The morning sky hung low and gray, the kind of sky that pressed against your shoulders like a silent weight. Alexander dragged another sack of grain toward the wagon, his muscles already aching from a morning of labor. The sack split slightly at one seam, sending a trickle of grain to the dirt below, but he didn't stop. He was used to it—rough work that started before dawn and ended only when the overseer decided the day's quota was met.
The smell of hay, sweat, and livestock clung to the air, so familiar he barely noticed it anymore. What he did notice—what he always noticed—was the clatter of hooves when they passed through.
Today, it was a full column of knights, riding with banners snapping high. Their armor shone even in the dull light, steel plates polished to mirror brightness. Each horse wore caparisons dyed deep crimson, and the golden lion of House Valerius rippled proudly on every banner.
Alexander straightened, leaning on the wagon for a moment, forgetting the sack of grain. He watched them ride past, one by one—men born to land and titles, their heads high, their swords gleaming, their destinies already carved by the very blood in their veins.
He couldn't stop staring. Couldn't stop imagining himself in one of those saddles, wearing one of those crests.
"Gonna sprain your neck one day, staring like that."
The voice came from Roderick, standing at the cart with his arms folded. Tall and lean, with sharp features that made him look perpetually skeptical, Roderick had been Alexander's friend since they were boys stealing apples from the same market stall.
Alexander didn't take his eyes off the knights. "You ever think about it?"
Roderick raised a brow. "About breaking my back for nobles who don't know my name? All the time. That's why I don't think about it."
Alexander finally turned, his eyes bright despite the mud on his face and the calluses on his hands. "Not about serving them. About being one of them. Riding a warhorse, sword in hand, people shouting your name."
"You've been drinking bad ale again," Roderick muttered. "Only way a man like you sits a warhorse is if you steal it."
A loud grunt came from behind them. Garrick, their third companion, emerged from the barn carrying two sacks at once, one on each massive shoulder. The man was a wall of muscle with short-cropped hair and a crooked nose that had been broken too many times.
"Steal it?" Garrick chuckled. "Alexander doesn't need to steal one. He'll just sweet talk a princess into giving him one for free."
Alexander smirked. "Not a bad idea."
Roderick shook his head. "That's not how this world works, Alex. Nobles are born. We're… well, look at us."
"Speak for yourself." Another voice joined in—Lionel, the fourth member of their usual group, appearing from behind the stable door. He had a carved wooden practice sword tucked into his belt and a grin that could have sold water to a fish. His blond hair was tied back carelessly, and his eyes twinkled with the perpetual confidence of someone who hadn't yet faced true consequence.
Lionel drew the wooden sword dramatically, flourishing it like some hero from a tavern story. "I'll be knighted for gallantry, marry the Duke's daughter, and live fat and happy while you three muck stables for coin."
Roderick rolled his eyes. "You? The only thing you'll marry is the tavern floor after your next drinking contest."
The banter rolled easily, the kind they'd traded for years, but Alexander was serious. He leaned on the wagon, gaze fixed on where the knights had disappeared down the road.
"They're recruiting again," he said quietly.
Roderick frowned. "Don't do this, Alex."
"They are," Alexander insisted, straightening. "Drovengar's raiders are hitting the northern villages. The King needs men. We could join, all of us. Get paid. See the world. Maybe even—"
"Die," Garrick interrupted.
Alexander turned to him. "Or rise. Nobles bleed the same as us. What stops us from climbing?"
Lionel sheathed his wooden sword with a flourish. "I like the sound of 'Sir Lionel.' Rolls off the tongue, don't you think?"
"You're insane," Roderick muttered. "All of you."
Alexander stepped closer to him, earnest now. "Roderick, you know how smart you are. You could be an officer before any of us. And you—" He looked at Garrick. "—you're stronger than anyone in this village. Lionel's fast with a blade. And me? I can lead. You've seen it. When we were kids, who kept us out of trouble?"
"You didn't keep us out of trouble," Roderick said dryly. "You just made sure we got away before the bailiff showed up."
Alexander grinned. "And we never got caught, did we?"
The recruitment post was nothing impressive—just a squat wooden building at the edge of the town square, its roof sagging slightly, with a crooked sign reading ENLISTMENT. A line of hopefuls already snaked out the door—farm boys, craftsmen, even one or two older men who looked like they hadn't swung a weapon in years.
The sergeant at the door looked like he'd been carved from oak and left in the sun too long. His face was leathery and his eyes sharp. He watched as Alexander and his three friends approached, his lip curling in what might have been a smirk.
"You four look like trouble," he said flatly.
"We're volunteers," Alexander replied, trying to stand straighter.
The sergeant's eyes scanned him, lingering on the calluses, the dirt under the fingernails, the patched tunic. "Volunteers die faster than conscripts. You boys ever fought before?"
"No, sergeant," Alexander admitted, "but we're fast learners."
The man spat something dark and viscous onto the ground. "Good. You'll learn fast or die faster. Names."
One by one, they gave them. The sergeant marked each in clumsy handwriting, then shoved them toward the back. "Drillmaster Horst is in the yard. Don't cry when he makes you puke."
The yard was chaos. Dozens of recruits flailed at wooden dummies, stumbled through formation drills, and groaned under the weight of shields that felt heavier than they looked. Drillmaster Horst—an enormous man with a voice like rolling thunder—stalked among them, shouting obscenities that made even Lionel shut up for once.
Hours blurred together: running drills until their lungs burned, push-ups until their arms shook, sword drills until blisters formed. Alexander's muscles screamed, but he kept going, eyes fixed on the Drillmaster.
When they finally collapsed onto barracks cots that evening, Alexander felt like he'd been beaten with a club.
Garrick groaned. "This is what you wanted?"
Alexander, lying on his back, stared at the ceiling beams. "This is just the start."
Lionel, ever the optimist, grinned from the next cot over. "I almost impressed that medic girl, you see her? Blonde braid, green eyes?"
"You're hopeless," Roderick muttered from across the room.
But Alexander smiled faintly. Through the window, he saw torches on the main road—knights returning from patrol, armor dented, cloaks torn but heads held high.
One day, he told himself. One day, I won't just watch them ride past. I'll ride with them. I'll lead them.
And for the first time in his life, as exhaustion dragged him toward sleep, Alexander felt closer to that dream than ever before.