A Morning Summons
The yard bustled with early drills, but Drillmaster Horst's voice cut through the clamor:
"Alexander! Front and center!"
Alexander jogged forward, boots thudding, while twenty pairs of eyes followed. Darian crossed his arms at the back, watching closely, though his face was unreadable.
Horst held a scroll in one hand, sealed with wax. "Orders from above. You're being recognized for your quick thinking and leadership during the scouting mission and the border raid. The High Command likes men who can act on instinct and bring their men home alive."
Alexander blinked, trying to keep his expression steady. "Thank you, sir."
Horst grunted. "Don't thank me. Thank your own damn stubbornness. Effective immediately—you're promoted to Knight rank."
Receiving the Sword
A quartermaster stepped forward carrying a simple but well-crafted steel sword and a new set of armor—nothing ornate, but far more polished than the dented training gear Alexander had been using.
Horst placed a hand on Alexander's shoulder, voice carrying across the yard: "You've proven you're more than just another recruit. Now prove you're worth the steel you carry."
"Understood, sir," Alexander said, gripping the sword's hilt. It felt heavy—not in weight, but in meaning.
Squad's Reaction
When Alexander returned to his squad, Lionel immediately grinned. "Well, well, Sir Alexander now. Should we bow, or just kiss your boots?"
"Try either and I'll hit you with the flat of this sword," Alexander said dryly.
Roderick smirked. "Congrats, Alex. You earned it."
Even Garrick nodded with a grin. "You'll need a bigger bunk now—your head's going to swell."
Alexander smiled faintly but his eyes moved to Darian, who stood apart, silent. Their gazes met briefly. Darian's expression shifted—something halfway between grudging respect and simmering resentment—but he said nothing, only nodding once before looking away.
A New Superior Officer
That afternoon, Alexander was summoned to meet Lieutenant Marcus Hale, one of the army's rising officers. Marcus was young but already known for his decisive battlefield command and sharp eye for talent.
"Alexander, is it?" Marcus asked, leaning back in his chair as Alexander saluted. "I've heard your name more than once this week. A commoner pulling his squad together and saving lives… that's rare."
"I just did what needed doing, sir," Alexander replied.
Marcus smiled faintly. "Humility. That's rarer than you think. Keep your men together, and you might just find yourself with more than a squad soon."
"Yes, sir."
As Alexander left, Marcus called after him: "One more thing—ignore the noise from those who think you don't belong. The army doesn't care about your birth. Only results."
Prince Adrian Watching
On his way back, Alexander passed through the yard where Prince Adrian Valerius stood observing drills again. Adrian's eyes flicked to him briefly, then lingered longer than usual.
Alexander saluted stiffly. Adrian gave a nod in return—subtle, but deliberate.
It wasn't a conversation. Not yet. But it was the first acknowledgment from the prince himself.
Evening Celebration
That night, Lionel brought stolen ale to the barracks, pouring into tin cups. "To Sir Alexander, slayer of raiders and nightmare of Drillmaster Horst!"
"Nightmare? I'd rather be his dream," Alexander said dryly, raising the cup anyway. "But… thanks. All of you."
The squad raised their cups, even Darian—though his toast was silent. Alexander noticed but didn't comment. Instead, he looked around at his men, feeling something solid forming between them.
Looking Ahead
Later, lying in his bunk, Alexander turned the new sword in his hands. Knight rank. A squad that listens. Recognition from command.
It was a start, but nowhere near enough. He wanted land, command of thousands, and his name carved into history.
He whispered to himself, "This is only the beginning."
Across the room, Darian watched him for a moment before turning away, his face unreadable.