chest. "At once." Then turned, vaulted into his saddle, and rode off.
Dust swept up behind him. The distant rumble of hooves faded into the wind.
When the sound finally vanished, Bernas turned back toward Matthew. "What now, my lord? Do we dig in—or keep moving?"
Matthew glanced up at the pale moon, then shook his head.
"We pull back."
Bernas blinked. "Pull back?"
He'd expected his leader to charge for Sow's Ridge, not retreat.
Matthew nodded calmly as he walked back toward the wagons. "The road ahead's too exposed, and staying here's no better. But back there,"—he pointed toward the distant hills—"there's a narrow, barren valley that could use a little… attention."
Bernas scratched his bald head, smiling despite himself. Whatever plan this was, it sounded like trouble.
Before he could follow, Matthew turned and added, "You stay here. Wait for Haven and the refugees. Make sure everything goes smooth."
Bernas stopped short, then gave a curt nod. "Understood."
The two men parted—one to guard, one to lead.
Soon after, under Matthew's urging, the column packed up the spoils and began trudging uphill. Bernas lingered behind, mounted on his horse, watching them descend the far slope.
He stood there for a long moment, face unreadable in the starlight, whispering something only the night could hear.
Behind, the soldiers mumbled among themselves, glancing back now and then.
Matthew let them talk. After all, weary bodies needed noise to keep them awake.
By dawn's edge, they had climbed and crossed three rough ridges.
When the horizon broke into dull gray light, an empty valley unfolded below them—a narrow cut in dead, yellow soil.
Matthew rode ahead, calling out, "Keep moving! Almost there!"
The men groaned but obeyed, forcing their aching legs onward.
After nearly a thousand paces, they reached the valley floor.
There was nothing living here. No trees, barely any grass—only drooping weeds clinging to the slopes as if sighing in despair.
The valley stretched maybe five hundred feet from end to end, just wide enough for a single wagon with arms to spare. Its walls rose barely twenty feet—but it would do.
Perfect for an ambush.
Matthew's cart rolled through first. The mercenaries followed in silence until they reached the far exit.
The dawn mist had begun to lift, casting a faint glow over the landscape.
Matthew crouched down, kicking the ground with his boot—hard-packed, dry earth. Not ideal for digging, but not impossible.
He turned. "Bors! Take some men. Dig pits near the entrance—not too deep, but make lots of them."
Bors nodded, grabbing a few of the stronger men and getting to work.
For now, most were too tired to join. Matthew didn't push them—they'd done enough walking for one night.
Instead, he drew his sword, carved a quick outline in the dirt, and dug one good sample pit himself. Then, wiping his blade clean, he headed up the slope.
From above, the valley looked small, vulnerable—exactly what he needed.
He scanned the horizon for resources: forest, stones, anything he could weaponize. Only a field of loose rocks stood close enough.
That would do.
He rode over with the wagon, loading it with boulders until the axles creaked, and hauled them back to the ridge.
Trip after trip, he dragged rock after rock to the top, his arms burning but his grin wide.
The mercenaries, seeing him work like that, couldn't sit still.
Soon they joined in—sweating, cursing, laughing, hauling stone alongside him.
When a full cartload finally rolled in, Matthew leaned on his knees, looking down proudly at their progress.
"How's the digging?"
Bors wiped his forehead and shouted back, "Good! We've got three, maybe four meters already!"
Matthew peeked down the valley. The pits stretched from the entrance up to the wagon's rear—a messy but effective trap line.
"Not deep enough," he called back. "Keep going till you reach ten meters out!"
Bors grunted, rolling his shoulders before returning to work.
Matthew climbed down again, dragging another cartload of stone.
By the fourth trip, his strength was nearly spent. He collapsed against a boulder, staring at the faint blush of dawn filtering through thin mist.
He lay still, breathing hard, feeling the rough stone press against his palms.
Then something dark flickered in the distance—a crooked line, crawling across the horizon.
His pulse snapped awake.
Pushing himself up, he shouted down the valley, "Faster! Finish the pits and haul the loot out of there now! We've got company!"
The digging sped up immediately. Within minutes, dozens of shallow horse traps marked the valley floor, and the men scrambled to higher ground.
Atop the slopes, they finally saw it too—the distant movement growing closer.
Figures. Horses. Many of them.
They didn't know yet whether friend or foe.
Tension gripped the line until Bernas appeared, galloping hard from the south. The moment they recognized him, the men dropped their rocks and ran to meet him.
As the golden sun finally broke the rim of the horizon, a distant roar of voices carried through the morning chill.
The caravan arrived at last—a few dozen people trailing behind tired horses.
Women, children, the old... stumbling on foot while the mounted knights led them on.
The riders each had one horse to ride and another to guide, turning back often to urge the stragglers forward.
When sunlight flooded the valley floor, they reached Matthew's position.
The first to step ahead was an elderly woman, leaning heavily on a crooked staff. Guided by Haven, she shuffled forward, then dropped trembling to her knees before Matthew.
"Please," she rasped, "take us in."
Her clothes were little more than patched rags, sleeves frayed, hems torn loose. She looked ready to crumble like dry bark.
And she wasn't alone. Hundreds of eyes behind her reflected the same hollow desperation.
Matthew understood immediately. This wasn't pure gratitude—it was strategy.
The old woman wielded pity like a weapon, trying to bind him by his knightly honor.
She probably thought his young, noble face meant he'd be easy to sway.
He didn't take offense.
In fact, he smiled, stepping forward to lift her up. "Don't worry," he said gently. "We'll get you to Sow's Ridge safely. You'll have a place there."
The woman's relief was instant and overflowing. She wept, babbling thanks as she rose to her feet.
Behind her, the other refugees broke into applause and sobs.
The mercenaries rolled their eyes; some even scoffed.
Matthew ignored them—he couldn't afford to break character.
He held the old woman's hand as they walked aside, wearing the patient smile of a savior.
Even a wolf knows when to wear sheep's wool, he thought.
The old woman's eyes shone with gratitude; the others whispered prayers and praises.
Soon the sound spread across the valley—one desperate, hopeful cry after another, echoing beneath the morning sun.
The light caught the mist, scattering rainbows over rock and soil, over soldiers and survivors alike.
In that glow, Matthew looked every inch the hero of some ancient age.
He didn't believe a word of their praise—but he needed it.
Because when one voice calls a man good, it means little.
But when hundreds echo the same word, it becomes truth.
And truth, Matthew thought, was the first step toward power.
This was only the beginning.
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