The morning broke gray and cold, with a low mist clinging to the edges of the encampment like the breath of some lurking predator. Alexander rose before the bugle call, his eyes gritty from too little sleep. He stepped out of his tent and found the world quiet except for the distant shifting of horses and the muted clank of armor being adjusted by the early risers.
This was different. The night before, he had gone to sleep a squad leader of twenty men; today, he woke up with fifty lives under his direct command. The responsibility pressed against his chest like a weight he couldn't set down.
Lionel stumbled out of his own tent, rubbing his eyes and yawning loudly. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."
Alexander adjusted his breastplate straps. "Didn't feel like sleeping."
"Yeah, me neither," Lionel said, then grinned faintly. "But for different reasons. I dreamed I had fifty people yelling at me all at once, and all of them were you."
"Lucky dream," Alexander muttered, but his lips curved slightly.
Behind Lionel, Garrick emerged fully armored, hefting his shield with one hand like it weighed nothing. "Orders yet?"
"Not yet," Alexander said. "But they'll come soon."
Darian Rythorn approached quietly, already geared up, helm tucked under one arm. He studied Alexander's face. "You look like you're about to puke."
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "You giving encouragement now?"
Darian smirked faintly. "Just saying, don't puke in front of the men. Doesn't look good on a commander."
That small flash of humor—genuine, not cruel—struck Alexander as new. Different. He's changing, Alexander thought briefly.
The Briefing
Lieutenant Marcus Hale gathered all unit leaders near the command tent. A sand table displayed a rough map: rolling hills, a shallow creek, and a cluster of trees on the eastern side.
"Our scouts report a Drovengar raiding force—roughly two hundred men—moving west," Marcus said. "They're fast and light, no siege gear, but aggressive. They'll likely try to hit supply lines or scatter us before our main push. We're going to intercept and push them back."
He pointed at the map. "Alexander, your fifty will hold the left flank. You anchor on the tree line here."
Alexander nodded. "Understood."
One of the other officers, a noble by his fine etched armor, frowned. "With respect, Lieutenant, you're putting an unproven knight—one who wasn't even born noble—in command of fifty on a flank? That's… risky."
Marcus's gaze hardened. "I assign based on merit, not birth."
The noble officer's lip curled slightly but he said nothing. Alexander didn't rise to it, though he felt Darian step subtly closer behind him, like silent backup.
Moving Out
The fifty-man unit assembled under Alexander's command was a mix of veterans and green recruits. They didn't know him yet—some glanced at his unadorned armor and exchanged looks that said commoner.
Alexander raised his voice so all could hear. "I'm Alexander, and I'm in command of this unit for this engagement. I'm not here to waste your lives or my own. We'll hold the line, and we'll do it together. You follow orders, we all walk away. Clear?"
A few men nodded uncertainly. Garrick stepped forward, planting his spear on the ground with a heavy thunk. "You heard him. Clear?"
This time, the response was louder, stronger. Even the veterans looked slightly reassured.
Positioning
They reached their assigned flank position near midmorning. The tree line stretched into a shallow rise—perfect cover but also a perfect place for an ambush. Alexander surveyed the ground: thick brush near the center, a clear but muddy patch to the right, and the creek bed beyond.
He split his fifty into three groups:
Left group: Lionel leading fifteen, shields ready.
Right group: Garrick with fifteen more, anchoring near the creek.
Center: Alexander himself, with Darian and the remaining twenty.
"Keep your spacing tight," Alexander said. "If they hit one side hard, we pivot and collapse in. Darian, watch the left overlap."
Darian nodded sharply. "Got it."
Lionel whispered to Roderick (who'd been folded into the larger unit for maps and signals), "Did he just trust Darian with overlap?"
Roderick shrugged. "Looks like it."
The Enemy Arrives
The first sign of the Drovengar was the sound: the distant beat of feet on wet earth and a low, guttural chant carried on the wind. Then they appeared over the ridge—a loose wedge of wild-eyed warriors, their shields mismatched, axes and short spears gleaming.
Alexander's pulse kicked but his voice stayed steady. "Shields up! Hold formation!"
The Valerius soldiers locked shields, planting feet. Alexander moved along the line, checking spacing, making eye contact with as many men as he could.
"Stay with me," he said loudly. "We hold!"
The Drovengar let out a howl and charged.
First Clash
The impact shuddered down Alexander's arm as a raider's axe slammed into his shield. He shoved back, twisting and stabbing low, feeling the point of his sword bite into leather and flesh. Around him, the clash erupted into a chaotic roar: metal on metal, screams, and the dull thud of bodies hitting mud.
On the left, Lionel shouted, "Push them off!" His group staggered back half a step under pressure. Alexander moved immediately, signaling Darian. "With me!"
They surged left, plugging the gap. A Drovengar warrior lunged at Alexander, snarling, but Alexander sidestepped and rammed his shield edge into the man's face, sending him sprawling.
"Close the line!" Darian bellowed—not at Alexander, but with him, his voice carrying authority. The men responded, locking shields tighter.
Tactical Call
Alexander spotted movement on the right: a smaller Drovengar detachment trying to swing wide through the creek bed—a flanking attempt.
"Garrick!" Alexander shouted. "Break ten off and meet them in the creek! Hold them there!"
Garrick grinned fiercely. "With pleasure!" He led ten men forward, boots splashing into the shallow water as they intercepted the flankers.
Alexander turned back just in time to block another strike. The line held, but barely. "Pivot center five paces right!" he ordered. The men moved, trained enough to shift as one, cutting off another possible gap.
The Pushback
Minutes stretched like hours. The Drovengar fought savagely, throwing themselves at shields again and again. But Alexander's unit did not break. When an opening came—a raider tripping in the mud—Alexander seized it, shoving forward and rallying.
"Advance two steps! Push them!" he shouted.
The unit surged forward, shields banging, swords thrusting. The Drovengar line faltered, then finally began to retreat, dragging their wounded and shouting guttural curses as they backed over the ridge.
Aftermath
The battlefield stank of sweat, blood, and churned earth. Three of Alexander's men were injured—one badly—but none dead.
Lieutenant Marcus Hale rode up, scanning the field. "Good work, Alexander. You held your ground and adapted fast. Most green commanders would've panicked on that flank move."
Alexander nodded. "My men stood with me."
The noble officer from earlier approached, lips tight. "Lucky, that's all. You won't always have luck."
Before Alexander could reply, Darian stepped forward, eyes cold. "That wasn't luck. He saw it coming and moved before anyone else did."
The noble officer blinked, clearly not expecting Darian—a noble himself—to back Alexander. He huffed and turned away without another word.
Alexander gave Darian a look. Darian shrugged. "What? Credit where it's due."
Reflection
That night, by the fire, Lionel retold the battle in exaggerated detail—how he personally "pushed back three Drovengar with one hand" (he hadn't). Garrick mocked him until Lionel admitted it was more like one and a half. Roderick simply cleaned his sword quietly.
Darian sat nearby, silent but… comfortable. For the first time, there was no tension in his posture.
Alexander stared at the flames, tired but satisfied. He'd commanded fifty men and brought them back alive. And for the first time, he thought, I can do this. I can command more.