Deep within the witches' territory, an expedition or a campaign had been ordered by the king himself—an enterprise proclaimed as a testament to might, glory, and power, earned through conquest. The doctrine was simple and merciless: the only way to protect a kingdom was to become so strong that no one else could ever hope to oppose it.
Thus the decision was made to strike first—to explore and besiege the great depths into which no man had ever truly ventured. Yet it had not been a decision reached by everyone. It had not even been debated. It was the will of those who possessed authority by force alone.
Someone, somewhere, made choices for the entire country with a stroke of their hand. It had not been my decision. I had no power to refuse, no voice to challenge it. I had simply been conscripted by the empire and pressed into its orders.
At the forest's edge, a tired swordmaster sat with his blade resting across his arms, his shoulders slumped from the weight of endless preparation. Around him, other swordsmen sheathed their weapons or idly cut at branches, testing edges that had already been tested too many times.
I sometimes wondered, with a hollow sort of curiosity, whether coincidence had led me here—whether fate itself had nudged me into becoming a soldier. I was the son of a farmer. Nothing more. Yet I had decided, stubbornly and foolishly, that I would become a swordmaster and rise through the ranks.
The truth was less heroic. I was mediocre at nearly every skill I tried to master. And beneath everything else, there was fear—thick and constant, coursing through me. I had never truly questioned what might happen when I enlisted. I had only thought of the wages. The promise of gold.
The mud caked on my boots was not unfamiliar to me. I had grown up in fields. I knew dirt. I knew fatigue. I also knew that I could never have been a sainted scholar, rising through the halls of a royal academy. That would have taken decades—and money I did not have. Far more money than my family could ever dream of.
So yes, that was the reason I became a soldier. I had no financial backing to become a scholar. I lacked the intelligence to pass whatever trials might have chosen me for something greater. Powerless. Poor. Mediocre.
I wiped my sword with a rag and washed my clothes in the river, boiling water over a small fire to clean what little I owned. Nearby, my fellow soldiers laughed at nothing in particular as they ate stale bread soaked in boiling water and thin soup.
Others gathered herbs and spices. Scholars moved among them, guarded and careful, clutching their books as if they were shields. I never thought I would become like them. I never thought I deserved to. My envy felt vain even as it burned. But vanity was all that remained to someone with no power, no money, and no talent worth naming.
"Richard. There you are."
A hand struck my back in a friendly pat.
"Come on. Stand in formation. The journey's starting."
The voice belonged to a higher-ranking knight, his body broad and dense with the kind of strength that came from a lifetime of good food and better fortune.
Hours passed. The same routine repeated itself: making hammocks among the trees, lining up for rations, drinking water, marching, wiping mud from my boots. One soldier carved marks into tree trunks as we moved, a silent record of our slow advance.
Again and again. And again.
I hated the simplicity of it. I carried sacks until my legs shook and nearly gave out beneath me. I almost fell once. No one noticed. I was grateful for that. I huffed through my breath, dizzy and aching, feeling as though I were already dying.
My great-grandfather had died. So had my grandfather. So had my father. So would I. So would everyone.
It was normal. And I hated it.
Branches scratched my skin. Fatigue gnawed at my bones. Every sensation reminded me of what I tried not to think about. My own mortality.
I hated that I could do nothing about it. I hated that all I could do was move again and again, breath after breath, step after step.
We passed slaves being whipped forward, forced to haul crates and tend horses. Caravans rolled by, heavy and creaking. They were villagers from conquered lands—people whose homes had become spoils of war.
I stood there and stared.
I told myself I should be grateful I was not them.
What did I think I would do? Free them?
I scoffed quietly. Absurd… it had passed.
I went through the motions again and again, each task a mirror of the last, with no way of knowing if I could have done it better. Pitching the tents, hauling the heavy sacks, arranging the meager supplies—it all felt endless, monotonous, and small against the weight of the world.
I paced among the trees, trying to find rhythm in the routine, but inside me something churned, pressing, as if it wanted to pour itself out and leave me hollow.
Breathing out... As even if i try to calm myself down, somewhere still deep inside knaws me.
Maybe, in truth, the reason I had become a soldier at all was because I had been forced into it. Life had pushed me, and I had no choice but to follow. If I had been powerful, if the world had granted me any real agency, I would never have wanted to become a scholar, nor a soldier. I would have chosen something else entirely, something I could shape with my own hands, rather than be shaped by the demands of others.