With broom in hand Gabriel methodically swept the dust-ridden floor, allowing the fine bristles to penetrate the nooks and crannies of the aged timber. During his brief time in Greenvale, he realized that mastering the rhythm of sweeping was essential for an impeccable clean. The village's name was a tongue-in-cheek misnomer; instead of the verdant rolling hills one might expect in Balatia, jagged rocks and barren landscapes dominated the scenery. Whoever named this place had an unusual sense of humor—or perhaps none at all.

As supper time neared, an air of anticipation filled the rustic inn where Gabriel was working. The promise of Sabina’s ‘famous’ ox pie drew locals and travelers. The inn was a charming, if somewhat worn, establishment made of roughly hewn timber and clay walls that had seen better days. Hand-carved wooden tables were scattered haphazardly across the creaking floorboards, each accompanied by mismatched chairs that seemed to have been collected over generations. Oil lamps flickered from the walls, casting a warm glow that failed to reach the darkened corners of the room.

“Have you wiped the tables?” Sabina asked, her tone brusque as always, a perpetual scowl framing her features.

“Not yet, Ma’am,” Gabriel answered.

“And what, pray tell, will happen to your freshly swept floor once you wipe the tables?”

Caught off guard, Gabriel scratched the back of his head, hesitating. “Uh… it'll get dirty again?”

“Well, would you look at that? So, there is a brain between those oversized ears of yours.”

Gabriel touched his ears reflexively. They're not that big, he assured himself. I'm still growing into them. He propped the broom against the wall and began wiping down the tables. Though he was still adjusting to such menial chores, he did his best to perform them correctly, even if his attention inevitably wandered amid the monotony.

Over the past two moon cycles, his travels through various villages had taught him much about local customs and attitudes. A common thread of obstinate pride united the communities. Just last week, he had met an innkeeper in another village. A stout, aging man amid fever. But he continued to work, refusing to rest and allow others to help him. Such was the stubborn resolve he'd encountered on his journey.

Gabriel's first stop after parting ways with Mags had been far from welcoming. The villagers met him with palpable suspicion and hostility, contrasting with the reception he'd had at Oakendale, where Mags' introduction had acted as a social key. He hadn't truly grasped the power of that vouchsafe until he encountered these unwelcoming strangers. Villagers everywhere he went seemed to share a tight-knit, guarded stance toward outsiders, a sentiment that didn't appear to waver from one settlement to the next.

However, Gabriel adapted. He learned to read subtle social cues and honed his approach, making himself useful in ways that gradually lowered barriers. He took on various odd jobs, typically lending a hand at local inns in exchange for room and board. This offered him a unique vantage point to gauge the common sentiments and whispers of the townspeople.

He noticed their concerns differed from his people. Issues like taxation and food shortages, hot topics in his homeland, were curiously absent here. On the rare occasion when Gabriel ventured to solicit opinions about the king, he found staunch defenders in these folks. He had hoped that he might find out enough to formulate a plan to meet the king, but the strategy remained elusive.

Gabriel had just finished preparing the inn for the evening's patrons when the door creaked open, signaling the arrival of the early crowd. The room quickly filled with a diverse mixture of locals and travelers, each contributing to laughter, loud conversations, and mugs clinking. Serving drinks and waiting tables, Gabriel knew that his laborious evening would only earn him a simple meal and a makeshift bed in the stables.

Among the crowd, a heated exchange caught his attention. A lone traveler, already well into his cups, was embroiled in a argument with three soldiers. The soldiers were unmistakably Balatian, their custom blue uniforms starkly contrasting the earthy tones worn by the village folk. Towering over both the traveler and most locals, they radiated an intimidating aura.

“You think you're better than me just because you're a soldier?” the disgruntled man slurred, his voice tinged with both resentment and alcohol.

Recognizing the escalating tension, Gabriel took it upon himself to defuse the situation. “Ah, my good sir, your cup appears empty. How about another ale to fill it?”

“No,” the man snapped.

“You look thirsty, my man. Let me quench that thirst for you. Come with me.”

For a moment, the man seemed torn. His eyes darted from his empty cup to the soldiers, who looked ready to resort to physical means to end the discussion. Finally, he made his choice. “Alright, where's that ale?”

“Right this way,” Gabriel led him toward the bar, filling a fresh cup from one of the barrels to the brim.

Gabriel watched as the man took the ale and retreated to a barstool. The man took a long sip, his eyes staring into the liquid as if searching for answers. Gabriel stole a quick glance over his shoulder. Sabina was absorbed in conversation with some locals; her back conveniently turned to him. Seizing the moment, he filled three additional cups with ale and returned to the table of soldiers.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Gentlemen, how about a toast to a peaceful evening? A small token of appreciation for your service,” Gabriel said as he handed each of them a cup.

“A fine village this is,” a younger soldier chuckled, raising his cup.

The older soldier eyed Gabriel discerningly. “I noticed you carefully checked if the owner was watching before bringing us this ale. What do you want?”

“Do you mind if I take a seat?” Gabriel asked.

The soldier smiled sinisterly. “Yes.”

Gabriel went to take a seat before the man interrupted him. “Yes, I do mind.”

His young comrade intervened. “Oh, lighten up. He gave us drinks, didn't he?”

Deciding to take charge of the situation, Gabriel pulled a chair from a nearby table. He dragged it over deliberately, its legs scraping against the floor, maintaining eye contact with the reluctant soldier all the while. Once positioned, he offered a disarming smile and sat. Turning to the more amiable soldier, he said, “I knew I liked you.”

Another soldier, with a prominent scar slashing across his face, just huffed.

“He’s got some backbone, this one does.” The younger soldier said.

“I want to be a soldier,” Gabriel declared.

A chorus of laughter was his response. The older soldier spoke up. “You’re a bit too young.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“Look, kid, we're not here to babysit. We ain’t trying to recruit a boy who’s still sucking at his Ma’s teets,” the older soldier sneered.

The atmosphere grew tense as Gabriel's expression darkened at the mention of his mother. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention my mother.”

“Why’s that, upset that she stopped giving you milk?” the younger soldier quipped.

The older soldier placed a restraining hand on his comrade's arm, shaking his head ever so slightly.

“I want to join you.” Gabriel reiterated, injecting his voice with solemnity.

“No one wants to be a soldier once they've actually been one,” the soldier sighed, his facade momentarily breaking to reveal a wearied man.

Gabriel sensed a crack in his armored exterior, a fleeting moment of vulnerability. He seized upon it, hoping to elicit enough empathy to convince them. Perhaps his earnestness might touch a hidden, nearly forgotten chord of idealism within them.

“I want to protect Balatia,” Gabriel said earnestly.

“It’s admirable, boy, truly. But it’s a tough life.”

“I haven’t lived an easy life. I don’t plan on living one now.”

“You’ll probably die, boy; it’s not like the songs.”

“Death never is.”

The older soldier scrutinized him. “Why do you want to be a soldier, lad, and don’t give me some bullshit about the glory of Balatia?”

“I need to be strong enough to ensure that no one can ever hurt the people I care about again,” Gabriel replied.

“What’s your name?”

“Orion,”

“That's an uncommon name,” the man replied.

After seeing Gabriel's shrug, he added “You're too young to be a soldier.”

Ignoring the comment, Gabriel switched gears. “May I know your names?”

“I'm Atlas,” the older soldier began. “This is Olof,” pointing to the man with the scar, “And this is Avis,” he added, indicating the younger man who looked to be roughly five years Gabriel's senior.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, men.”

“Are you the son of a merchant or a named warrior?” Atlas inquired.

Gabriel blinked, “A merchant.”

“That explains your polished way of speaking. Where are your parents?”

“They’re gone. Damn Bandits. I never want to be so powerless again. I promised myself that I would become the strongest warrior in Valandor.”

Atlas chuckled, “That’s a mighty ambition, lad.”

Gabriel leaned forward in his chair, planting his elbows on the table. “Where do the most elite warriors receive their training?”

“That would be the Steel Academy.”

“How does one get in?”

“You don’t. Only children of named warriors make it in.”

Gabriel was familiar with the unique social hierarchy of Balatia, a kingdom that dispensed with traditional nobility in favor of a merit-based system centered around ‘named warriors.’ In Balatia, a person could transcend their humble origins through feats of skill and valor on the battlefield. Such accomplishments granted one a new name—a “war name”—that would replace their birth name in public and ceremonial contexts. The grander the name, the higher the individual's standing in society.

This system was underpinned by the Balatian belief that a person's worth wasn't preordained by birth but earned through deeds. The children of named warriors, while not nobility in the traditional sense, were accorded a measure of respect because of their parentage. However, this societal advantage was not an enduring legacy; it typically extended only for a generation or two, dependent on the individual achievements of each descendant. In Balatia, the past was less a birthright than a challenge, urging each new generation to carve out its own legacy.

“Surely there are exceptions.”

“Exceptions are rare, to say the least,” Atlas explained. “The Steel Academy is the most prestigious military institution in all of Valandor. Graduates of the academy often catch the royal eye. Such is the Academy's reputation that even the king himself consults its instructors and occasionally addresses its cadets.”

Gabriel’s eyes lit up. This is my path. My way forward.

Atlas continued, “Its training is so rigorous that a single graduate could likely defeat the three of us combined.”

Avis chimed in, “I’d like to see them try.”

Atlas rolled his eyes before refocusing on Gabriel.

“I will train there,” Gabriel surely asserted.

Olof scoffed. A sentiment that was repeated by the men sitting at the table.

“Ever handled a sword?” Atlas asked, locking eyes with him.

“I've had training,” Gabriel said.

“By some local, I presume?”

“No, I had an instructor before coming to this village.”

Atlas nodded slightly. “You've clearly faced hardship, Orion. But joining the military, especially aiming for the Steel Academy, isn't your only option.”

“It's the only option I'll consider.”

“We can't just let you enlist. There are laws against recruiting minors,” Atlas stated.

“I have nothing here, no one—nothing to live for. The only thing I want is to train and be a soldier. I will do anything. Make me a squire, a porter, anything. I’ll dig the latrines, carry your gear, pitch your tents. I'm not looking for shortcuts; I'm looking for a path,” Gabriel urged, his eyes pleading but resolute. “Let me join you, please.”

“We can show him what it means to be a soldier. Maybe that will scare him off,” Avis said with a mischievous smile.

“Meet us behind the inn. We’ll finish our drinks and meet you there,” Atlas said.

Gabriel let out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding in. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Atlas chuckled. “You have no idea what you're getting yourself into.”