Morning in the War Camp
The war camp was alive before dawn, the kind of restless energy that comes when men know they're marching toward blood. The chill of morning clung to the ground, turning every exhale into a plume of mist. The faint glow of cookfires flickered through the rows of tents, casting long shadows of men sharpening swords, adjusting straps, and whispering last prayers to the Creator.
Alexander woke early, but he hadn't slept much at all. He sat on his cot with his breastplate across his knees, staring at the polished steel as if it might answer the thoughts swirling in his head. Fifty men. Yesterday, that number had felt abstract—a formation on a field, a tally on a roster. Today, it felt heavy. Fifty men would march at his orders, fifty men would kill at his command, and some of them… some of them might not come back.
"Up already?" Lionel's voice came, muffled by a yawn. He stumbled out of his bedroll, hair wild. "You even sleep?"
Alexander didn't look up. "A little."
Lionel smirked faintly. "That means no."
Garrick emerged behind him, already armoring up. He fastened his bracers with deliberate motions, eyes steady. "Today's the big one," he said flatly. "No walls. No quick skirmish and back to the fire."
Alexander nodded. "Yeah."
From the corner, Darian Rythorn was already fully dressed, helm tucked under one arm, quietly checking the edge of his sword. He didn't say anything at first, then finally: "Don't overthink it. You command, we follow. That's it."
Alexander glanced at him. "You always this encouraging?"
Darian gave a small shrug. "Don't get used to it."
For a moment, the four shared a look—an understanding that wasn't there weeks ago. They weren't just a squad anymore. They were a unit, a team forged by fire and mistakes, grudges and forgiveness.
Orders
A trumpet blast cut through the camp's hum, and voices rose: "Command briefing! Unit leaders, move!"
Alexander grabbed his helm and strode toward the command tent, heart pounding but face calm. Inside, Prince Adrian Valerius stood over a map table, Lieutenant Marcus Hale at his side, along with half a dozen seasoned officers and a few noble captains.
Adrian pointed at the map. "The Drovengar are advancing in two waves. Their vanguard is light infantry, intended to probe and draw our main line forward. Their second wave… heavier axes and shieldbreakers. They mean to crush our center. We will hold this line here—" his finger traced a ridge near a shallow river, "—and counterattack on the flanks once their main push stalls."
His gaze lifted to Alexander. "You'll hold the left-center again with your fifty. You proved you can handle that position."
One noble captain muttered, "It's madness to rely on an unproven knight for a core position."
Adrian's eyes cut to him sharply. "He's proven enough for me." That silenced the room.
Alexander inclined his head. "We'll hold, your highness."
March to the Field
The army moved as one great beast, hundreds of boots pounding rhythmically, armor clinking like a rolling storm. The road was rough and narrow, bordered by tall grasses that whispered in the morning wind. Overhead, crows wheeled and cried as if sensing what was to come.
Lionel, as usual, couldn't keep quiet. "You know, Alex, if I die today, tell people I was charming to the end."
"You're not dying today," Alexander said.
"Confident."
"Correct."
Garrick chuckled. "If you die, I'm taking your boots."
"Heartless," Lionel muttered.
Darian walked on Alexander's right, unusually silent. Finally, he spoke low enough for only Alexander to hear. "They're watching you, you know. Not just the nobles—everyone. Some want you to fail."
"I know."
"Then don't," Darian said simply.
The Battlefield
They arrived by midmorning at the chosen field: a gently sloping rise leading down to a broad, shallow river with muddy banks. Beyond it, the ground rose again toward a wooded ridge. This was where the Drovengar were expected to come, and already, dust plumes on the horizon confirmed the scouts' reports.
Banners snapped in the rising wind as Valerius troops took positions. The smell of wet earth and steel filled Alexander's lungs. He positioned his fifty where ordered: left-center, anchored partially on the riverbank. It wasn't perfect ground—mud could slow retreats—but it was defensible if they held formation.
He gathered his men. "Listen up! Today is not training. It's not a raid. It's war. Stay in formation, listen for my commands, and watch each other's backs. We hold here, and no one breaks. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir!" came the shout, though a few voices cracked with nerves.
Alexander looked them over one last time, then donned his helm. They're counting on me. All of them.
Opening Moves
The Drovengar appeared first as a line of dark shapes, then as individual warriors: lean, scarred, many wearing wolf pelts and carrying round shields marked with crude white symbols. Their chants carried across the field, low and guttural, like wolves before a kill.
"Steady," Alexander said, moving down his line. "Shields up."
The first wave surged forward. Arrows darkened the sky, clattering off Valerius shields. Alexander crouched behind his own, teeth gritted as one arrow thunked into the wood near his head.
"Hold until they hit!" he barked.
The impact came like a wave striking a cliff—shields slammed together, swords and axes flashing. The sound was deafening: steel on steel, grunts, screams, the splatter of mud.
Alexander's world narrowed to motion and instinct. He blocked a swing, countered with a thrust, and shoved forward, keeping formation tight. "Left, two steps! Close the gap!"
On the far left, Lionel's group struggled as heavier raiders hammered their line. Alexander shifted, signaling Darian. "With me!"
They slammed into the gap, Alexander's shield catching a descending axe as Darian thrust past him, dropping the attacker. "Close ranks!" Darian roared, his voice carrying authority that surprised even Alexander.
The Left Holds
The clash at Lionel's position threatened to buckle the flank. A tall Drovengar warrior, face streaked in war paint, swung a two-handed axe with terrifying force, driving Lionel's shield nearly out of line.
Alexander stepped into the man's arc, bracing his shield just as the axe came down. The blow rang through his arm like a hammer on iron. He twisted, pulling the warrior off-balance, and drove his sword upward under the man's guard. The raider dropped with a guttural snarl.
"Stay tight!" Alexander barked, scanning his line. "No gaps, no retreats!"
Lionel gritted his teeth and pushed back into place. "Got it—no dying today, right?"
"Not if I can help it," Alexander said.
Darian moved up beside him, shield slick with blood, eyes sharp. "We hold, Alexander. They're slowing."
Indeed, the first rush faltered. The Drovengar weren't used to resistance this firm, and their wedge formation collapsed into chaotic individual fights.
Alexander saw the moment and acted. "Advance three steps—push them back! Shields forward!"
The Valerius line surged as one. Shields slammed into the enemy, forcing them downhill and away from the bank.
The Second Wave
A horn blast cut through the chaos. From beyond the ridge, another force advanced—the second wave, heavier armored and carrying massive tower shields. These were shieldbreakers, meant to smash through and create holes.
Alexander's stomach clenched. "Here it comes. Reset formation! Darian, pivot the left slightly toward the river edge—we'll anchor there."
Darian didn't hesitate. "You heard him, move it!"
Even Lionel's usual humor was gone as he rechecked his spear position. Garrick's deep voice rumbled: "They're bringing the big ones. This is it."
The shieldbreakers hit like a ram. The sound was a thunderclap—wood splintering, men shouting. One Valerius soldier stumbled back as his shield cracked, and for a split second, a hole yawned in the line.
Alexander filled it himself, shield high. "Close it, now!" he roared.
Men surged, sealing the breach. Alexander countered a low thrust, riposting fast enough to feel the resistance of flesh before the blade slid free. No time to think, just act.
Crisis on the Flank
A runner appeared, breathless. "Commander! The right-center is collapsing!"
Alexander's eyes flicked down the line. Dust and movement—the enemy had pushed deep into the Valerius center, threatening to roll the entire flank.
He had seconds to decide: stay firm on his position or maneuver to save the center.
"Darian!" Alexander barked. "Take twenty and hold this position. Don't break!"
Darian's eyes widened. "That leaves you thirty!"
"I know. Hold!"
Without waiting for argument, Alexander waved to Lionel, Garrick, and thirty others. "With me!"
They broke formation and sprinted down the inside edge of the line. Arrows hissed overhead as they charged toward the embattled center.
Counterstrike
The Valerius center was indeed folding, men falling back in confusion as Drovengar fighters poured through. Alexander didn't hesitate. "Form on me! Wedge formation—on my signal, drive them back!"
They moved fast, shields locking into the triangular wedge Alexander had drilled only yesterday.
"Now! Push!"
The wedge slammed into the exposed flank of the Drovengar force. Shock rippled through their ranks as Valerius steel cut sideways into their advance. Alexander swung hard, his blade biting deep into a raider's thigh, dropping him. Lionel speared another, Garrick's shield smashed two more off their feet.
The enemy's momentum faltered. Alexander yelled, "Keep pressure, don't stop!"
A horn blast from the rear signaled reinforcements from Marcus Hale's reserve, finally stabilizing the center. Together, they forced the enemy back toward the shallow river crossing.
Regaining Control
Panting, Alexander looked back toward his original post. Darian's group still held—tired, battered, but holding. Darian himself stood at the pivot point, helm dented, shield cracked, but he hadn't budged.
When the horn for retreat sounded—the Drovengar pulling back to regroup—the field quieted except for the groans of the injured and the shouts of medics.
Alexander limped back to his original position, sweat stinging his eyes. "Status?"
Darian wiped blood from his brow. "Lost two, five injured. The rest are here."
Alexander nodded grimly. "You held."
Darian gave a tired grin. "You doubted me?"
"No," Alexander said quietly. "Not anymore."
Aftermath
The field was a grim sight: bodies scattered in mud, the smell of iron thick in the air. Alexander walked the line, checking each of his men personally. Lionel had a gash across his cheek but was grinning like a fool. Garrick's arm bled but he waved it off.
The two dead were covered with cloaks. Alexander knelt briefly by them, silent. Fifty men. Now forty-eight.
Prince Adrian rode up, eyes scanning the field. "That counterattack in the center—that was you?"
Alexander stood, wiping blood from his sword. "Yes, your highness. They were breaking through. We couldn't let it happen."
Adrian nodded once, eyes steady. "You acted without orders but saved the line. That's initiative we need." His gaze hardened. "We'll talk after debrief. For now, see to your wounded."
Campfire Silence
That night, around the fire, there was little laughter. Lionel tried, joking about Garrick's "fancy arm bandage," but it fell flat. Everyone kept glancing at the two empty spots where their fallen comrades had once sat.
Darian finally spoke. "They died standing, holding their line. That's all any of us can ask for."
Alexander looked at him. For once, Darian's voice held no pride or rivalry—just respect.
Alexander whispered, "Tomorrow we'll move again. And next time, we'll be better."
The Dead and the Living
Dawn crept over the battlefield, pale light exposing the truth of war more clearly than any torchlight could. Bodies—Valerius and Drovengar alike—lay where they'd fallen, frozen expressions of anger, pain, or shock etched on their faces. The once lush grass was now a patchwork of churned mud, blood, and broken steel.
Alexander walked among the fallen with two healers, checking for survivors. There were none. When he reached one of his own men, barely eighteen with freckles still visible through the grime, Alexander knelt. He had to force his fingers to unclench as he closed the boy's eyes.
I gave the order. I brought him here.
Darian approached quietly, helmet under his arm, face hard. "We'll need to bury them before midday. Leave no one behind."
Alexander nodded. "See to it. Mark each grave. Names and ranks."
Darian hesitated, then said, "You can't carry all of them, Alexander. Not in here." He tapped his own temple. "You did what you had to."
Alexander looked up at him. "You ever get used to it?"
Darian's jaw worked. "No. But you get better at living with it."
Adrian's Summons
By midday, a page arrived at Alexander's temporary tent. "Prince Adrian requests your presence in the command pavilion, sir."
Alexander exhaled and adjusted his uniform. His armor was polished again, but the dents and scratches from yesterday remained. He didn't bother hiding them.
Inside the command pavilion, Adrian stood at the map table with Marcus Hale and several officers. The atmosphere was tense—political tension hung in the air thicker than the smoke from the brazier in the corner.
Adrian looked up. "Alexander. Good. I wanted to hear directly from you. Explain the decision to abandon your original position."
Alexander didn't flinch. "The center was collapsing. If they rolled it, our flank would have been cut off. Darian held my original position with twenty, freeing thirty for the wedge. It stabilized the line until reinforcements arrived."
One of the noble captains snorted. "Reckless. A knight should hold position, not play hero."
Alexander met his eyes calmly. "If I had stayed, we'd have lost the center entirely."
Adrian raised a hand, silencing them. "Your initiative prevented a rout. That's clear. Losses?"
"Two dead, five injured. Drovengar casualties higher."
Adrian nodded. "Very well. For this action, your temporary command is made permanent. You will retain fifty under your authority."
The noble captain stiffened. "Your highness—"
Adrian's eyes cut to him. "I've decided. Do you challenge it?"
The man faltered, then bowed stiffly. "No, your highness."
Whispers Grow Louder
Back at camp, Alexander felt eyes on him more than before. Some soldiers nodded respectfully; others, especially noble retainers, whispered behind hands. Commoner with a command. That would never sit well with some.
Lionel flopped beside him near the fire. "You know you're on half the officers' bad side, right?"
Alexander gave him a dry look. "You're not helping."
"I'm serious. They don't like how fast you're moving. Feels like you're skipping rungs on their precious ladder."
Garrick grunted. "Let them talk. He's the one doing the fighting."
Darian stood nearby, arms crossed. "They can talk all they want, but if they step out of line, they'll answer to me." He said it without hesitation, as if the old rivalry never existed.
Alexander studied him. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do," Darian interrupted. "You saved my life, then trusted me with the pivot yesterday. We held because of that trust. You've earned mine."
For a moment, the campfire's crackle was the only sound. Then Lionel grinned. "Group hug?"
"No," Alexander and Darian said in unison.
Letters Home
That night, Alexander sat alone with parchment and ink. He had to write two letters to families—one to a blacksmith's daughter, the other to an aging farmer couple. He stared at the paper, the words feeling hollow.
Your son fought bravely. He died holding the line.
Your father was a brave man. I'm honor to fight alongside him, he died holding the line.
It felt inadequate, but there were no better words. In the end, he signed his name as commander and sealed both letters.
When he stepped outside, Darian was waiting. "That's the worst part, isn't it? Writing those."
Alexander nodded. "They trusted me to bring them back. And I didn't."
Darian placed a hand on his shoulder briefly, awkwardly. "You brought forty-eight back. That matters."
The Next Orders
A messenger arrived late, carrying a new scroll. "Tomorrow we push east. The enemy is falling back, but command wants momentum. They're assigning heavier cavalry support to your flank."
Alexander unrolled the orders, reading quickly. "A rolling engagement. That means long hours."
Lionel groaned. "Great. My feet already hate me."
Garrick grinned. "Your feet hate you because you talk too much."
Alexander folded the orders. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's worse than today."