The morning sun glared down on the yard as Drillmaster Horst strode through the rows of recruits like a wolf among sheep. His gaze cut sharply from one face to the next, eyes lingering on sagging shoulders and bent knees.
"Most of you couldn't outfight a crippled chicken," he barked. "But we're going to find out who can at least follow orders without falling on their arses."
Alexander held his shield high, sweat trickling down his neck. His arms still ached from the previous day, but he locked them tight, his posture unflinching. He could feel Lionel fidgeting next to him, adjusting his stance for the third time.
"Today," Horst said, "we're splitting you into squads. Each squad will run a scouting exercise to the west ridge, report back with positions and any changes you see. Fast, quiet, and orderly. If you can't handle that, I'll know you're too stupid to trust with anything but holding a wall."
The Squad Assignment
Horst walked along the line, picking names and shoving men together. "You, you, and you—squad one. You—squad two."
He stopped in front of Alexander. "You. Alexander, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Congratulations. You get your own squad. Don't screw it up."
Alexander blinked. "Me? Sir, I've only been here—"
Horst glared. "Do you think the enemy cares how long you've been here? You've got a voice. Use it."
"Yes, sir!"
"Your squad is your three friends—since you lot can't seem to be separated—and two others. Baron's whelp and the tall one with the lazy eye."
From behind, Lionel whispered, "This is either a huge honor or a death sentence."
Alexander ignored him and stepped forward. "You heard the Drillmaster. Squad six, on me!"
The Noble-Born Conflict, Again
One of the assigned recruits stepped forward reluctantly—a tall young man with a polished uniform and a sneer already plastered on his face. Alexander recognized him immediately: the same noble-born recruit who had insulted him the previous day.
"You?" the noble said, laughing. "They put me under you? I'm supposed to take orders from a field rat?"
Alexander kept his voice calm. "You're free to complain after we finish the exercise. For now, fall in line."
The noble snorted but obeyed, muttering under his breath.
March to the Ridge
The squad set out toward the west ridge, a low hill covered in sparse trees and thick underbrush. The goal: move quietly, observe the designated markers, and return with accurate positions.
"Keep low, watch your steps," Alexander whispered as they entered the brush. "Lionel, keep your eyes ahead. Garrick, rear guard. Roderick, check terrain."
"On it," Roderick said, already scanning the ground for tracks or hazards.
Lionel grinned, unsheathing his wooden sword. "If this was a real mission, I'd be chopping heads by now."
"You'd also be full of arrows by now," Garrick muttered.
Alexander crouched near a fallen log, gesturing to the markers ahead—wooden poles painted bright red. "Positions?"
"Four markers," Roderick said, eyes flicking. "Spread evenly, likely simulating an enemy outpost."
Alexander nodded. "We'll circle wide, check each one, then double back. Quiet. That means you too, Lionel."
Lionel raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I can be quiet when I want."
The Slip-Up
They moved well—until the noble recruit stepped on a dry branch. The snap echoed through the trees like a whip crack.
Alexander froze. "Hold!"
The noble shrugged. "What? No one's actually out here."
"That's not the point," Alexander said sharply. "If this was real, we'd be dead."
The noble laughed. "From one branch?"
Alexander stepped close, his voice dropping to a razor's edge. "From the arrows you wouldn't see coming. Next time, lift your feet or I'll have you walk behind Garrick and carry his spare pack."
The noble's smirk faltered slightly.
Improvised Leadership
They completed the sweep, Alexander calling signals quietly and using hand gestures instead of shouting. Roderick pointed out alternative routes, Lionel scouted ahead enthusiastically (if noisily), and Garrick kept an eye on the noble recruit to ensure he didn't wander off.
On the way back, Alexander noticed something odd—an uprooted patch of earth along the trail, like someone had dug in a hurry. It wasn't part of the exercise markers.
"Roderick, take a look," Alexander said.
Roderick crouched, brushing soil aside. "Huh. Animal burrow… but fresh. Too fresh."
Alexander filed it away in his mind. Even in training, small details mattered.
Return and Report
When they arrived back at camp, Horst awaited them, arms folded. "Well? Did you find the markers, or did you get lost?"
Alexander stepped forward. "All four markers, sir. Positions unchanged. Also, we noted disturbed earth along the trail near the second marker—possible animal burrow."
Horst raised an eyebrow. "You took note of that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Most idiots just walk past. Keep that up." He turned to the noble recruit. "And you? Did you actually follow orders, or did you trip over your own pride?"
The noble recruit stiffened but said nothing. Horst barked a laugh. "Figures."
Camaraderie at Night
That night in the barracks, Lionel flopped onto his bunk dramatically. "Look at us, real soldiers now. Scouting, reporting, probably going to get medals soon."
"Medals for walking in a circle?" Roderick said, rolling his eyes.
"Medals for surviving Alexander's leadership," Garrick teased.
Alexander smirked. "Laugh it up. One day, you'll be leading squads of your own."
Lionel grinned. "Nah, I'll let you do the hard thinking. I'll stick to looking good while swinging swords."
For the first time, Alexander felt something shift. He wasn't just following orders—he was leading, even if only a handful of men for a single exercise. It was small, but it was the start of everything he wanted.
He lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling. First squad today… one day, an army.