July did not merely trouble Louis — it exposed him. Every weakness he had managed to hide in the early months of the campaign now stood in full view. His supplies thinned, his allies wavered, and even Rome began to look past him, sensing that the crown he had promised to seize was slipping beyond reach. Indecision became its own enemy; each day he hesitated, another door closed.
By the time he thinks to flee London, the roads will be watched, the coast guarded, and the countryside firmly in the Marshal’s hands. What was once a bold invasion has narrowed into a single, suffocating corridor of dwindling choices.
Kaylen’s counsel — steady, measured, shaped by old scars — stands in sharp contrast to Louis’s faltering resolve. His two aides speak with fire, but it is Kaylen who tempers them, who sees the shape of the coming storm more clearly than the prince trapped in London.
And the storm is coming.
The fate of England will not be settled in council chambers or city streets, but on the water — in the August battles that will decide whether France gains a foothold or loses everything. The Cinque Ports prepare. The French cling to hope. Every man on either side feels the tension tightening like a drawn bow.
As for our knight and his squires — their part is not yet written, but the tide is rising around them. When the fleets meet and the shores ignite, they will not be standing idle.
The whole realm is holding its breath.