"I'm cold," the boy whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. His breath spoke of hunger, of an empty stomach. The skin on his scalp scraped off, blood had flowed down into his eyes and crusted over, blinding him. A figure in white cradled his head. He rubbed the boy's skin in an attempt to restore the slightest bit of warmth to his face. But he was failing, the boy growing more pallid with every minute that passed.

  The white robed figure's lower mouth covered by a veil, his face was further obscured by the darkness of the cave. But even to the boy in his arms, it was obvious he was beginning to tear up. The veiled figure's hands began to tremble, but whether it was from the cold or something else, only he knew.

  "...I'm sorry," he choked, lowering his head, tears beginning to fall from his face.

  The boy didn't know what he was apologizing for.

  ***

  The smell of stagnant piss hit the sleeping boy’s nose, only reinforcing the fact that he had to wake up. As time passed, the scent of human filth seemed to only grow stronger. The boy further curled in, both to block out the scent, though he stunk of dried sweat and blood, as well as to warm himself up. Winters were cold this time of year, especially compared to farther South. The boy remembered going around his old home shirtless every single day, the air too hot, too humid to do otherwise. Here, forgetting to wear a pair of socks when you went outside was tantamount to a death sentence.

  But the boy didn't mind the harsh weather. It was the people, molded by the ice and snow, that were the real problem.

  Southerners weren't the friendliest, with a healthy level of caution towards outsiders. But at least they didn't revel in the suffering others. Southerners at least wouldn't piss on the corpses of the enemy just because they could. At least in the South, thievery wasn't commonplace, nor tacitly encouraged.

  That was probably why the smell of piss and shit was stronger than usual. The soldiers in the Baron's army couldn't be considered the cream of the crop of society. But the majority of them also weren't incontinent. That meant that someone had lost their blanket and died, but if that were the case, usually, they'd just lose a toe. Maybe two, if the Goddess felt particularly spiteful. Instead, some poor bastard had died in the night, the remnants of their last meal released all over. And now the boy had to deal with the horrid stench.

  Getting up, the boy distanced himself from where the scent was strongest. He walked quietly to the only window in the room, brushing the curtain aside. Though, window and curtain were generous descriptors for a glassless hole in the wall covered up by a ratty square of fabric worn down from years of not being repaired.

  As dawn broke, rays of sunlight blanketed his face, the traces of fatigue brought on from a lack of sleep gradually disappearing.

  He rapidly shook his head back and forth, ridding himself of the damn near impossible to resist temptation of going back to sleep. The boy looked back at the room. As if an unspoken agreement had been reached, the other soldiers gathered as far away as they could from the window, where the central heating of the castle was closest.

  They were mainly motivated by the desire to preserve their body heat and thus more easily survive, but they had very obviously failed, as one of them had already died. It seemed to be at least once a week, that whether it be by infection, hunger, or exposure, there would be a fresh corpse in the morning. The boy guessed that in the afternoon, the smell of burning fat would permeate the castle.

  Despite exposure being one of the primary causes of death, the castle's poor insulation was one one reason for why that was the case. The actual heating pipes barely even extended into the outside hallway. Though, even if they ran inside the room, it was likely that nothing would change regardless.

  The wood didn’t burn at night, the hard, cold stone brick floor making round the clock heating much too expensive.

  And if that wasn't bad enough, there was yet another reason for why the cold was so intensely hated and feared. The blanket provided at night by the higher ups was thin. So thin, that if one were to stretch it out and press their face against it, they would have little trouble breathing in or out. Not only that, the blanket was small. So small, it was nigh impossible for a fully grown man to comfortably cover the floor beneath them as well as shield themselves from the cold air that so easily invaded the castle.

  However, the boy had no grievances with the blanket. If he wore a thick wool shirt and pants, he found that his sleeping conditions were actually quite snug and cozy.

  Though, that sentiment was likely born from the fact that he was small. Even taking into account his barely being eleven years of age, he was so incredibly tiny. His at the very best, petite, and at the worst, weak, body was no doubt brought on by malnourishment. Though, he couldn't call his situation all bad. Not only could he completely wrap his body at night, he also found the process of filling out his frame to be relatively easy. Within a year of being in the Baron's army, he had reached a similar level of muscularity as his father.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  But he couldn't solely assign credit to himself in being able to become more muscular. The army rations were of decent enough quality, such that they were even one of the few things the boy looked forward to every day. His only complaint, no matter how tangentially related, was that there would inevitably be some older boy who would beat him for an extra roll of sea bread or strip of jerky. Not anymore however. He had been able to eat all of his daily allotment and even a bit more for quite a bit of time now.

  As he left the room, he attempted to quietly whistle. But with his lips chapped to the point they had begun to crack and bleed, he failed miserably.

  Looking at his situation holistically, the boy found his situation to be quite fortunate. When the theft of his rations and supplies was at it's worst, it never happened two days in a row and never more than once in a twenty four hour period. Those around him either stole breakfast, lunch, dinner, or his blanket, but never more than one. He had heard horror stories of the goings-ons of other companies, where the captain's control was tenuous at best and the weak losing everything they had was par for the course.

  I need to wash up, the boy groggily thought as he rubbed his eyes, clearing the last of the gunk in them.

  Despite the castle being in a severe state of disrepair and every room not having been properly cleaned for the better part of a decade, Baron Elef, the ruler of these lands, had an obsession with cleanliness. The lord, a taciturn man with a head completely shaved of all hair, stood at six foot ten inches. He had to weigh a minimum of 280 pounds, a vast majority of it being muscle. His imposing figure was made all the worse by the intense while also somehow unpredictable air around him, as if he was always on the cusp of flying into a rage.

  A rumor originally brought up by the senior soldiers and silenced by Captain June, the Baron had an extreme aversion to being touched. On the few occasions the boy saw him, he noticed the Lord didn’t allow anyone, not even his wife nor son, to make contact him. So severe was his sickness that on the sole occasion the boy had heard the Lord's voice outside of combat, he had his previous cupbearer, a boy that couldn't have been any older than sixteen years of age, flayed for touching his finger.

  But the boy wondered why the Lord even still had a cupbearer. Ever since he was bought by the Baron’s army three years ago, they were constantly at war. Only now was the fighting lessening somewhat, but seeing as how an eight year old boy was bought for the sole purpose of filling out ranks, the Baron was surely sorely lacking in able young soldiers.

  Continuing to walk down one of the castle's many hallways, the natural light outside reflected off of the snow, momentarily blinding the boy. Despite his grumbling and putting off of getting his morning started, the boy intentionally woke up this early every single day. He enjoyed gazing outside at a world devoid of men, and paired with the previous night's freshly fallen snow, the feeling of being transported to an all new world was only amplified.

  Gradually, the vents embedded in the ceiling finally began to emit hot air, the few laborers in the castle likely barely an hour into their work.

  Lost in thought, the boy instinctively entered the castle courtyard. Neglecting to wear even socks over his feet, the boy still showed no outward reaction to the freezing cold snow as he trudged to the well near the walls.

  Conversely, he seemed to enjoy the feeling, with his gait noticeably having more pep. He lowered the well's wooden bucket, the tips of his hair stabbing into his eyes. He would need to get a haircut soon or at least tie it up. The current length of his hair would present no problem if he were to suddenly enter battle, but given a week or two, it would grow to the point of obstructing his vision and the boy’s chances of surviving to the end of the war would only further lower.

  With trembling hands, he splashed his face with the ice cold water, before scooping some into his mouth a number of times. Feeling even more awake than before, the boy yawned, before moving back into the castle. He would need to visit the inventory master to get new clothes and to the kitchen to get his breakfast.

  The Baron having instructed his armies to march later in the day, the other soldiers had been gossiping about his apparently planning to finally end the campaign against his border generals' rebellion. But that was of little concern to the boy. With the traversal of long distances came the burning of calories as well as the further wearing down of already worn clothes. It didn't matter if this could potentially be the last battle the boy would fight if he were too starved, too cold to fight, as he would just die if that were the case.

  The boy entered the practically empty kitchen. He looked around, before finally spotting the cook, bent down and tending to one of the many fires. A petite woman, no doubt beautiful in her younger years but her age catching up to her, the chef made sure to always give the boy extra food. That was why he liked her.

  “Sol!” the woman shouted above the crackle of the wood fired oven, “Bread or herb noodles?”

  Sol, wearing the simple linen tunic and wool pants standard among soldiers of the Baron’s army, shrugged. Taking his response to be that of indifference, the chef passed a large loaf of sea bread to him and a bowl of reddish, piping hot plum soup.

  The loaf of still hot sea bread burned Sol's skin, and he quickly passed it back and forth between his hands, before ultimately dropping it onto the dirty floor.

  The woman laughed, only stopping at the boy's sullen stare, though she still smiled at his misfortune.

  Picking the bread up and tearing a chunk out with his hands, Sol dipped the algae dotted bread into the red liquid and started to eat. The sea bread by itself tasted unpleasantly bitter, but paired with the slightly sweet and savory red plum soup intensely flavored by a myriad of herbs and spices, the bitterness served as a nice canvas on which the already tasty soup could further shine.

  It imbued the eater with a heatiness that helped soldiers survive the Northern cold.

  Finishing the bread and tilting the bowl to drink the rest of the soup, Sol let out a satisfied sigh and waved goodbye to the woman.

  He would need to continue his preparations for the future march.