The campfires burned low as the Simbarian army licked its wounds from the battle against Brightblood Halcrest. The air was thick with smoke and the coppery tang of blood, the cries of the injured piercing the otherwise solemn quiet. Elian Ashrin sat at the edge of the camp, his back against a wagon wheel, his side freshly bandaged. Despite the healer’s protests, he had refused to stay in the infirmary.

The weight of Symm Nycolas’s severed head still lingered in his mind. He could feel the phantom sensation of its matted blonde hair in his hand, the sticky warmth of blood dripping down his arm. Victory had come at a cost, as it always did.

For his men, the battle was a triumph. His duel with knight Nycolas had solidified his status as a leader. Yet, for Elian, the taste of victory was bitter. Twenty-seven of his original forty men had survived the battle, but the faces of the fallen haunted him. He could still see their lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, could still hear their final, desperate cries.

I am their captain. The thought gnawed at him. I should have done more.

“Elian!”

The voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Tyran, his second-in-command, a brightblood, approaching. Tyran was a grizzled veteran, well over 6 feet, his pale complexion and wide face along with his beard streaked with gray and his brown eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched into his features.

“We’ve been summoned,” Tyran said, his tone grim. “Kaelen wants to see you at the command tent.”

Elian nodded, wiping the blood from his blade before sheathing it. He gave a quick glance at his remaining squad, ensuring they were being tended to, before following Tyran toward the camp.

The command tent was bustling with activity when Elian arrived. Messengers darted in and out, bearing reports and orders, while officers huddled over maps and argued in hushed tones. At the center of it all stood General Kaelen, his golden hair gleaming even in the dim light of the lanterns. His armor was pristine despite the battle, a testament to his Brightblood heritage and the near-mythical aura that surrounded him.

“Elian Ashrin.” Kaelen said, his voice cutting through the din. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to the young captain.

Elian stepped forward, saluting sharply. “General.”

Kaelen studied him for a moment, his piercing gaze taking in the bloodstains on Elian’s armor and the exhaustion etched into his face. Then, he smiled—a rare expression that softened his otherwise imposing demeanor.

“You’ve done well,” he said. “Your squad’s performance was exemplary. You held the flank when others faltered, and your leadership turned the tide of the battle.”

Elian felt a flicker of pride, though it was tempered by the memories of those who had fallen. “I only did my duty, sir.”

Kaelen nodded approvingly. “And you did it better than most. Which is why I’ve decided to promote you.”

The room stirred at his words, the officers exchanging surprised glances. Promotions were rare, and for someone as young as Elian, it was practically unheard of.

Kaelen continued, his voice steady. “From this moment forward, you are no longer a squad captain. You are a companylord, in command of one hundred men.”

Elian’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected this—not so soon, not at eighteen. The weight of the responsibility hit him like a blow, but he pushed the doubt aside. He couldn’t afford to falter now.

“You’ll take command immediately,” Kaelen said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Your new company is being assembled as we speak. Dismissed.”

Elian saluted once more, then turned and left the tent, his mind racing.

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“Captain.”

Elian looked up to see Tyran approaching. The grizzled soldier’s face was lined with exhaustion, but his piercing eyes remained sharp.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Tyran said, gesturing to Elian’s bandaged side. “You need rest.”

“Rest is for those who have no burdens to carry” Elian replied, his voice flat.

Tyran smirked faintly, crouching beside him. “You’ve got a company to lead now. You’ll get there faster than you think if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Elian didn’t respond. Instead, he gazed out at the camp, watching the soldiers move about like specters in the firelight.

“Word’s spreading,” Tyran continued. “About your promotion. Some are calling it deserved. Others…” He trailed off, his meaning clear.

Elian’s jaw tightened. He had expected as much. In a world ruled by Brightbloods, his ascension as a Shadowborn—a darkhaired with no noble lineage or forgecraft—was bound to stir resentment.

“Let them talk,” Elian said finally. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“It might,” Tyran warned. “You’ve got a hundred men now. Half of them don’t know you, and some of them won’t want to. You’ll need to prove yourself all over again.”

Elian met Tyran’s gaze, his gray eyes steady. “I’ll prove it. Like I always have.”

Tyran nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t doubt it, Just don’t let their whispers get to you.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, the crackle of the campfires filling the void. Eventually, Tyran rose to his feet. “Get some rest, Elian. The company will be assembled tomorrow at dawn.”

Elian watched him go, the weight of his new command settling heavily on his shoulders.

***

Dawn came too soon. The morning air was sharp and cold, the pale light of the rising sun casting long shadows over the camp. Elian stood at the edge of the clearing where his new company had gathered, his old squad standing off to one side.

The hundred men before him were a mix of veterans and fresh recruits, their expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism. Among them, Elian spotted a few Brightbloods, their polished armor and bright yellow hair along with haughty gazes marking them as nobles. They stood apart from the others, their disdain for Elian clear in the way they avoided meeting his eyes.

Elian took a deep breath, stepping forward. He was used to being underestimated, used to proving himself to those who doubted him. This would be no different.

“I’m not going to waste your time with speeches,” he began, his voice carrying across the clearing. “You all know who I am. Some of you respect me. Some of you don’t. That’s fine.”

He let his gaze sweep over the crowd, meeting the eyes of as many soldiers as he could.

“Here’s the truth: I don’t care where you come from. I don’t care if you’re a farmer’s son or a Brightblood. All I care about is whether you can fight—and whether you can follow orders. Because if you can’t, you won’t last long under my command.”

The soldiers shifted uncomfortably, a few of the Brightbloods narrowing their eyes. Elian ignored them.

“I’m not here to play politics,” he continued. “I’m here to win. And if you do your part, I’ll do mine. I’ll lead you. I’ll fight beside you. I’ll bleed with you. That’s all there is to it.”

Silence hung in the air as the soldiers processed his words. Then, slowly, Tyran stepped forward, clapping a hand to his chest in a salute. “I follow the leader” he said simply.

One by one, the rest of Elian’s old squad followed suit, their loyalty clear. The rest of the company hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances, before reluctantly saluting as well.

Elian nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good. Now let’s get to work.”

***

As the day wore on, Elian began to familiarize himself with his new men. He spoke with veterans who had fought under other companylords, listened to their stories, and gauged their abilities. He watched the recruits train, noting their strengths and weaknesses.

But not everyone was eager to accept his leadership.

In the dim light of the mess tent that evening, a group of Brightblood soldiers sat huddled together, their voices low but heated.

“A Shadowborn? Leading us?” one of them sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “It’s an insult. He’s nothing but a darkhaired rat with a sword.”

“Kaelen’s lost his mind!” another muttered. “Promoting someone like that over men of proper bloodlines? It’s a disgrace to the almighty Sudo.”

A third soldier, older and more composed, raised a hand to silence them. “Careful.” he warned. “Kaelen’s not the sort of man you want to cross. And like it or not, Ashrin’s our companylord now.”

The first soldier scowled. “For now. Men like him don’t last long in command. Sooner or later, he’ll slip—and when he does, we’ll be there to pick up the pieces.”

Their laughter was quiet, but it carried a dangerous edge.

***

As night fell, Elian stood alone at the edge of the camp, staring out at the dark horizon. The events of the day replayed in his mind—the faces of his new company, the whispers of dissent he’d overheard, the weight of expectation pressing down on him.

The road ahead would be difficult. He knew that. But he also knew that he couldn’t afford to fail. Not for himself, and not for the men who had placed their trust in him.

The wind stirred, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. A storm was coming.

Elian tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his gray eyes glinting in the darkness.

Let it come. I've weathered worse storms before.