Morning Assignment
Drillmaster Horst's voice thundered across the yard:
"Listen up, you worthless lot! Starting today, squad leaders are permanent. That means the ones I trust keep their squads, and the rest of you better get used to following orders!"
The recruits exchanged glances, whispers spreading. Permanent squad leaders meant authority, influence, and the first real step toward officer consideration.
Horst's eyes landed on Alexander.
"Alexander, step forward!"
Alexander stepped out of formation, spine straight, heart pounding.
"You're confirmed as leader of twenty men. Don't screw it up."
Alexander nodded. "Understood, sir."
Horst tossed him a thin strip of dyed cloth—the mark of a squad leader. "Wear it on your arm. Earn it every day, or I'll rip it off myself."
Lionel whispered from the back, "Look at him. Already fancy. Next thing, he'll have a personal horse."
Roderick smirked. "More likely he'll have gray hair from dealing with idiots like you."
Enter Darian Rythorn
One of the men assigned to Alexander's command stepped forward—Darian Rythorn, standing stiff and proud, chin lifted like he owned the place.
"You?" Darian sneered. "A commoner leading me?"
Alexander tightened the cloth around his arm, meeting Darian's gaze evenly. "That's right. Problem?"
"Yes, there's a problem." Darian stepped closer, voice dripping with disdain. "I trained under the finest instructors. I was fencing while you were mucking stables. And now I'm supposed to take orders from someone who doesn't even know which fork to use at dinner?"
Alexander's voice stayed calm but firm. "You can complain later. For now, fall in line."
Darian's nostrils flared. "You'll regret trying to order me around, commoner."
Horst's voice cut in like a blade: "Something wrong, Rythorn?!"
Darian stiffened. "No, sir."
"Good, because the only thing worse than insubordination is whining. Fall in, or fall out of my army!"
The squad chuckled quietly as Darian scowled but took his place in formation.
The Drill
Alexander led his men through shield formations, advance-and-retreat maneuvers, and basic defensive wedges. His voice carried clearly, commands concise and sharp.
Roderick quietly murmured as they marched, "You sound like you've been doing this for years."
"Feels natural," Alexander admitted.
Darian, at the rear, muttered loud enough for others to hear, "Feels like a goat herder yelling at sheep."
Lionel shot him a glare. "Keep talking, Rythorn, and I'll make sure you 'accidentally' trip in front of the Drillmaster."
"Try it, and I'll break your pretty face," Darian snapped.
"Enough!" Alexander barked, turning. "Save it for sparring, not my formation."
Even Horst raised an eyebrow at Alexander's tone but said nothing—letting the recruits see who had real control.
Sparring Match
Later, Horst announced sparring sessions to finish the day's training. "Pair off! Show me if any of you learned something this week."
Predictably, Darian stepped in front of Alexander. "I'll take the squad leader," he said with a smirk.
Alexander sighed, picking up a wooden practice sword and shield. "Fine. Standard rules. No killing blows."
Darian grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The spar began fast—Darian lunging aggressively, forcing Alexander back. Darian had real skill: clean strikes, sharp footwork, and noble-trained precision. Alexander blocked, countering when possible, but Darian's style was polished and aggressive.
"You can't lead men when you can't even win a duel!" Darian hissed as he pressed the attack.
Alexander parried another strike, using Darian's momentum to shove him off balance. "Leadership isn't just swinging swords."
"But it helps!" Darian came down hard, aiming for a quick disarm.
Alexander pivoted, catching Darian's blade and twisting his shield upward—sending Darian stumbling back, nearly falling. Alexander could have pressed, but instead, he stepped back and lowered his sword.
"Good form," Alexander said evenly. "Now get back in line."
The recruits watching let out muffled laughs. Darian's face burned red, but he stomped back to formation without a word.
Horst grunted. "Not bad, Alexander. Keep it up."
Evening Barracks Clash
That night, Darian approached Alexander's bunk, jaw tight. "You embarrassed me in front of everyone."
"You embarrassed yourself," Alexander replied calmly. "You wanted to duel to prove something. You lost."
Darian's voice lowered dangerously. "You think you're better than me? You're nothing. This army will chew you up and spit you out."
Alexander stood, stepping close enough to meet Darian eye to eye. "Maybe. But until then, I'm leading this squad, and you'll follow orders. Or you can leave."
For a tense moment, neither moved. Then Darian turned sharply and walked away, muttering under his breath.
Roderick leaned against the bunkpost nearby. "Congratulations. You've made your first real enemy."
Alexander sat back down, tightening his sword belt. "Not my enemy. Just someone who doesn't like reality."
Garrick snorted. "Reality's gonna hit him harder than you did today."
Lionel grinned. "This is going to be fun to watch."
Alexander didn't smile. He stared at the cloth tied around his arm—the mark of leadership—and muttered quietly, "I don't have time for games."
In the quiet moments before sleep, Alexander glanced across the barracks where Darian sat alone, sharpening his blade with controlled, angry motions.
He hates me now, Alexander thought. But one day, he'll understand why I do this… or he'll be gone long before that.