The first week of marching bled together in Seeker’s memory, a miserable smear of mud, cold, and the gnawing ache of exhaustion. Each morning began in the dead hours before dawn, when the world was still painted in shades of frost-bitten gray. Seeker would rouse his unit with a voice he hoped sounded steady. “Up. Gear ready. Let’s move,” he’d call, the words more an incantation than an order. Their breath fogged the air, curling upward like faint whispers of defiance against the frozen dawn.
He hated the sound of his own commands, hated how they felt like a costume he was wearing poorly. Every time he said form up or prepare for the march, it sounded like someone else’s voice, gruff and distant, borrowed from the veterans who trailed their boots across the frost-crusted earth without hesitation. He didn’t have their confidence or their swagger. He had only his fear: fear that they’d see through him, fear that if he faltered, they wouldn’t rise from their sleeping rolls at all.
On some level, he was sure they knew. Soldiers like Liora and Jara weren’t blind to the cracks in their leader’s mask. But they obeyed, for now, whether out of respect, fear, or simple necessity. That obedience felt fragile, like a brittle thread stretched between him and the march. He gripped it tightly, afraid to let it fray.
Most mornings, Seeker’s words felt like dry leaves scattered in the wind, hollow and insubstantial. He could say things like form up or stay sharp, but the phrases hung in the cold air like lines from a poorly rehearsed play. There was no conviction in them, only the thin veneer of someone pretending to know what they were doing.
And yet, his unit obeyed. They rose stiffly from the ground, shaking off sleep and stretching limbs that never quite stopped aching. Even Marlen, whose natural gift for avoiding effort rivaled his knack for telling crude jokes, would sling his pack over his shoulder and mutter something about the weather or the impossibility of the day ahead. Seeker wondered what strange alchemy held them together, respect, fear, obligation? Maybe it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they moved when he told them to. That fragile obedience was the only lifeline he had in the sea of doubt where his thoughts drowned every morning.
Still, a part of him flinched every time he caught Liora’s questioning glance or Marlen’s half-smirk, as if they might laugh and say, Who do you think you’re fooling? He wasn’t sure of the answer himself.
The land seemed determined to grind them into dust. Every step was a negotiation with the earth, thick mud that clung to boots like a living thing in the mornings, only to freeze solid under the brittle weight of frost by midday. By afternoon, the sun would return just enough to turn the ground into a sucking quagmire that pulled at their legs and slowed their march to a crawl. It wasn’t just walking; it was fighting for every inch of progress.
The forests on either side of the path were sparse and skeletal, their leafless branches reaching across the road like gnarled fingers. The shadows they cast stretched long and uneven, twisting in ways that made Seeker glance over his shoulder more often than he wanted to admit. It felt like the woods themselves were alive, resentful that winter still lingered and unwilling to release them from its grip.
Seeker adjusted the straps of his pack and let his eyes wander to the treetops, where the wind whispered through bare branches. For a fleeting moment, he envied the crows perched high above, their harsh cries echoing like laughter. The birds had no burden but the sky, no road to follow but the ones they chose.
For him, though, the path ahead was set, no matter how much the mud, frost, and forest conspired to swallow him whole. He tightened his grip on his cloak and forced his gaze forward. There was nothing to gain from looking back, only ghosts followed there.
Seeker’s gaze drifted over his unit as they marched, his own steps falling into a rhythm he barely noticed anymore. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, signs of strength, cracks in their resolve, or maybe just confirmation that they were still here, still moving.
Liora led the line with a kind of stiff determination, her spear clutched tightly as if it might slip from her grasp the moment she relaxed. Her face was a mask of resolve, but her eyes betrayed the tremor of fear beneath it. Seeker couldn’t blame her. He felt it too.
Harken marched like the cold didn’t touch him, his hammer slung over one broad shoulder. His steps were steady, deliberate, almost comforting in their constancy. If the frost and mud bothered him, he didn’t show it. He was the kind of man who could walk through a storm and emerge on the other side with nothing more than a grunt about wet boots.
Jara, ever pragmatic, trailed behind them, her lips moving as she muttered calculations under her breath. Rations, troop movements, supply chains, her mind was always elsewhere, chewing through problems even as her boots slogged through the mire. She didn’t complain, not really, but her grumbling about inefficiency filled the silence like a low hum.
And then there was Marlen. Of course, Marlen. He muttered every few steps, his complaints louder than anyone else’s thoughts. “Mud again? Because yesterday’s mud wasn’t enough.” But his gripes lacked their usual venom, his voice trailing off halfway through sentences as if even he couldn’t summon the energy to care.
Seeker let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The weight of their stares, the unspoken expectation for him to lead, to guide, pressed down heavier than the pack on his shoulders. It wasn’t fear that drove them forward; it was necessity. The thought gnawed at him. Would they keep following him if the mud grew deeper, if the frost bit harder? If he faltered?
He clenched his jaw and turned his gaze forward. Morale wasn’t about knowing what lay ahead. It was about pretending you did.
The road before them seemed determined to fight back, every step a new test of endurance. In the mornings, frost hardened the earth into something jagged and unyielding, each step sending jolts of cold through their boots. By afternoon, the sun’s feeble warmth transformed the frozen ground into a treacherous mire, thick mud pulling at their legs like it wanted to drag them under.
Seeker found himself staring down at the road more often than he cared to admit. It felt like the terrain itself was mocking them, shifting its obstacles just enough to keep the journey miserable. Frost glistened along the edges of the path, stubborn and cruel, while the skeletal branches of sparse, leafless trees stretched over the road. Their shadows sprawled like clawed hands, raking across the path in a grim parody of life.
He glanced up at the horizon, searching for some sign of change, anything that might make the endless gray path less oppressive. But the road only stretched forward, a thread pulling them further into the unknown. Behind him, the sounds of his unit slogging through the mud filled the air: boots sucking at the ground, the occasional muttered curse, the heavy breath of effort.
For all his training, or the fractured memories of it, Seeker had never understood how much a road could weigh on a person’s spirit. The open arena had been brutal, but at least it had an end. This? This felt like the world itself was telling them they didn’t belong here.
He turned his gaze to the skeletal trees, wondering how many had marched this same path before them. Had they fared better? Or had their bones been swallowed by the mud too?
Seeker’s gaze drifted to his unit, their weary figures strung out along the path like beads on a frayed string. He had taken to watching them more often than he cared to admit, searching their faces for signs of cracks, of fractures that might deepen into something unfixable.
Liora marched near the front, her spear gripped so tightly her knuckles shone pale even against the gray light. Her face was a mask of determination, but it wavered at the edges, caught between fear and resolve. Seeker wondered if her confidence was real, or if she was simply too stubborn to let anyone see her break.
Behind her, Harken moved with the unhurried plod of someone who had fought too many battles to be bothered by mud or cold. His massive hammer seemed weightless in his grip, but the way his breath fogged heavily in the morning air betrayed even his endurance.
Jara brought up the middle, her sharp muttering a constant background hum. Seeker caught snatches of her calculations, rations, supply lines, distances. She had turned complaining into an art form, grumbling not out of frustration, but as if she could nag the very universe into behaving sensibly.
And then there was Marlen. Loud, brash Marlen, who complained more than the rest of them combined. His words were sharp-edged and flippant, but there was no real venom in them. His protests had grown quieter as the miles dragged on, his jokes less biting. Even Marlen, it seemed, understood the futility of railing against the road.
Seeker felt a pang of guilt as he watched them. He wasn’t leading them. Not really. They were moving because the road demanded it, because the alternative was worse. Was that enough? He didn’t know. But as their leader, it should have been him who carried their doubts, not the other way around.
The land itself seemed to conspire against them. Each step was a battle, a war waged against the thick, sludgy paths that clung to their boots like grasping hands. The frozen ground in the morning was deceptive, offering the illusion of solid footing before the midday sun turned it into a treacherous mire that swallowed their steps whole.
Frost glittered at the edges of the road, stubborn in its defiance of the weak daylight. It felt as though the seasons themselves were at odds, winter refusing to loosen its grip even as spring clawed for purchase.
Sparse forests flanked their route, the trees stripped bare by the cold. Their skeletal limbs stretched overhead like the gnarled fingers of some slumbering beast, their shadows falling across the road in jagged patterns. Seeker found himself glancing at those shadows more often than he cared to admit. The way they moved with the wind felt deliberate, like a warning whispered by the land itself: You do not belong here.
Seeker kept his words brief. It wasn’t from a lack of things to say, but from the gnawing certainty that the wrong words would crumble the fragile sense of order they’d managed to scrape together. Yet, he felt the weight of their gazes, heavy and expectant, pressing down on him like a burden he hadn’t earned.
They wanted something from him, reassurance, guidance, maybe even hope. He wasn’t sure which of those things he was supposed to provide, but he knew he didn’t have any of them to give.
Instead, he watched the veterans: Harken with his quiet grit, Jara with her sharp practicality, and Gale with his slippery confidence. They didn’t falter. Not outwardly, at least. So Seeker leaned on them like a cracked foundation propped up by stronger beams, praying they wouldn’t notice how unsteady he truly was.
The third morning came wrapped in frost, the kind that turned breath into ghostly plumes and stiffened fingers until they refused to obey. Seeker stood by the remains of a small fire, its embers glowing faintly like the last heartbeat of a dying thing. He watched as the weak light of dawn filtered through the skeletal canopy, stretching faint silhouettes across the camp like the ghosts of forgotten soldiers.
He pulled Harken, Gale, and Jara aside, their figures moving sluggishly toward him. The others hadn’t fully woken yet, their cloaks drawn tight against the morning chill. For a moment, Seeker hesitated. The weight of what he needed to ask sat heavy in his chest, a stone he wasn’t sure he could lift.
“Over here,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. They followed without question, their movements stiff but steady as they settled into the makeshift circle.
Seeker stared at his hands, his fingers flexing unconsciously against the cold. The scars there told their own stories, ones he barely understood, yet carried with him all the same. They looked steady now, oddly still despite the tremor he felt in his chest.
“So,” he began, his voice awkward in the stillness, “how does this... work? A unit like ours, in an army this size?” The words felt clumsy, like trying to build a bridge from wet sand.
Harken raised an eyebrow, his breath visible in the chill as he shifted his weight. “You mean, how do we stay alive, or how do we keep from embarrassing ourselves?”
Gale leaned back slightly, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. “Both are valid questions,” he said, the edge of humor in his tone doing little to hide the gravity beneath it.
Harken adjusted his breastplate, the leather straps creaking faintly in the frigid air. His breath rose in visible plumes, each exhalation steady, deliberate, like the man himself. “You mean, how do we stay alive, or how do we keep from looking like idiots?”
Gale chuckled softly, leaning back against a gnarled tree. His sharp features caught the faint glow of the dying fire, casting him in flickering light and shadow. “Both seem worth addressing, honestly.”
Seeker allowed himself a faint huff of amusement, though it felt strange in the heavy morning air. “Let’s start with staying alive,” he said, the humor fading from his voice as the weight of the question settled.
“Easy,” Harken said, his tone as flat as the frozen ground beneath their boots. “Don’t be a hero.”
Seeker frowned, the words striking something raw in him. “Isn’t that the point, though? To be heroes?”
“No,” Jara cut in, her voice slicing through the morning like a whetted blade. She didn’t even look up from the dagger she was sharpening, the scrape of metal on stone punctuating her words. “They don’t want heroes. They want tools. Heroes die fast and messy, usually in ways that make good stories but leave their units leaderless.”
Seeker’s frown deepened. He wanted to argue, but the conviction in her voice left little room for debate. Heroes die early, he thought. His stomach tightened at the memory of faces, too many faces, reduced to nothing but names whispered in passing.
“Think of us like a knife to the ribs,” Gale said, his voice carrying a faint edge of dark humor. His sharp eyes flicked toward the treeline, as if expecting the very ambush he described. “Quiet. Fast. Effective. That’s us. We’re not here to hold the line or make a grand stand. We’re skirmishers. We hit where it hurts and disappear before they realize what’s missing.”
His tone was casual, but his words carried the weight of experience. Seeker wondered how many times Gale had played that exact role, a shadow slipping in and out of chaos. And how many times had he been the knife, unseen until it was too late?
“And in a battle this big?” Seeker asked, his voice quieter now. He hesitated, the words feeling almost childish once they left his mouth. “With thousands of soldiers? How do we even matter?”
“That’s where chaos does the heavy lifting,” Jara said, finally looking up from her work. Her voice carried the kind of dry humor that only came from someone who had seen the other side of chaos and lived to tell about it. “Big armies are like big beasts. They look unstoppable, but they’ve got weak spots. Elves and Zoomorphs have skirmishers too, but they’re not expecting a group like ours to sneak in and mess with their supply lines, or take out their mages while they’re busy looking the other way.”
Seeker nodded slowly, though the image in his mind was far less clean than her words. Chaos sounded manageable in theory. In practice, it looked a lot like bodies in the mud.
“They’ll have their eyes on the walls,” Harken said, gesturing vaguely toward Torvald’s Crossing. His tone was steady, the kind of calm that only came from years of facing the impossible. “That’s where their big hitters will be, the siege crews, the frontline brutes, all the shiny pieces they want us to notice. Our job is to make sure we’re the one thing they don’t notice. Not until it’s too late.”
His words were simple, almost reassuring, but Seeker felt the chill of them settle deep in his chest. Being unnoticed was a survival strategy, not a guarantee. The unseen knife sometimes missed its mark, or worse, snapped before it landed.
Seeker nodded, absorbing their words, though each one added to the unease pooling in his stomach. It was easy to discuss tactics here, in the fragile comfort of a warming fire and the promise of daylight ahead. But his mind painted a different picture, his unit scattered across a battlefield, their bodies crumpled in the mud, their blood pooling into the earth. The thought tightened around him like a cold chain. He pulled his cloak closer, as if the frayed fabric could shield him from the weight of what lay ahead.
“And when we’re out there,” Seeker began, his voice faltering slightly. He cleared his throat, forcing the words out. “How do I... keep them together? Make them listen?”
Jara’s gaze snapped to him, her usual sharpness tempered by something softer. “You don’t. Not at first.” She leaned back slightly, her expression unreadable. “At first, they’ll follow you because they have to. But out there, it’s survival that earns loyalty. If you keep them alive, if you prove you’re worth the risk, they’ll follow you because they want to.”
Her words settled heavily in his chest. Loyalty wasn’t something you commanded, it was something you bled for. Seeker wasn’t sure he had enough blood left to give.
Seeker nodded, the motion slow and mechanical, as if it might delay the crushing weight of her words. Keep them alive. Prove yourself. Simple instructions, yet they loomed impossibly large. He wasn’t sure he could live up to them, but he also wasn’t sure he had a choice.
“Relax, lad,” Harken said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. His hand landed on Seeker’s shoulder, solid and reassuring. “You’ve got the instincts. Trust me, that’s half the battle. We’ll make it through, so long as you don’t get tangled up in your own head.”
Harken’s grin was faint but genuine, peeking out from beneath his scruffy beard. Seeker tried to return it, but it felt like trying to lift a boulder with his face. Still, there was something about Harken’s steadiness that made the knot in his chest loosen, if only a little.
“Instincts,” Seeker murmured, the word lingering like the last note of an unfinished melody. Was it a compliment? A warning? He didn’t know. All he knew was that instincts had kept him alive in the arena. Whether they could guide him out here, among frost-bitten roads and looming battlefields, was another question entirely.
“Just don’t get us killed,” Gale said, his smirk cutting through the tension like a blade through thin air. His tone was light, almost flippant, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind it, a hint of what he wasn’t saying.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“High standards,” Seeker muttered, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint, reluctant smile. The momentary humor was a fragile thing, but it was better than nothing. Sometimes, survival was about clinging to small mercies like this one.
They lingered in the faint warmth of the fire, its crackling a soft counterpoint to the waking murmurs of the camp. Seeker inhaled deeply, letting the sharp, cold air fill his lungs. The knot in his chest loosened, if only by the smallest degree. He still didn’t know if he was ready, truthfully, he doubted he ever would be. But for the first time, he felt the faintest comfort in knowing he wasn’t alone. Sometimes, that was enough to take the next step.
Evenings turned into a ritual, a rhythm carved out of frost and exhaustion. After the camp was pitched and the fires coughed to life, Seeker would gather his unit for drills. The cold was a relentless predator, biting at their fingers and burrowing into their bones, making every swing of a blade or thrust of a spear feel like dragging stone uphill. But Seeker didn’t let up. He couldn’t. Complacency was a slow poison, and in these conditions, it was a fatal one. Instead, he pushed them, grinding their raw edges against the whetstone of bitter nights and aching limbs, until something sharper began to emerge.
The clearing they claimed for practice was small, its only light the flickering glow of the campfire. The flames cast restless shadows on tired faces and sent faint glimmers across steel blades, as if the weapons themselves were awake and waiting. Beyond the circle of light, the forest loomed—a black expanse alive with rustling leaves and unseen threats. It whispered to them, a low and steady reminder that vigilance was not optional out here.
Liora stood at the edge of the clearing, her spear clutched in a grip that looked more like a death hold than a fighting stance. The weapon was nearly as tall as she was, an extension of her determination more than her body. Her stance was all wrong, too tight, too rigid, as if sheer willpower alone could shape her into the warrior she wanted to be. Not yet, Seeker thought. But there was something in her eyes, a spark of resolve that refused to be snuffed out. And resolve, he knew, was where every fighter began.
Sarra stepped forward, her spear resting lazily against her shoulder. She moved with the kind of ease that came from surviving enough battles to know that perfection wasn’t the goal, survival was. Her gaze settled on Liora, sharp and appraising, like a craftsman studying a flawed but promising piece of metal. Her expression was unreadable, but her intent was clear: to take that raw spark and shape it into something unbreakable.
“Your reach is your strength,” Sarra said, her voice calm but edged with authority. She stepped in close, nudging Liora’s hands down the spear shaft with a practiced ease. “But don’t overcommit. If you lunge too far, you’re as good as dead. This isn’t about looking impressive, it’s about surviving the second swing.” Her tone softened slightly, though her eyes stayed sharp. “The first swing isn’t what kills you. It’s what comes after.”
Liora nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line that spoke more of stubborn resolve than confidence. She adjusted her grip and stance, moving with the caution of someone unsure if they were wielding a weapon or a burden. Her first thrust was hesitant, almost timid, but she corrected herself, and her second was sharper, more deliberate. It wasn’t perfect, not yet, but it carried a promise of what could be.
“Better,” Sarra said, stepping back with a faint, almost grudging smile. It wasn’t quite encouragement, but it wasn’t dismissal either, something in between, like a teacher acknowledging progress but withholding praise until it was truly earned. “You’ll get there,” she added, her tone softer. “Just keep your feet under you. A solid base keeps you alive longer than a flashy move ever will.”
Seeker stood a few steps away, arms crossed against the cold, watching as Liora adjusted her grip and thrust again. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips, though he quickly buried it beneath the weight of his thoughts. It wasn’t much, but it was progress, a small step forward in a march filled with uncertainties. And in times like these, progress was a thing you clung to, even when it felt like sand slipping through your fingers.
Near the center of the clearing, Harken and Taren moved like twin storms, their blows landing with deliberate, bone-shaking force. Harken’s heavy blade cut through the air in wide, whistling arcs, cleaving the practice dummy into splintered ruin. Beside him, Taren’s hammer rose and fell with the inevitability of a falling tree, each swing sending a deep, resonant crack through the cold night air. Together, they were destruction given form, powerful, efficient, and unrelenting.
“You’re wasting energy,” Harken said, his voice blunt and unbothered, as if correcting Taren’s technique was as routine as sharpening a blade. He didn’t even glance at the hammer’s arc, his focus on his own strikes. “You want to smash skulls, not clear-cut the entire damn forest. Tighten up your swing before you wear yourself out.”
Taren grunted in response, his expression a mixture of annoyance and grudging acceptance. Without a word, he adjusted his grip and stance, and his next swing came down in a tighter, more controlled arc. The hammer struck true, splintering the dummy’s head with a satisfying crunch. He stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, though the chill in the air did little to cool his irritation. “Better?” he muttered, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice.
“Happy now?” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in spite of himself. There was a challenge in his tone, but it was softened by the faintest glimmer of a smile, a soldier’s way of acknowledging a lesson learned, even if begrudgingly.
“Getting there,” Harken said, his chuckle rumbling like distant thunder. He swung his blade down once more, the movement fluid and deliberate, as though it were less about practice and more about reminding the world what he was capable of. “You’ve got potential, Taren. Try not to waste it.”
Gale moved through the group like a shadow, his twin daggers flickering in and out of the torchlight as he demonstrated close-quarters techniques to Elara. His steps were almost too light, his movements sharp and precise, the kind of grace born from years of knowing that hesitation meant death. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had learned the hard way that speed and precision often outweighed brute strength.
“Strike here,” Gale said, his voice low but insistent, as he tapped the side of a wooden dummy’s neck with the flat of his dagger. The faint metallic clang seemed to hang in the air for a moment, a quiet punctuation to his words. “Quick and clean,” he added, his eyes locking onto Elara’s. “But only if you’re sure. If you hesitate, they’ll gut you before you even realize you missed your chance.”
Elara frowned, her brow furrowing as she regarded the dummy with something between skepticism and disdain. “Seems like a waste of time,” she said flatly, her tone tinged with frustration. “Why not just go for the ribs? It’s faster, isn’t it?”
“Because,” Gale said, his smirk widening as though he found her naivety mildly entertaining, “you’re assuming they’ll stand still and let you have your way. People move, Elara. They flinch, they block, they dodge and they scream for help. You strike where it’s fastest, cleanest, and least expected. The ribs? Too predictable. The neck? That’s where they don’t see it coming.”
Gale stepped back, the sharp glint of his daggers momentarily stilled as he gestured for her to try. Elara’s first attempt was clumsy, her blade dragging hesitantly across the dummy’s neck like a painter unsure of her stroke. By the third strike, though, her motions began to sharpen, the hesitation giving way to something more measured. By the fourth, her movements carried a rhythm, rough around the edges but undeniably improving.
“Not bad,” Gale said, stepping back with a satisfied nod, his smirk returning like a cat surveying its work. “Stick with me, and who knows? You might just live long enough to regret it.”
Marlen, predictably, lounged against a tree at the edge of the clearing, his sword resting beside him as though it weighed more than his sense of responsibility. His expression was one of exaggerated boredom, though his eyes flickered with amusement as he watched the others work. He was midway through a flowery and entirely unnecessary, compliment about Jara’s “exceptional organizational prowess” when she cut him off by tossing a bundle of firewood his way, her gaze never leaving her ledger.
“If you’re not going to fight, at least make yourself useful,” Jara said without missing a beat, her tone as dry as the brittle firewood she’d just thrown. Her eyes didn’t leave the ledger, as if cataloging supplies was far more important than humoring Marlen’s theatrics.
Marlen caught the bundle with an overly dramatic sigh, holding it as if it were a personal affront to his dignity. “You wound me, Jara,” he said, his voice dripping with mock hurt. “Truly, you do. For your information, I am a man of exceptional talents.”
“Sure,” Jara replied, flipping a page with a flick of her wrist. Her voice was calm, her focus unwavering. “Let me know when you find one that doesn’t involve shirking.”
The others chuckled, their laughter cutting through the cold like a brief, flickering warmth. Even Seeker couldn’t suppress the faint grin tugging at his lips, though it vanished as quickly as it came. He cleared his throat and turned back to the group, his voice steady as it cut through the noise.
“Enough banter,” Seeker said, his voice slicing through the evening air with a quiet authority that drew their scattered attention. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be, the weight behind it was enough to stifle the lingering chuckles. His tone carried the careful balance of command and restraint, a mix born not of confidence but necessity. “Form up.”
The group moved into position with a chorus of tired groans and reluctant mutters, their weariness momentarily shoved aside as old habits took over. The scrape of boots on frost-bitten ground mingled with the faint clinking of steel, creating a rhythm that felt oddly grounding. They weren’t polished soldiers, not yet, but there was a determination in their movements that hinted at something more.
Seeker stood still, arms crossed against the biting cold as his eyes swept over the group. Each swing, each parry, felt like a fragile thread tethering them all to survival. He told himself he was scanning for flaws, for technical errors he could correct, but deep down, he was searching for something else. A spark of potential. Proof that they could rise to meet the challenges ahead. Proof that he could, too.
Seeker drifted through the group, his steps measured as he corrected stances and adjusted grips. His words were calm, his hands steady, as though he knew exactly what he was doing. But inside, uncertainty gnawed at him. Each correction, every quiet command, felt like a roll of dice he didn’t know how to load. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t a leader. The memories he relied on, plowing fields and spilling blood in the arena, hadn’t prepared him for this. For them.
Seeker stopped behind Liora, her awkward grip on the spear drawing a faint sigh from him. He hesitated, unsure if his touch would steady her or break her focus, before gently placing his hands over hers. “You’re using too much strength,” he said, his voice quiet and deliberate, pitched low so it wouldn’t carry. “Let the spear’s weight do the work for you. It’s not about forcing the strike. It’s about control.” His words were soft, but there was a firmness to them, like the ground beneath frost.
Liora nodded, her jaw tightening as determination etched itself onto her face. Her strikes grew steadier, her movements more deliberate, the awkwardness melting into something resembling rhythm. Seeker stepped back, crossing his arms as he watched her continue. He wanted to smile, to let himself believe this was progress worth celebrating. But the weight of it all pressed that urge into the cold ground. If she didn’t learn this fast enough, she’d die. And if she died, that was on him.
Seeker moved toward Harken and Taren, their practiced strikes heavy and methodical as they worked to perfect the art of breaking shields and overwhelming defenses. Harken’s low, rumbling laughter punctuated each swing, a jarring counterpoint to Taren’s grim silence. The two of them moved like opposites in a storm, one steady and quiet, the other loud and crashing, but both undeniably effective.
“Looks solid,” Seeker said, watching the deliberate arcs of their weapons. “But if you’re up against cavalry, what’s the plan?”
Harken shrugged, his grin flashing like a blade. “Hope the rider’s dumber than I am.”
Taren snorted, his hammer cutting a brutal arc that splintered the practice dummy. “You drop the horse. Quicker, cleaner, and you don’t end up eating steel from the saddle.”
Seeker nodded, the practical advice slotting neatly into his mind. It was direct, unpolished, but undeniably useful, much like the man who’d offered it. “And archers?”
“Cover and charge,” Harken said without hesitation, his grin fading into a more serious expression. “Standing still just means you’re volunteering to be a pincushion.”
Seeker stayed quiet, letting their words settle in the cold air. These were answers he should’ve had, instincts a leader ought to possess without question. Instead, every piece of advice felt like another shard in a broken puzzle he was desperately trying to assemble. And with each fragment handed to him, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d missed too many to see the whole picture.
The rhythm of the arena crept into his steps and his voice before he could stop it, those harsh, blood-soaked lessons coloring his words. “Tighten your arc,” he said to Gale, watching the flash of daggers in the firelight. “You’re leaving your ribs open every time you step left. Control, not flash.”
Gale cast him a sharp glance, his brow raised, but he adjusted his movements without protest. “Not bad advice for someone who doesn’t carry blades,” Gale muttered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Seeker didn’t answer. Memories of the arena flickered at the edge of his mind, unbidden. He had carried blades once, fought with them, bled with them, lived because of them. The weight of steel in his hands, the razor-thin line between death and survival, was burned into his muscles. But in the arena, he hadn’t been a tactician or a leader. He’d been a survivor. And surviving alone wouldn’t save them here.
Seeker found himself back in the center of the clearing, his breath curling into faint mist as it hit the icy air. Around him, the clash of weapons and the low grunts of effort created a rhythm that almost felt... steady. For a fleeting moment, they didn’t seem like a ragged collection of strangers. They weren’t soldiers, not yet, but they were trying. And trying, Seeker told himself, was the first step toward something greater.
Seeker’s gaze moved over the group, lingering on each figure as they pushed through the cold. Sarra stood beside Liora, her sharp words slicing cleanly through the younger woman’s hesitation. Jara balanced her spear practice with the same precision she brought to organizing supplies, her movements efficient and unyielding. Even Marlen, after a predictable volley of sarcastic remarks, seemed to settle into the rhythm, his sword arcs showing a surprising amount of precision. Small victories, Seeker thought. But victories, nonetheless.
Seeker let out a slow breath, the faintest hint of a smile flickering across his lips. For a fleeting moment, hope took root. This might work. They might actually become something stronger, something capable. But then doubt, ever persistent, coiled around the thought like a shadow. Or they might not. And if they didn’t, it would be on him.
The truth gnawed at him, cold and sharp: he wasn’t sure if he was giving them what they needed to survive. His understanding of tactics was stitched together from fragments, Harken’s blunt advice, Gale’s quick instincts, and the arena’s merciless lessons. None of it felt complete. But as he watched them now, flawed yet improving, exhausted yet determined, he dared to let hope slip through the cracks of his doubt. Just a sliver, but enough to keep going.
As the days dragged on, the land began to wear its wounds openly. The forests grew denser, their skeletal branches weaving a shadowy tapestry that seemed to swallow sound itself. The air hung heavy, damp with the bite of late winter and carrying the faint, acrid sting of ash. Burned-out villages dotted the roadside, their hollowed buildings standing like tombstones for lives long lost. Abandoned farms, their fences crumbling and fields choked with weeds, whispered grim reminders of what the war had devoured.
“Fields like these...” Jara’s voice was barely louder than the creak of their boots on the frosted road. She gestured toward the broken fences, the blackened shells of barns and homes. “It’ll take years, decades, to recover. Even if the fighting stops, the land won’t remember how it used to be.” Her words hung in the cold air, heavier than the ash.
“Fighting won’t stop,” Gale cut in, his tone sharp enough to snap a thread. His gaze flicked to the treeline, his hand ghosting over the hilt of his dagger. “Not until one side wipes the other out. That’s the only way this ends.” His words were as cold and certain as the frost clinging to the ground.
Seeker kept to the front, his hand tightening around the hilt of his worn sword. He said nothing, letting the others’ words fill the space between their labored steps. Each mile seemed heavier than the last, as if the road itself sought to drag them into the mire of its history.
It was on the seventh day, when the order came to scout ahead of the army, that they found the clearing. The air shifted first, a subtle, icy bite that sliced through the usual chill, carrying a faint metallic tang that made Seeker’s jaw tighten. He raised a hand, the motion quiet but commanding, and the group halted instantly. His eyes swept the dense underbrush, searching for what his instincts already knew was wrong.
“What is it?” Harken murmured, his voice barely above a growl as he sidled up next to Seeker. His hand hovered near the hilt of his weapon, the tension in his stance mirroring Seeker’s own unease.
“Not sure,” Seeker said, his words clipped and cautious. He motioned for the others to spread out, his fingers curling in a silent command. Around them, the forest felt unnaturally still, the usual chirps of birds and whispers of leaves swallowed by an eerie silence. It was as though the woods were holding their breath.
They crested a small rise, and the clearing unfolded before them like a frozen scream. Bodies lay strewn across the churned earth, their armor bent and broken, their weapons still gripped in lifeless hands. Blood stained the ground in dark, congealed pools, mixing with the mud to paint a picture of desperation and defeat. The air hung thick with the metallic scent of death, suffocating in its finality.
Harken knelt by a shattered shield, his thick fingers tracing the jagged edge with a grim familiarity. “Ambush,” he muttered, his brow furrowed in thought. “Dark Elves. They strike like shadows—hard, fast, and gone before anyone can react. Leaves nothing but this.” He gestured to the ruin around them, his voice heavy with distaste.
Jara crouched over one of the fallen, her sharp eyes scanning the wounds with a detached efficiency. “No scorch marks. No burns,” she murmured, her fingers brushing the torn edges of a chestplate. “Blades, not spells. This was cold, precise work.” Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like a blade testing its own sharpness.
“They took their dead,” Gale said, his voice low and grim as his eyes darted across the clearing. He moved like a cornered animal, always watching, always wary. “It’s their way. Leave no traces, no weaknesses. Not even footprints if they can help it.” His gaze lingered on the shadows, as if daring them to move.
Seeker’s stomach tightened, a cold knot forming as he surveyed the carnage. The arena had been cruel, but it had rules—a twisted kind of structure. Here, there was nothing. No honor, no balance, just a silence so absolute it felt like the forest itself had turned its back on the dead.
“Why risk it?” Seeker asked, his voice quiet but insistent. “Leaving the bodies would have saved them time. Why take the chance to come back?”
“Because they’re not like us,” Harken said, rising slowly to his feet and brushing dirt from his calloused hands. “Dark Elves don’t just kill, they craft statements. This?” He gestured to the clearing with a heavy hand. “It’s a message. To us, to their own. We’re supposed to see this and feel the weight of it. To remember what they can do.”
“And to make sure we don’t get any stupid ideas about taking their land,” Gale added, his tone sharp with bitterness. He kicked a stray piece of splintered wood, his lips curling in a humorless sneer. “Efficient and terrifying, that’s their style.”
Liora hovered a few steps behind Seeker, her spear gripped so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Her wide eyes darted nervously between the bodies, flickering with a blend of fear and stubborn resolve. “Do you think...” She hesitated, her voice trembling. “Do you think they’re still watching us?”
“Probably,” Harken replied without hesitation, his tone blunt and matter-of-fact. “Dark Elves don’t make a move unless the odds are already stacked in their favor. If they’re watching, it’s because they’re thinking about their next strike.”
Seeker’s gaze swept over the treeline, his fingers twitching instinctively toward the hilt of his sword. The forest loomed like a predator, watching, waiting. “We stay close to the army,” he said, his voice steady despite the unease twisting in his chest. “No stray movements. No reasons for them to hit us again.”
The unit followed him without a word, their silence heavier than the cold air around them. It spoke of unease, of questions they were too afraid to ask, or of answers they already knew but couldn’t bear to voice.
By the tenth night, the camp sagged under the weight of unease. Every step, every gesture, was slower now, as if the tension coiled in their minds had seeped into their bodies. Seeker sat near the edge of their campfire, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. The light danced, chaotic and alive, but his thoughts were the opposite—heavy, knotted, and impossible to unwind.
As the others began to drift into restless sleep, Seeker pushed himself to his feet and wandered toward the forest’s edge. The night air was crisp, each breath sharp enough to sting his lungs. Darkness crowded close here, the faint rustling of leaves swallowed by the distant murmur of a river. He stared into the trees, the quiet settling over him like a weight—a heavy, suffocating blanket he couldn’t shake.
A shiver prickled down his spine, sharp and insistent, like a warning whispered just out of earshot. He spun on his heel, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. Behind him, the campfires flickered weakly, their glow casting uncertain shadows. Yet, despite the chill crawling over his skin, there was no one, nothing, there.
And yet, the sensation of eyes, silent, unseen, boring into him refused to leave.
“Who’s there?” he asked, his voice low and steady, though the tightness in his chest betrayed the unease crawling beneath his skin.
Nothing answered but silence. The forest seemed to freeze, every rustle of leaves and whisper of wind vanishing as if the world itself had stopped to listen.
He stepped forward cautiously, the crunch of frost beneath his boots barely breaking the silence. His eyes darted through the shadows, hunting for the slightest hint of movement or the glint of a hidden blade. For a long, breathless moment, there was nothing. And then a ripple. Faint and fleeting, like heat haze over stone, it wavered at the edge of his vision. Unnatural. Wrong.
And just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, leaving only a heavy stillness in its wake.
Seeker’s chest constricted, each breath escaping his lips in ghostly wisps that hung in the freezing air. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword with a white-knuckled intensity, the sharp bite of iron grounding him in the present. The forest returned to its eerie stillness, but the weight of unseen eyes lingered, pressing against his back like a phantom touch.
At last, Seeker turned back toward the camp, each step measured and deliberate, as though a sudden movement might shatter the fragile peace. His heart drummed a frantic rhythm against his ribs, but he forced his breaths to slow, to steady, even as the hairs on his neck refused to settle.
As he passed the campfires, their orange glow throwing restless shadows across the ground, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. The darkness beyond was unbroken, a wall of quiet menace. Yet the sensation clung to him, heavy and inescapable. Someone, or something, was out there. And it wasn’t finished watching.
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