The Funeral Pyres
The next morning smelled of ash and grief. A makeshift funeral had been erected outside the western gate, where two bodies lay under white sheets, surrounded by crude wooden markers hastily carved with their names.
The entire training company stood in formation, silent except for the crackle of flames licking at stacked logs. Alexander stood stiffly, helmet tucked under his arm, his jaw tight. He couldn't shake the image of the raider he had killed. That final moment, when life had left the man's eyes—it replayed over and over, an unwelcome loop burned into his mind.
Horst's voice was softer than usual, but still commanding. "These men joined to serve. They gave their lives doing so. Honor their sacrifice by living better, fighting smarter, and never forgetting."
The recruits saluted in unison. Alexander raised his hand slowly, feeling the weight of it. His grip on the helmet trembled, and Garrick's hand came down heavy on his shoulder.
"You did good," Garrick said quietly. "We all came home because of what you did."
Alexander nodded, but didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the fire. Did good? Or just survived?
Training Resumes… Differently
Later, Horst gathered everyone for drills, as if nothing had happened. "You think the enemy gives you a day to mourn? No. Shields up, swords out! Formation!"
The atmosphere was different. Every strike carried a bit more force, every formation locked tighter. Even Lionel, who normally joked, was silent, jaw set.
Alexander felt himself moving differently—his body remembering the raid's rhythm, his eyes constantly scanning edges for threats. Roderick caught him staring at the tree line beyond the yard and said, "Relax, Alex. We're not being attacked every day."
Alexander shook his head. "You don't know that."
Horst noticed. His booming voice cut across the yard: "Alexander! You planning on winning a staring contest with the trees?"
"No, sir!"
"Then keep your shield up!"
But even Horst's eyes lingered for a moment longer than usual, as if reassessing the young recruit.
Whispers Begin
At the mess hall, the talk had shifted. Instead of jokes about drills, men whispered:
"He shoved that raider back himself, I saw it…"
"That commoner saved two lives…"
"Maybe he's officer material…"
Alexander pretended not to hear, but he caught Roderick smirking. "See? You're already a legend. Soon they'll be carving statues of you holding that busted shield."
Lionel leaned in, grinning faintly. "Yeah, the heroic pose. Sword up, shield cracked, eyes full of destiny."
Alexander glared at him. "It's not funny."
Lionel shrugged. "I'm serious. I thought you were going to panic yesterday. Instead, you acted like… like you'd done it before."
Alexander shook his head. "I've never done that before. I just… moved."
Garrick nodded. "That's how it starts. Some people freeze. Some run. You moved."
Noble Resentment
The noble-born recruit Alexander had clashed with during training approached, his face tight with restrained anger.
"Enjoying the attention, commoner?" he sneered. "You think one lucky swing makes you a hero?"
Alexander looked up from his meal slowly. "I'm no hero."
"No, you're a fool who got lucky. Don't think for a second you're above your station."
Lionel's hand went to his knife instinctively, but Alexander stopped him with a shake of the head. He met the noble's eyes calmly. "If you have a problem, take it up with Drillmaster Horst. I'm busy eating."
The noble's jaw clenched, but he walked away. Roderick muttered, "That guy's going to be a problem."
"Let him," Alexander said quietly. "I don't have time for petty pride. I've got enough of my own goals to worry about."
A Conversation with Horst
Later that evening, Horst called Alexander to his office—a cramped room lined with weapon racks and old campaign maps.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
Horst didn't look up from the paperwork he was scratching at with a quill. "Sit."
Alexander obeyed.
Horst finally set the quill aside. "You did good yesterday. Most recruits panic in their first fight. You didn't."
Alexander's throat tightened. "I just… I moved before I thought."
"That's called instinct," Horst said bluntly. "You've got it. Don't waste it. Most soldiers fight for pay or pride. You look like you're fighting for something else."
Alexander hesitated. "…I want land. A title. To be remembered."
Horst snorted. "Ambition. Dangerous thing. It'll either make you or kill you. But if you're serious, listen: a soldier fights. A leader thinks. You're already starting to think. Keep that up."
"Yes, sir."
Horst leaned forward slightly. "One more thing: don't let these noble-born bastards get under your skin. They'll test you. They hate it when someone like you rises too fast. Let your work speak for itself."
Alexander stood, nodding. "Understood."
Prince Adrian's Interest
From the upper gallery of the yard, Prince Adrian once again watched the drills that evening. His eyes were sharp, assessing, as Drillmaster Horst joined him.
"That recruit again?" Adrian asked without looking away.
"Alexander," Horst confirmed. "Natural instincts. Kept his squad together yesterday when everyone else panicked."
Adrian's lips curved slightly. "A commoner, correct?"
Horst nodded. "Yes, your highness. Born nothing, but he listens. He doesn't crack easy."
Adrian folded his arms, watching Alexander adjust a fellow recruit's shield position with quiet instruction. "Interesting. Keep me informed of his progress."
Horst raised an eyebrow. "You planning to recruit him personally?"
Adrian smiled faintly. "Perhaps. Men like him are rare… and valuable."
Night Reflections
Back in the barracks, the atmosphere was lighter than the night before. Lionel tried cracking a joke about how he "single-handedly scared off three raiders," earning groans and a thrown boot from Garrick.
Roderick smirked, "If you count screaming and swinging wildly as scaring them, sure."
Alexander sat quietly, cleaning his sword. He looked at his companions and felt something shift—a sense of belonging. They were no longer just friends from the same village. They were comrades. Soldiers.
But deep inside, that fire still burned: This isn't enough. I don't just want to be a soldier. I want to command, to carve my name into history.
He tightened his grip on the sword. "We'll rise together," he whispered to himself.