The morning chill cut to the bone. Hautterre Castle, perched high on a hill between dense forests and roaring rivers, loomed like a fortress of stone and tradition. The sun had not yet fully risen, but the courtyard already buzzed with activity—squires rushing with buckets of water, stablehands saddling horses, soldiers sharpening dulled blades.
Aldric—or rather, Adrián Vélez trapped in Aldric's body—watched it all from the balcony of his chambers, a strange mix of awe and vertigo gripping him. He still hadn't grown used to the sensation of having a different face, a different body... a different life. The sharp clarity of the air, the stench of manure mingled with fresh-baked bread, the shouts of the servants—it was all so real it hurt.
Three days had passed since he awoke in that feather bed, wrapped in curtains embroidered with the boar of House Hautterre. Three days pretending he wasn't in shock. Three days repeating to himself that this wasn't a dream or a delusion. And now he understood: he had been reborn. And not just anywhere, but as the youngest son of the feudal lord of Hautterre—a name he vaguely recalled from a dusty 12th-century manuscript.
"If this is real," he thought, fastening the thick tunic left for him on a chair by his servant, "then history is no longer something I study… it's the battlefield."
—My lord —came a voice behind him.
It was Pierre, his personal servant—a lanky teenager with poorly healed acne and the nervousness of a startled rabbit.
—Your father awaits you in the council hall.
Aldric nodded without a word and followed. The corridors were cold, the stone damp, and the torches barely lit the way. With every step, his mind recalibrated: he remembered maps, alliances, customs, even the value of grain in these lands. His knowledge of the past—his past—was now pure gold. Gold no one else possessed.
When he entered the room, his father, Lord Renard de Hautterre, sat at the end of a long oak table. His fingers were laced, and his eyes held the cold resolve of a man who had seen too many campaigns. Beside him stood the eldest son, Charles, wearing that restrained arrogance only rightful heirs could wield without speaking a word.
—Son, —Lord Renard said without rising— we've received news. The Duke of Vellmont is gathering troops. They say he intends to push east. Toward us.
Aldric felt a spark ignite within him. He knew this story. He had read it in forgotten documents buried in a European archive: a war between petty lords that would end in massacre… and opportunity. Plenty of opportunity.
—Then perhaps it's time we act first, Father, —he said firmly, surprising everyone in the room—. Time to solidify alliances, strengthen our defenses… and stop playing at war like children with wooden swords.
A heavy silence fell across the chamber.
Lord Renard frowned, scrutinizing him.
—You speak differently, Aldric.
—I've been… reflecting, —he said with a forced smile—. And I believe it's time we start acting like true lords.
And with that single sentence, the old history professor took his first step toward power.