[EDWARD’S POV]

 

September 22, 1338

 

Thirteen thousand souls stood behind me, an iron tide poised against the gilded gates of destiny. At their head, I, felt the icy exhilaration of conquest lick my veins. Our informant, the King of France himself, a gilded cage rattling with treacherous whispers, had gifted us the key: a secret tunnel burrowing into the heart of Paris.

From two miles off, the future City of Lights blazed into view. The Seine, a silver thread glinting in the afternoon sun, bisected towers and spires that touched the clouds. Notre Dame, a skeletal ghost against the sapphire sky, whispered tales of the kings who ruled. The city walls, mammoth and grey, stretched like the backbone of a Titan, promising impregnable defenses. Yet, the king's whispers slithered in my ear, painting a treacherous map of forgotten posterns and crumbling bastions.

But I, immune to the machinations of kings, saw only the prize itself. Paris, the jewel of Europe, pulsed with the promise of riches and glory. Its cobbled streets thrummed with the heartbeat of a nation, its coffers overflowing with the spoils of empires. In my mind, I already walked its avenues, a conqueror draped in the city's silken splendor.

Thirteen thousand eyes, mirroring the hunger in my own heart, burned towards the distant ramparts. With each labored breath, the city grew closer, the promise of victory tangible in the crisp air. The whispers of a king, the rumble of an army, and the shadow of a titan city; this was the prelude to a symphony of steel and conquest.

Philip, his face a mask of nervous sweat, led us to the hidden egress which would lead us directly to the palace into the royal bedroom. A heavy stone slab disguised the tunnel's mouth, nestled behind a big rock depicting a forgotten hunt. We strained against the weight, muscles groaning under the cool stone, until it tumbled with a bone-jarring thud, revealing a gaping maw in the earth.

The tunnel unfolded before us, a black ribbon swallowed by the darkness. A damp chill emanated from its depths. We descended, heads bowed against the low ceiling, a single oil lamp casting flickering shadows on the rough-hewn walls. The air hung heavy with the aroma of mildew and earth, each breath a gritty rasp against our parched throats.

Five feet high, three feet wide, the passage hugged us close, an oppressive womb of stone. Every five meters, a silken surprise tickled my face – cobwebs spun by unseen weavers, shimmering like ghostly tapestries in the lamplight. I expected the slither of unseen things, the hiss of serpents guarding their subterranean domain, but the tunnel hummed with an unsettling emptiness.

Minutes bled into an eternity. Time melted away in the rhythmic crunch of boots on damp earth, the monotonous drip of unseen water. My senses sharpened, amplifying the rasp of my own breath, the thud of a soldier's heart against his ribs. The darkness pressed in, a menacing entity whispering tales of forgotten dangers.

Then, abruptly, the soldier ahead stumbled, his nose connecting with something unseen. We reached the tunnel's end, a wall of cold stone barring our way. 

But this barrier also presented an opportunity. To storm the city head-on would be a bloody affair, a massacre etched in screams and steel. This silent entry, this subterranean serpent slipping into the heart of the city, offered a bloodless victory, a conquest cloaked in shadows.

The weight of thirteen thousand eyes burned at my back as I emerged from the tunnel.

Marching this juggernaut towards the city walls was akin to brandishing a torch in the night. Not only would we be spotted, but half a thousand defenders stood ready on the parapets, a meager force compared to our own, yet potent enough to inflict a Pyrrhic victory. Bloodshed for victory was one thing, but sacrificing thousands against a handful for a city already half-conquered tasted of folly.

My mind, forged in several campaigns, raced for a solution. Mimicking the approaching French army with our entire force was alluring, the gates creaking open to misplaced trust. But it was a facade too cumbersome to construct. Providing each knight with a suit of azure armor, a masquerade for thirteen thousand, was a logistical nightmare, and the sheer size of our deception would inevitably breed suspicion.

No, we needed a scalpel, not a bludgeon. A silent incision, precise and swift, that would bleed the city of its remaining resistance without staining our own blades crimson. The advantage, a brutal 25 to 1, was ours to exploit, not squander in frontal brawls.

With this, I turned to my commanders, their faces etched with the same tension gripping my own. The whispers of my plan, a dance of shadows and subterfuge, slithered through the ranks. 

Today, Paris would fall, not to the roar of cannons or the clash of swords, but to the cunning whispers of betrayal and the soft tread of shadows. The city of lights would be plunged into darkness, not by our might, but by their own surrender, bled white by the insidious blade of our silent conquest.

 unleashed two thousand of my finest men into the inky maw of the tunnel. They vanished like shadows, swallowed by the damp passage, their muffled steps and whispered commands the only whispers that dared disturb the silence.

Back outside, under the watchful gaze of the sun, the remaining troops held their breath. Every rustle of leaves, every chirp of a cricket, seemed amplified, a potential alarm in the waiting game we played.

A muffled shout from within the tunnel was followed by the rhythmic thud of wood on stone. We exchanged anxious glances, our hearts drumming a counterpoint to the hammering. This was it. Two minutes of relentless pounding echoed through the tunnel, each blow carrying the weight of our silent invasion. Then, abruptly, the hammering ceased. A hush fell, heavier than the darkness itself. Then, a cheer - muffled, joyous, a ripple of sound that washed over us like a wave. The barrier had fallen.

Minutes stretched into an eternity, each tick a hammer blow against Philip's already frayed nerves. Sweat beaded on his brow, mirroring the tears that welled in his eyes. He had gambled everything – his kingdom, his honor, his family – for a sliver of hope, and now he awaited the verdict with the gnawing certainty of a condemned man.

Everything seemed to mock him, shadows that mimicked the turmoil within. His mind, once a cunning chessboard, was now a battlefield of regrets and recriminations. God had indeed favored him, bestowing upon him the crown and the moniker 'Philip the Fortunate', but today, fortune seemed to have abandoned him like a fickle mistress, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the inky maw of the tunnel. A messenger, his face etched with a grim smile and his sword stained crimson. He raised his bloodied blade high, a beacon in the night. "Let the dance begin, milord!" he roared, his voice a clarion call that shattered the tense silence.

Philip, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribs, met the messenger's gaze. In that fleeting exchange, he saw not just the triumph of his plan, but the cost of his betrayal. The blood on the blade was a stark reminder of the lives sacrificed, the innocence shattered. His victory, he knew, was a Pyrrhic one, tainted by the ghosts of his actions.

But there was no turning back now. The die was cast, the dance begun. With a deep breath, Philip steeled himself. He was no longer the fortunate king, but a king forged in the fires of treachery. A crown stained crimson, a kingdom forever etched with the mark of his betrayal.

The palace had been breached. Now, the dance of shadows continued within its gilded halls. My men, would move with lethal precision. First, the guards, those loyal sentinels at their posts, would be neutralized. Then, the prize: Queen Joan and her sons, pawns in the grand game of conquest.

I didn't need to be there to witness the unfolding drama. My mind's eye saw it all: the glint of sunlight on steel, the silent struggle that would decide the fate of a queen and her heirs. My fingers curled around the hilt of my sword, impatient to claim the victory brewing in the heart of the enemy's stronghold.

It was time. "Advance!" I roared, the command a wildfire that swept through the waiting army. My officers, echoes of steel and fury, repeated the order, sending it rippling outwards like a stone cast into a still pond.

The earth trembled beneath the thunderous march of eleven thousand soldiers, a living tide of iron and ambition. As we crested a rise, the city of Paris sprawled before us, bathed in the soft, pre-dusk light. From this vantage point, I could almost taste victory, the city itself ripe for the picking.

But before savoring the fruits of conquest, I savored the despair etched on the faces of the Parisian guards. Panic flickered in their eyes, a stark contrast to the steely discipline they usually projected. I could almost hear the questions swirling in their minds, unspoken prayers carried on the morning breeze. How did this behemoth of an army, a ravenous beast of war, materialize at the heart of their kingdom? Where was their king, Philip the Fortunate, when they needed him most? And who would lead them against this unstoppable tide? Their most skilled generals, their bastions of hope, bled and fought far away, leaving Paris a lamb waiting for the slaughter.

The realization of their predicament hung heavy in the air, a suffocating miasma that sapped their will to fight. I smiled, a predator savoring the fear in its prey's eyes. This victory, it seemed, would be won not just by steel, but by the weight of despair itself.

With a flick of my wrist, I signaled the advance to resume. The great serpent of men and metal slithered forward, its hiss growing louder with each step. The setting sun, cast long shadows that swallowed the Parisian walls, prefiguring the darkness that would soon engulf the city.

The dance had begun, and I, the puppet master, held the strings. Paris would fall, not with a roar, but with a whimper, its spirit crushed under the inexorable weight of my will.

You see, giving them time to think would be a mistake. Hesitation breeds doubt, and doubt breeds rebellion. I needed to act, and act swiftly, before despair could morph into defiance. My gaze fell upon my elite archers.

"Archers!" My voice boomed, a thunderclap shattering the fragile peace. "Form ranks! Take aim!"

The response was instantaneous. A sea of faces hardened, jaws clenched, eyes narrowing like predatory cats. With practiced efficiency, they formed a line, shoulders brushing, a living wall of death. Bows rose, taut strings humming with anticipation. Arrows, tipped with iron barbs, gleamed like fangs in the rising sun.

"Release!"

The word detonated like a bomb. Arms whipped forward, strings snapping with a collective thrumming. Several hundred arrows, a tempest of feathered death, arrowed into the sky. They blotted out the azure, a dark cloud hurtling towards the Parisian walls.

For a split second, the world held its breath. Then, the cries began. Shrieks of pain, curses in a tongue I barely understood, the metallic clang of steel against arrowhead. The azure sky blossomed with crimson, each feather dipped in the lifeblood of the defenders.

Panic, raw and primal, erupted on the ramparts. Men stumbled, tripped, fell, trampled by their own fear. Their ordered ranks dissolved into a chaotic swarm, their discipline melting away like snow in the desert sun.

I watched, a predatory grin dancing on my lips, as my arrows did their grisly work. Each cry, each splash of crimson, was a verse in the symphony of conquest I was conducting. The walls, once defiant, now seemed to tremble under the relentless assault, their stones weeping tears of blood and defeat.

This was not warfare, this was a massacre. Yet, there was a terrible beauty in it, a primal dance of power and submission. I was the storm, and Paris, my fragile flower, wilted under its fury. The city, bathed in the setting sun and the crimson rain of the arrows, was a macabre masterpiece.

While my archers painted the azure with a macabre crimson, my mind raced with the final stroke of conquest. Turning away from the carnage, I spotted Philip, his once-regal posture replaced by a cringing, whimpering mess. My lips curled into a smirk. He would be my instrument, the final chord in my symphony of victory.

I dismounted, my spurs biting into the soil. Grabbing Philip by the collar of his gilded tunic, I hauled him onto the back of my steed. He squirmed, a pathetic mewling mouse caught in a falcon's talons. With him as a trophy, I rode, turning Philip toward the wall, ensuring every defender saw their captured king.

Then, I summoned my skill, “Amplify”. My voice, normally deep and gravelly, boomed across the battlefield, echoing off the city walls.

"Behold! Your king," I roared, Philip dangling like a limp doll in my grip. "A monarch in name, nothing more, who couldn't conquer London, couldn't defend Calais, and in the end, betrayed his own throne for a sliver of life!"

His face, drained of color, was a pathetic spectacle. Fear dripped from him like sweat, staining the gilded embroidery of his coat.

"Your Queen, your Princes, even now they face the same fate as their cowardly king! My men walk the halls of your palace, and soon, this entire city will tremble under the might of my army!"

I gestured around me, encompassing the vast, shimmering sea of steel and flesh that was my army. Their ranks stretched to the horizon, a tidal wave poised to crash upon the crumbling city walls.

"But I, Edward of House Plantagenet, offer you a choice. Open your gates, swear fealty, and live. Resist, and this city will drown in its own blood! I will give you time of no more than ten moments to decide the fate of your home."

Ten. Each syllable, imbued with the weight of fate, hung heavy in the air. The Parisian soldiers on the wall, their faces taut with conflicting emotions, remained locked in a macabre game of stare with Philip, the puppet king dangling in my grip. Fury, shame, and a burgeoning flicker of fear danced in their eyes - a reflection of the storm brewing within themselves.

Nine. Slowly, their gaze shifted downwards, drawn by the echo of distant shouts and clashing steel. The royal castle, shrouded in a plume of acrid smoke, offered no solace. No reinforcements emerged, no defiant banners fluttered. Silence, heavy and ominous, painted a grim picture of their queen and princes' fate.

Eight. A tremor of uncertainty rippled through the ranks. They searched for guidance, their eyes darting like frightened birds, until they settled on an old man with eyes as weathered as the city walls themselves. Louis, Duke of Bourbon, a warrior seasoned by a thousand battles, bore the weight of generations on his broad shoulders. He, they hoped, would navigate this uncharted sea of fear and defiance.

Seven. Tension coiled tighter with each passing second. The ground, stained with the fresh blood of their comrades, seemed to hum with unease. Every heartbeat reverberated through the ranks, a drumbeat of impending decision.

Six. I leaned towards Philip, his regal facade crumbling under the scrutiny of his own people. "That," he croaked, voice raspy with fear, "is Louis, Duke of Bourbon. A prince du sang - a direct descendant of a French King."

Five. The term, whispered through the ranks, sparked a flicker of understanding. He was more than just a commander; he was a symbol, a living thread woven into their history. In his hands, their fate, and the fate of this ancient city, resided.

Four. An air of hushed urgency crackled amongst the defenders. Messengers scurried like ants, words exchanged in frantic whispers. Louis, a stoic statue amidst the whirlwind, received a white flag, a stark symbol of the battle yet to be fought within his own soul.

Three. The world held its breath. Time, once a relentless river, slowed to a glacial crawl. I watched, a predator savoring the anticipation, as Louis raised the flag high.

I smiled, a predatory gleam in my eyes. Victory, not in the clash of steel, but in the surrender of minds. My gamble, a calculated dance on the precipice of fear, had paid off. 

The gates creaked open, a slow, mournful groan that echoed through the cobblestone streets. Eleven thousand ironclad souls, my silent army, marched into the heart of Paris, greeted by rows of kneeling soldiers. At their head, Louis, Duke of Bourbon, bowed his head, a prince humbled by the enemy’s strength.

As the day bled into twilight, my orders echoed through the city. The siege at the castle lifted, doors slammed shut, sealing the fates of the queen and princes in the cold embrace of the dungeons. Our guards, doubled their patrols, casting an iron cage around any hope of escape.

Paris, its streets eerily quiet, seemed to hold its breath under the weight of my conquest. The day's victory, forged not in fire and blood, but in the quiet surrender of wills, tasted strangely sweet.

The day, etched with betrayal and surrender, would forever mark the annals of history. The fall of Paris, not a clash of titans, but a whispered negotiation with fear, would be my legacy, a chilling reminder that victory, sometimes, whispers in the shadows, born not from the clang of swords, but from the surrender of souls.