Fueled for the day’s march, Sol continued his preparations for the upcoming battle.

  He had survived for over three years in the Baron's army, and as such, he had access to supplementary benefits. If he so wished, he could abstain from drills for a day, and when his squad drew lots for who would shovel the snow, scout ahead, do the dirty work, he wasn't included. But chief among such comforts was his being granted a set of fur lined leathers.

  Furs were not only warmer than ordinary leather, they also provided the same level of protection. It was a level of luxury all who knew the true horrors of frostbite strived for. But the natural insulative properties of fur was only one reason for why it was so coveted. Something apt considered by those still with starry eyes is that war was sweat. War was piss. War was shit. And war was blood. War was dirty. That was an unavoidable fact. But at the very least, you could try to mitigate some of the symptoms. In battle, the blood of those around you would seep into and soak your innerwear. An especially problematic thing in the cold. But fur was water repellant, ensuring that even if you were to survive the heat of battle, you wouldn't freeze to death after.

  Spear on back and short sword strapped to waist, Sol tightened his glove's straps. Finished, he stared at his reflection on the surface of a bucket of water. He had transformed into a different person: a soldier. But his helmet and boots, both three sizes too big, and his hazy eyes mixed like oil and water. He gave off a warped impression. As if he were an old man in the body of a boy.

  Sol smiled in sordid amusement.

  I look like dad.

  He steeled his gaze, clearing his mind of any distractions. Sol marched off to the courtyard to join the rest of the company. The courtyard, filled by soldiers, gave off a claustrophobic feeling. The once pristine, untouched snow was now more of a slush mixed with dirt and gravel. The nervous chatter of those around ruined the once serene air.

  Sol scanned the courtyard, feeling a cluster headache coming on.

  If the other soldiers were smart, they wouldn't be using energy for pointless conversation. He found being able to swing your sword one last time was often the difference between living and dying.

  Though, it was understandable why they were being so loud. The offensive from two months ago had resulted in a pyrrhic victory for the Baron. In Sol's company alone, they had gone from 123 men strong to ten. And they hadn't even participated in the main battles. But such severe losses were widespread in the Baron's armies. He heard talk of entire regiments being sacrificed to take back the traitor generals' cities. Though, the castle they stayed was never controlled by the rebels. It was instead controlled by the sole general who remained loyal to the Baron. But Sol heard he had long died, killed off in the opening days of the war.

  In all, the regiment Sol was in was near annihilated. Not only was the regiment leader killed, but so were eight of the nine captains under his command. Fortunately, in the two months that had passed, the ten companies in the regiment were completely replenished. Though, unfortunately, it was mostly with fresh-faced men, the vast majority of whom Sol believed would die.

  But the blame for their deaths couldn't be solely laid on their inexperience. Captain June treated his mens' lives with a complete lack of care. Sol recalled how he had once callously ordered ten men to act as bait to draw the attention of an enemy mage. Nine of them skewered by earthen spears, the only survivor immediately retreated. Panting heavily, Sol remembered how he looked up, beginning to tear up. Opening his mouth to speak, not a word escaped his throat, as June wordlessly cut his head off.

  Sol could still picture the way the blood that ran in the man's neck spurted through the air as he fell to the ground. Because of June's sheer brutality, Sol was even labelled the most experienced in the company. Most everyone else from when he joined had died over time.

  At the front of the courtyard, June, freshly promoted to regiment leader, sat atop a black horse. Beside him, his second in command similarly sat atop a horse, though his was white in color. The captain was a level 3 swordsman with one hundred years of experience. But despite that, he looked twenty five years of age at most. In comparison, his lieutenant was a veiled level 3 light mage of ambiguous age.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The lieutenant had even recently risen in level. In comparison, Sol heard that the captain's power was outright decreasing. Rumor was that June used to be a quasi level 6 knight. But he failed to form a magic circle, the backlash nearly killing him. As a result, he began to groom a light mage, the lieutenant. Sol heard that June hoped one day, the lieutenant would reach a high enough level to heal him.

  Sol stared at the lieutenant, at his calm, serene blue eyes. He was a kind, if not at times odd sort of fellow. He insisted on Sol calling him 'lieutenant', or 'sir,' despite his usual disregard for formality. He was also a drinker, Sol having caught him on several occasions. But he was also a man of faith. The first of his kind.

  Sol believed him to be the only one in June's company. Not the drinker part of course. From what he had seen of the others, they were more concerned with satiating their carnal desires than devout worship of the Goddess. Though, Sol could sympathize with them. He only never joined them as the lieutenant often invited Sol to pray, and would at times, also read the Old Codex to him. Sol thought their relationship could even be considered that between friends. After all, he had also played the biggest part in his getting fur armor.

  The captain sat ram-rod straight on his horse. “Sound the horns,” he declared, having evidently finished counting the soldiers.

  The cry of the horn was deafening, though that was by design. It was a signal to the Old Goddess, that blood was to be shed in her name. But it was also to beseech her to guide the pious to the afterlife, where they would rest. Rest, until they were granted new life.

  The march was relatively uneventful, save for a scout’s misstep resulting in a twisted ankle. Despite the palpable tension that hung over head, Sol still couldn't help but admire the land. Beautiful of a type he still hadn't gotten used to, the trees around were enormous. Some reaching as far up as forty meters high, the tree branches were covered by dark green needles. In the three years Sol had lived in the north, he had never seen a bare tree. Such trees weren't found in the South. Back home, with the changing of summer to fall, the leaves would change colors. From green, to orange, to red, then to brown.

  Though, if he were forced to choose, he'd say he liked the green needle trees more. There was something particularly romantic about how their beauty never faded even with the passage of time.

  The hints of a smile appeared on the corners of Sol's lips.

  Two years back, he remembered how, for one march, he ended up drawing the shortest straw. Tasked with scouting ahead, but also not having eaten breakfast or slept for nearly long enough, Sol tired quickly. Being forced to rest, he remembered sitting under a tree to catch his breath, the sky a beautiful clear blue. Not a cloud in the sky, the snow glistened under the sunlight. It all overshadowed the pain Sol felt in his lungs from breathing in the cold air with a dry throat.

  And he felt truly isolated and lone. Like the he was the only man in the world.

  But somehow, that thought wasn't unsettling.

  Rather, he felt more reassured.

  Gods, it was beautiful, Sol whispered, the faintest hints of longing in his voice.

  A thought came over him then. To just desert. To leave the Baron's army. To wander the forest, living off of the land. Later on, how he regretted not doing so, fantasized about it. Of finally being free. And even if he were to die doing it, he'd have no regrets,

  As even in death, his body would preserved by the cold, forever with the trees. Just like the green needles.

  But with the passage of time, that desire evolved.

  Once the rebellion was put down, the men of the Old North who aided the traitor generals would be pillaged. Sol would take from the tribesmen, whether it be people, gold, or artifacts, he would take it all and he would sell it all. And he would finally be free.

  When he was younger, he dreamt of torturing his masters. He would pull their fingernails, their toenails, right out from the bed. He'd gouge out their eyes, cut out their throats and pull their tongues out from the openings. In front of their eyes, he'd skin their children head to toe and salt the meat. Make them less than human.

  But he was no longer driven by such a prospect.

  With the money left over from buying his freedom, he would retire to a life of farming. Creating, nurturing, life. He would work everyday, caring for his fields, his animals, performing backbreaking labor day in, day out. And when the sun set, the day finally at an end, he would fall asleep in a warm bed, feelings of contentment and safety in his heart.

  And when his time was up. When he had lived a life worth living, he would fall into an eternal slumber from which he would never wake up. Forever dreaming.

  That was all he wished for.

  Sol grit his teeth, rekindling the fire that burned inside his heart.

  He would get that life.

  No matter the cost.