The first sound Alexander heard was a roar.
"Up, you useless sacks of meat! Sun's already higher than your worth!"
Drillmaster Horst's voice boomed through the barracks like a warhorn, shaking dust from the rafters. He was an enormous man—thick arms, square jaw, eyes sharp as drawn steel.
Alexander shot up from his cot, nearly tripping on his boots. Garrick groaned from the bunk beside him, muttering something about regretting every life decision that had led him here. Lionel was somehow still asleep, mouth open, snoring.
"Move, Lionel!" Alexander shouted, grabbing his friend by the shoulder and shaking him.
Lionel blinked lazily. "What's the rush? Is the princess here to see us off?"
A boot slammed down on the cot frame, inches from Lionel's head. Horst's glare burned like a forge fire.
"You think this is a tavern, boy?!"
Lionel sat up instantly, saluting awkwardly. "N-No, sir!"
Horst grunted and pointed toward the door. "Armor up, swords out, and into the yard, or you'll be cleaning latrines with your toothbrush."
Morning Training
The yard was already alive when they stumbled out—recruits running drills, clashing wooden swords, and dragging shields heavier than some of the men carrying them. The smell of sweat and dust hit like a wall.
Horst barked orders like a conductor leading an orchestra of misery. "Form up! Left face! Shields ready! Hold that line, or I'll hold your funerals!"
Alexander grabbed one of the battered wooden shields and braced it as ordered. The weight dragged at his left arm immediately. His right hand clutched the wooden practice sword, rough splinters biting his palm.
"Step! Strike! Recover!" Horst roared.
The line advanced awkwardly, shields bumping together, swords swinging too high or too wide. One man tripped, nearly toppling three others. Horst's face turned purple.
"You call that a shield wall? I've seen laundry lines straighter than you sorry piles of goat dung!"
Alexander gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance, copying the rhythm of one veteran recruit in the front. His shield locked neatly with Roderick's on the left and Garrick's on the right, their movements awkward but steadying.
Horst Notices
Hours passed. Blisters formed. Sweat drenched every tunic. Men groaned and dropped shields. Some vomited from the strain.
But Alexander kept moving, jaw tight, eyes focused forward. Every barked insult from Horst slid off him like rain off stone. He wasn't thinking about the pain; he was thinking about his goal. Every drill, every step, was one step closer to his dream of leading men, of carving his name into history.
From the observation deck above the yard, Prince Adrian Valerius leaned against the railing. His polished breastplate gleamed, but there was no ceremony to him—just quiet watchfulness. Two knights stood behind him, but his eyes were fixed on the recruits below.
One recruit caught his attention.
"Who's that?" Adrian asked quietly.
The knight beside him glanced down. "Commoner, I think. Enlisted yesterday. Name… Alexander, I believe."
Adrian studied him for a moment. While others faltered, Alexander's focus never wavered. His shield never dipped, his stance never slackened, even as his arms trembled with fatigue.
"Interesting," Adrian murmured, but said nothing else. He stepped away a moment later, already thinking about the war council he would attend later that day.
Midday Break
When the bell finally rang, signaling a meal break, Alexander collapsed onto a bench, chest heaving. His arms felt like lead.
Lionel plopped down beside him, wiping sweat from his brow dramatically. "I think my arms are broken. Are they still attached?"
"Barely," Roderick said, sitting opposite them, his sharp eyes scanning the yard as if memorizing every drill. "You swing like you're waving to a tavern girl."
Lionel smirked. "Waving gets me further than scowling ever did."
Garrick dropped onto the bench with a thud, his sheer size making it creak. "The Drillmaster hates us."
"He hates everyone," Roderick corrected. "It's his job."
Alexander chewed on the stale bread they'd been given, staring at his blistered hands. "He doesn't hate me," he muttered.
Roderick raised a brow. "What makes you say that?"
"He didn't yell at me as much as he yelled at you," Alexander said with a faint smile.
Lionel groaned. "That's because you look like you actually enjoy this insanity. You didn't even flinch when he screamed in your face."
Alexander shrugged. "Pain's temporary. Weakness is permanent."
Garrick stared at him, then shook his head. "You're insane."
"Maybe," Alexander said, biting into the bread again. "But I'll be a living insane man. A living general one day."
Conflict with Nobles
The conversation ended abruptly when three noble-born recruits approached. Their uniforms were cleaner, their equipment newer, and their sneers sharper than their swords.
"You think you're something special, commoner?" the leader of the trio asked. His voice dripped with disdain.
Alexander set his bread down calmly. "I think I'm here to train. Same as you."
"No," the noble recruit said, stepping closer. "We're here to become officers. You're here to die first so we don't have to."
Garrick started to rise, but Alexander put a hand on his arm, stopping him. "You should get back to eating," Alexander said quietly.
The noble recruit sneered. "Keep your head down, commoner. It's the only way you'll keep it at all."
They left, snickering. Lionel muttered under his breath, "If I ever get promoted, I'm making that idiot clean latrines for life."
Alexander stared after them but said nothing. He simply clenched his fists and muttered, I'll rise above them all.
Evening Punishment Drill
The afternoon drills were worse. Horst pushed them harder, shouting until his voice cracked. They held shield walls until their arms shook violently, swung swords until hands blistered open, and ran laps until their legs burned.
Lionel stumbled and nearly dropped his shield. Horst was on him in an instant, roaring, "You think the enemy waits for you to rest, recruit? Drop your shield in battle, and you're dead!"
Alexander adjusted his stance, catching Lionel's shield edge with his own, steadying him. "Hold it up. Breathe," he muttered.
Lionel nodded, gritting his teeth, holding until the drill ended.
Horst stopped in front of Alexander, studying him. "What's your name, boy?"
"Alexander, sir."
"You don't flinch much, Alexander."
"Nothing to flinch at, sir," Alexander replied, voice steady.
Horst grunted. "We'll see if you keep saying that after the real thing."
Night in the Barracks
When night fell, the recruits collapsed into their bunks. Lionel groaned, "Tomorrow, I'm not getting up. I'll tell them I died in my sleep."
"You'd fail even at dying," Roderick muttered, already half-asleep.
Garrick turned onto his side, muttering, "Wake me up if we actually fight someone."
Alexander lay staring at the ceiling, arms aching, but his mind sharp. He thought about the noble's insult, Horst's barked approval, and the silent prince on the deck watching them.
I will rise. No matter what it takes.
Sleep came, but his dreams were of shining armor and roaring battlefields.