[PHILIP VI’S POV]

 

September 16, 1338

 

From every side, from every rise and dip in the landscape, a human tide surged forth. Thousands upon thousands, like a living ocean cresting onto the shore. They poured out of hidden valleys, emerged from concealed trenches, rising from the very earth itself. It was as if the land had birthed an army, and this lone figure, this golden prince, was its conductor.

 

My mind reeled. They had been there all along, hidden in plain sight, a viper coiled beneath the sunbaked plains. And now, with a single word, they erupted, a living storm engulfing our carefully laid plans. The siege of Calais, I realized with a sinking heart, had just morphed into something far more monstrous, far more perilous. This wasn't just a battle for a city; it was a fight for survival against an enemy who seemed to rise from the very soil itself. And we, the French army, were caught in the eye of the storm.

 

The sight of the English horde surging out of the earth felt like a blow to the chest. The very ground seemed to vomit forth an endless tide of men, steel glinting in the sun like the scales of a monstrous serpent. Panic gnawed at the edges of my resolve, whispering retreat, urging me to abandon this suicidal siege.

 

But my gaze snagged on the enemy cavalry, a sea of mounted figures rippling across the plains. Seven hundred, no, perhaps even eight hundred of those beasts, snorting and pawing the earth, riders hunched like predatory wolves. My gut clenched. Even Calais in its prime hadn't boasted such a cavalry. The scales, it seemed, were tipping decisively in England's favor.

 

Our own mounted contingent, a paltry two hundred compared to their monstrous host, looked like a lone boat caught in a hurricane. Any hope of outmaneuvering them, of breaking through their ranks and escaping back to Paris, evaporated into dust under the unforgiving sun. We were trapped, a fly caught in the web of a cunning spider.

 

A grim truth settled over me like a shroud. Even if we held off the cavalry, even if we somehow managed to halt their initial charge, what then? Their foot soldiers, a countless swarm of ants engulfing a fallen bird, would finish the job with methodical, merciless efficiency. My mind reeled, unable to grasp the sheer enormity of our predicament.

 

Numbers danced before my eyes, mocking phantoms taunting my dwindling hope. Three thousand of us, facing what seemed like an army larger than the ocean itself. Each face in the English ranks, a living testament to God's seeming favoritism. The sun, once a friend warming our backs, now felt like a cruel onlooker, casting long shadows that stretched toward inevitable defeat.

 

This fight, it dawned on me with chilling certainty, was no longer about reclaiming Calais. It was about survival, about carving a bloody path through the impossible odds, about defying the very winds of fate themselves. And in that desperate moment, amidst the mounting dread and the suffocating fear, a defiant spark flickered within me. We were French, dammit. And even against the weight of the world, we would show them the meaning of chivalry to these barbarians.

 

We may be outnumbered, outmaneuvered, outmatched, but surrender wasn't a word whispered in the language of French steel.

 

My mind, honed in countless battles, crackled with the urgency of survival. We couldn't outrun the storm, so we would stand and weather it. We would meet their steel with ours, their blood with ours, in a dance of death where bravery, not numbers, would dictate the final chord.

 

I glanced over the faces of my men, weathered and grim, yet etched with the same flicker of resolve that burned in my own heart. They knew the odds, understood the abyss staring back at them, but their eyes held not fear, but a steely glint of shared defiance. We were brothers-in-arms, forged in the fires of war, and we would face this inferno together.

 

My plan, born in the crucible of desperation, was audacious, bordering on madness. We would charge. Not to break through their ranks, not to escape, but to meet them head-on, to unleash a storm of our own. To make them bleed, to make them taste the sting of French steel, to show them that even trapped wolves could bite.

 

A surge of adrenaline, hot and potent, coursed through me. Doubt and fear, those hornets lurking in the corners of my mind, were swept away by the tidal wave of courage. This was not about victory, not in the conventional sense. This was about honor, about carving our names onto the battlefield in blood and fury.

 

With a roar that shook the very stones of Calais, I raised my blade high. "Charge!" The word ripped through the air, a clarion call echoing across the plains. It was a call to arms, a summons to valor, a defiant middle finger to the gods themselves.

 

This was not just a battle. It was a baptism of fire, a crucible where men would be forged anew, where cowardice would be consumed by the flames of valor, and where the very soul of France would be laid bare on the dusty plains of Calais. This was where we lived, and this was where we died. And in that moment, as the earth rumbled beneath our boots and the air crackled with anticipation, I knew, with a grim certainty that chilled my bones, that this battle would be etched onto the tapestry of history, not as a victory or a defeat, but as a testament to the unyielding spirit of the French heart.

 

The archers, led by their own seasoned captain, peeled away from the line and melted back into the protected rear, unleashing a second storm of arrows that rained down onto the enemy.

 

I, however, rode with the vanguard, the thunder of a thousand hooves a drumbeat in my skull. My gaze was fixed on the solitary figure on the white horse, the one who had orchestrated this seemingly impossible ambush. Now, in the closer press of battle, I saw him clearly. No man this, but a boy, barely old enough to shave, his face smooth except for a smattering of downy growth on his chin. Yet, there was no trace of fear in his eyes, only a chillingly calm determination that defied his youth.

 

Who was this young viper who dared to spit venom in the face of the French Flower? My rage burned hotter, tempered by an icy curiosity. Was he some noble scion, thrust into the limelight of war before his time? Or was he something more, a hidden prince, a prodigy of strategy cloaked in youthful innocence?

 

No matter his lineage, he was my target. With every pounding stride of my horse, the distance between us shrank. My knights, a wall of steel and snarling faces, rode at my side, their eyes reflecting the same mix of fury and grudging respect. We were a storm unleashed, a torrent of vengeance hurtling towards this enigma on horseback.

 

But as we closed in, I couldn't help but notice a flicker of something other than defiance in the boy's eyes. A spark of… amusement? Was he playing with us, this young pup, leading us into a carefully laid trap with a child's mischievous grin? The very thought set my blood ablaze, hotter than the afternoon sun.

 

This fight, I realized, was more than just a clash of steel and flesh. It was a battle of wills, a duel of intellects played out on the blood-soaked canvas of the battlefield. The boy on the white horse may have youth on his side, but I, the seasoned general, had cunning and experience. This, I swore on the souls of my fallen comrades, would be a game of thrones played with swords, and I, Phillip of House Valois, would not be the fool.

 

The scent of sweat, blood, and fear hung heavy in the air. We were closing in, predator and prey caught in a deadly waltz, and the fate of Calais, perhaps even the course of the war, hung precariously in the balance. This was where legends were forged, and in this crucible of steel and fire, a boy-king and a seasoned general would dance a macabre gavotte, with death as the only true victor.

 

My gut clenched. More soldiers. Not just a handful, but a swarm, surging from the gate and engulfing the boy in a sea of steel. I darted my eyes, searching for hope, finding only raw fear mirrored in my men's gaze. My mind screamed retreat, but my feet stayed rooted, loyalty warring with terror.

 

"Hold fast!" The words cracked from my throat, each syllable laced with desperation. Across the field, the boy flashed steel, the golden lion on his hilt catching the dying sun. Wait. As my mind started to remind itself of a description it has heard dozens of time over the past year, I recalled the boy in front of me. A Plantagenet. A prince. A commander. And not just any commander – Edward of bloody Norfolk, the goddamn Dawnblade himself. My veins iced over, then flooded with molten rage. Him. Again. He always stood in the way, a gilded thorn in my side. My vision tunneled, the world shrinking to a singular entity: Edward. Edward. Edward.

 

We closed like thunder, the pounding of hooves drumming a war hymn. I reined in, mirroring his swift advance. This was no mere skirmish, no playground brawl. This was a clash of titans, a dance of fire and ice. Azure silk whipped against crimson steel as we circled, predators sizing each other up. The air crackled with anticipation, thick with the unspoken promise of spilled blood and shattered crowns.

 

My pulse echoed a war drum in my ears, drowning out the cheers of the bloodthirsty onlookers. Edward’s face, usually etched with carefree arrogance, now held a flicker of the steel in his eyes. A thrill of fear, sharp and unwelcome, snaked through me. But it was quickly devoured by the inferno of rage already roaring through my veins. I had faced death a thousand times, danced on the edge of oblivion, and each time, emerged stronger. Edward wouldn't be different. He wouldn't stand between me and glory, not again.

 

The earth trembled as we charged, blades singing death songs in the fading light. Each clang, each spark, was a scream of defiance, a testament to our burning ambition. Our fury became a tangible force, swirling around us like a maelstrom. This wasn't just a duel; it was a battle for control, for legacy, for the very soul of the kingdom.

 

And amidst the fury, a sliver of something else flickered. Respect, perhaps. A begrudging admiration for the skill mirrored in the glint of his blade, the grace in his parries. He was every bit my equal, bastard, and for the first time, I understood why they called him Dawnblade. But respect wouldn't win this duel. Only blood and steel would etch the victor's name onto the pages of history.

 

And so, we danced. Crimson bled into azure, sweat into tears, screams into the wind. This wasn't just a clash of knights; it was a clash of destinies, a symphony of clashing wills played out in the crimson hues of dusk. This was the Duel of Royals, and only one of us would rise to greet the dawn.