The smell of stagnant piss hit the sleeping boy’s nose, only reinforcing the fact he had to wake up. Gradually, the scent of human filth grew stronger, and he further curled in, both to block out the odor, though he himself stunk of dried sweat, and to warm himself up.

Winters were cold this time of year, especially when compared to his old home in the South, where one would rarely, if ever, see people wearing long sleeved clothing.

He recalled the village he used to live, where the people were kind, and always willing to lend a helping hand. Such warmth was seldom found in the Baron's army, especially in the castle the boy currently resided in, where with every passing night, someone’s blanket would be stolen, and they would lose a chunk of flesh if they were lucky and freezing to death if they weren't.

That was probably why the smell of piss and shit was stronger than usual. Someone died, and had released their bowels all over themselves.

Getting up, the boy distanced himself from where the scent originated from, quietly walking to the only window in the room, and brushed the curtain aside. Although, window and curtain would be a generous description for a glassless hole in the wall covered up by a ratty square of fabric worn down from years of use.

As dawn broke, the beams of sunlight blanketed his face, and the traces of fatigue brought on from lack of sleep gradually disappeared. The exhaustion from war was still ever present though, and would likely haunt him until the day he died.

Rapidly shaking his head to rid himself of the last traces of drowsiness, the boy looked back at the room.

As if an unspoken agreement was reached, no one slept near the window, with everyone gathering together in a bunch near the wall opposite the window in the direction of where the central heating of the castle was located.

They clustered together to preserve body heat and more easily survive the night, but it was inevitable that someone would die, whether it be by infection, hunger, or most commonly, exposure.

The lack of proper insulation was only one reason for why death from the elements was so common in the castle. The heating barely extended into the hallway outside, let alone the room itself, though even if it did extend inside, nothing would change.

The wood didn’t burn in the night, as the hard, cold stone floor made round the clock heating too expensive.

Lack of insulation, coupled with the complete and utter absence of heating, only exacerbated another issue. The blanket provided to them was thin. Thin enough that if one were to stretch it out, and press one's face against it, they would find little trouble in breathing in or out. Not only was it thin, the blanket was also small, to the point where it was nigh impossible for a full grown adult to cover the floor beneath them, as well as comfortably shield themselves from the cold air.

The boy had no gripes with the size of the blanket.

By putting on a thick wool shirt and pants, and ignoring the disgusting stench of the room, he found his sleeping conditions to be quite snug and cozy.

Though, that sentiment was born from the fact that he was small, even taking into account his barely being 11 years of age. No doubt, his at the very best, petite, and at the worst, weak, body was brought on by malnourishment. The only positives of his situation were that he could completely wrap his body at night, and that the process of filling out his frame was made relative easy by it's small size. The army rations were of decent enough quality, but there would inevitably be some older boy who would steal his blanket or beat him for an extra roll of sea bread and strip of jerky.

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Not anymore though.

Looking at his situation holistically, the boy found his situation to be quite fortunate. Previously, when he still had to deal with ration and supply theft, it was never a daily issue, only occurring at most once a week. He heard horror stories of other companies, where the captain's control was tenuous at best, and losing everything you had was par for the course for the weak.

‘I need to wash up,’ the boy groggily thought.

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 these lands, had an obsession with cleanliness.

The Lord, a taciturn, 6’ 10”, 280 lb, completely hairless ball of pure muscle, always had an intense air, as if he was on the cusp of flying into a rage.

A topic originally brought up by the senior soldiers, and silenced by Captain June, the Baron had an extreme aversion to being touched, to the point on the few occasions he saw him, the boy noticed the Lord didn’t allow anyone, not even his wife, nor son, to touch him.

So severe was his sickness that on the sole occasion the boy had heard the Lord's voice outside of combat, the Lord had his cupbearer flayed for touching his finger.

Although, the boy wondered why the Lord even still had a cupbearer. Ever since he was bought by the Baron’s army, the Lord's army was at war. Only now was the fighting lessening somewhat, but seeing as how an 8 year old boy was bought for the sole purpose of filling out ranks, the Baron was surely sorely lacking in able young soldiers.

Walking out of the sleeping quarters, the natural light from the glass windows in the hallway blinded the boy.

The primary reason for why he usually woke up this early was to gaze at the world devoid of men, and coupled with the previous night’s fresh snow, the feeling of being transported to an all new world that welled up in the boy was only magnified.

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

Lost in thought, the boy instinctively entered the castle courtyard. Not wearing even socks, the boy showed no outward reaction to the freezing cold snow as he walked to the well near the walls.

Conversely, he seemed to enjoy walking on the snow, with his gait noticeably having more pep. He lowered the wooden bucket into the well, his long hair stabbing into his eyes. He would need to get a haircut soon, or tie it up. His current hair length presented no problem if he were tp enter battle, but given a week or two, his hair would grow to the point of obstructing his vision, and the boy’s odds of surviving to the end of the war would only lower further.

With trembling hands, he splashed his face with ice cold water, and scooped water into his mouth multiple times. He would need to visit the inventory master to get new clothes, and to the kitchen to get his breakfast.

The Baron was going to march later in the day to finish the campaign against his border generals’ rebellion, and with the traversal of long distances came the burning of calories, as well as the further wearing down of already worn down clothes.

The kitchen was practically empty, save for the chef, a petite woman no doubt beautiful in her younger years, but now over the hill and catching up in years, with significant portions of her hair graying.

She always gave the boy extra food; that’s why he liked her.

“Sol!” the woman shouted above the fire of the wood oven, “fresh bread, or herb noodles?”

Sol, wearing the simple linen tunic and wool pants standard among soldiers of the Baron’s army, shrugged, and 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 sea bread, still hot, burned Sol’s hands, causing him to quickly pass 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 bitter, but paired with the slightly sweet and savory red plum soup intensely flavored by a myriad of herbs and spices, the bitterness only served to enhance the already tasty soup.

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, Sol let out a satisfied sigh, and waved goodbye to the woman.

He would need to continue his preparations for the day’s march.