The messenger rode into camp just after dawn, his horse lathered and sides heaving. He swung down, boots slapping the mud, and shouted before anyone could even question him.
"All squad leaders, report to Command immediately! Orders from High Command!"
Alexander had been halfway through tightening the straps on his greaves. He froze, then straightened, fastening the last buckle quickly. Around him, the barracks stirred like a kicked anthill—soldiers stumbling from bunks, pulling on armor, murmuring nervously.
Lionel leaned out of his bunk, hair tousled, eyes wide. "That's not a drill, is it?"
"No," Roderick said grimly, folding up the maps he'd been studying since dawn. "Drills don't wake the whole garrison."
Garrick grunted, sliding his massive arms through his chain shirt. "Finally."
Even Darian Rythorn, normally quick with a sarcastic remark, said nothing. He simply sheathed his sword and stood ready. When he caught Alexander's eye, there was no mockery there—just focus.
Alexander nodded once. "Full kit. Move fast. We don't know what this is yet."
The courtyard of Redmarch Fortress was alive with motion by the time they arrived. Soldiers filed into lines, armor clinking and shields banging together as sergeants barked orders. At the head of the assembly, two figures stood out immediately.
The first was Lieutenant Marcus Hale, his polished breastplate gleaming even under the heavy gray clouds rolling overhead. He held a scroll, sealed in black wax.
The second figure drew even more attention: Prince Adrian Valerius himself, standing in practical traveling armor rather than ceremonial dress. His hand rested casually on the hilt of a longsword, his face calm but alert.
"Men of Valerius," Marcus shouted, unrolling the scroll. "By direct order of His Highness, Prince Adrian, we march east to the frontlines. Intelligence confirms the Drovengar are amassing not for raids but for full-scale war."
A ripple of sound ran through the soldiers. Alexander felt the shift immediately—fear, excitement, confusion. A real war.
Prince Adrian stepped forward, his voice carrying with surprising strength. "This kingdom will not cower behind walls while enemies gather. We will meet them in the field, drive them back, and remind them why Valerius endures when others fall. Some of you are young, new to war. Some are veterans. All of you are now my soldiers." His eyes swept the crowd—and paused briefly, unmistakably, on Alexander before moving on.
"Do your duty," Adrian finished. "And stand for Valerius."
By midday, the army marched out—three full battalions, nearly a thousand soldiers, plus cavalry, engineers, and supply wagons. Alexander's squad walked near the left-center column, their shields strapped to their backs, spears and swords clattering as they moved.
The weather didn't cooperate. The road was slick with last night's rain, turning to mud beneath hundreds of boots. Horses whinnied, supply wagon wheels groaned, and the air was thick with the smell of wet leather and oil.
Lionel was the first to break the silence. "So, Alex, think they're putting us in the front line or the edge?"
"Edges usually see more movement than you think," Roderick muttered, eyes scanning his folded map as they walked.
Alexander adjusted his shoulder strap. "We'll go where they tell us. Our job is to hold."
Garrick grinned, wiping rain from his forehead. "Good. I was starting to rust sitting behind walls."
Darian, walking a few paces back, finally spoke. "You think the Drovengar will actually fight a straight battle? They fight like wolves—hit and run, not lines and formations."
"They'll fight however their commander tells them," Alexander said. "And someone's bold enough to mass troops like this."
"And you think they can win?" Darian asked.
Alexander glanced at him but didn't answer right away. "…We'll find out soon enough."
They camped near dusk, forming a sprawl of tents and cookfires along a ridge road. Engineers dug small trenches while cavalry scouts rode patrol loops. The air smelled of smoke and boiled beans from the cookfires.
Alexander's squad sat together, as they always did. Lionel poked at his stew suspiciously. "Looks like it's been through a goat twice."
"Eat it anyway," Roderick said, unrolling his map. "We march again at first light."
Garrick finished his portion in three bites. "Not bad."
Darian sat slightly apart, oiling his blade. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. "You did good at Redmarch, Alexander. Saved my life."
Lionel's eyes widened dramatically. "Did Darian Rythorn just compliment someone? Mark this day!"
"Shut up, Lionel," Darian said, but there was no anger behind it. He glanced at Alexander. "You shouldn't have risked yourself for me."
Alexander held his gaze. "You're part of my squad. I don't leave anyone behind. Doesn't matter who they are."
Darian nodded once, looking back down at his sword. It wasn't thanks exactly, but it was something.
A voice called from outside their fire circle. "Knight Alexander of no house?"
Alexander stood. "Here."
A royal guard approached, wearing the prince's crest on his breastplate. "His Highness wishes to speak with you."
Alexander followed, feeling every pair of eyes on him—including Darian's.
Prince Adrian stood near the main command fire with Lieutenant Marcus Hale. Adrian's expression was thoughtful as he studied a sand table marked with troop positions. When Alexander approached, the prince looked up immediately.
"You're Alexander," Adrian said. Not a question.
"Yes, your highness."
"You held the north wall at Redmarch."
"Yes, sir. My squad did their duty."
Adrian studied him a moment longer, then said, "Tomorrow, you won't just have your squad. You'll take command of fifty men as a temporary unit leader under Lieutenant Hale. You'll hold the left-center line."
Alexander blinked. "Fifty men?"
Adrian nodded. "Can you handle that?"
Alexander straightened. "Yes, your highness."
"Good." Adrian's voice hardened slightly. "Don't let me regret this."
Back at the fire, Lionel was practically vibrating. "Fifty men? They just handed you fifty men? You're moving up faster than a noble with three surnames."
"Lionel," Roderick said, "you're incapable of speaking without offending someone."
Garrick grinned. "Fifty men means bigger fights. I like this."
Even Darian smirked faintly. "Careful, Alexander. Some nobles already hate how fast you're moving. This will make it worse."
Alexander shrugged. "I'm not here to make them happy."
Darian gave a low chuckle. "Good answer."
When the fire burned low, Alexander sat apart, staring at the stars. Fifty men now looked to him for orders—fifty lives hanging on his decisions. This is what I wanted, he thought. To lead. To rise.
But for the first time, he felt the weight behind it, heavy and cold. If he failed, they wouldn't just demote him—they'd bury him and every man who trusted him.
He clenched his fist. "I won't fail," he whispered.