"They donned black cloaks, weaving through the shadows of the night." —Salman, Historian, The Annals of Godma, Volume II, Chapter 2: Initial Skirmish

----------------------------------------

A nameless iron sword. Gods, I'm a noble. And this is my legacy?

A broad-headed arrow zipped past his face and embedded itself into the wooden hut beside him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm surprised you didn't even hear me draw the bowstring, Lannord." The archer smirked with satisfaction. "These Elven cloaks are quite something."

"Indeed, I didn't hear you," Lannord replied, irritation clear in his voice. "This damned sword was distracting me..." He abruptly stopped speaking and caught the second arrow mid-flight. "The same trick, played twice, is a waste of time."

"Suit yourself." Stellan pulled the bowstring taut once more. "A single opportunity shouldn't be squandered."

----------------------------------------

"So, how did you end up leading the vanguard?"

They rode at a slow pace, having already put some distance between themselves and the Dobby.

"Calm yourself, Bechi." A knight on a chestnut horse spoke calmly. "You're an outstanding knight in our Eighth Squad, but our captain made it clear: Karl knows the land like the back of his hand. That's why he was chosen as the leader of this vanguard squad. You didn't object then, did you?"

He scoffed. "I didn't object then, but I do now. We've been on the road for a while, and since we crossed the river, he hasn't said a word! Of course I have an opinion! Can a mute even lead?"

At his words, the others fell silent. Carl decided to break his silence. "I'm not mute, Bechi." "As for you wanting me to speak, fine. Here's what I've been meaning to say to you: 'Shut up.'"

Bechi felt thoroughly outmaneuvered and yanked at his reins in frustration, using the motion as an outlet for his anger.

Carl was filled with unease. The fields around them were eerily quiet—even the mosquitoes were silent. Have the bullfrogs fallen silent too...? His unease deepened, a sense of foreboding spreading like a shadow across the land. Finally, he ordered the knights to slow their pace, hoping to remain vigilant for any danger.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

There were no unusual sounds. Carl kept his nerves taut until a knight approached him, breaking the tension. "Hey, Troll," Carl teased, "young as you are, you're doing quite well, aren't you?"

Corslin's cheeks flushed slightly. "Please don't mock me, Lord Carl." The young man was always polite. "You look so young yourself, and yet you've already earned the position of squad leader. I greatly admire you, my lord."

"I hope you're not just making small talk out of boredom," Carl replied with a half-smile. "But speaking of you, I am curious. Sixteen, I'd wager. Why join the northern campaign?"

"I'm seventeen already, my lord!" Corslin puffed out his chest with pride. "Though my family and even my brothers-in-arms still see me as a child, I believe I'm ready to stand on my own." He patted his breastplate and the sword at his side, his expression brimming with self-assurance. "As for why I joined the army..." The light in his eyes flickered and died, replaced by a shadow of grief.

"What's the matter?" Carl asked, genuinely surprised. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. I was just trying to make conversation anyway." His gaze softened slightly, betraying a hint of concern.

"I never wanted to be a knight. I never wanted to join the army." Corslin seemed to have made up his mind, speaking with resolute finality. But before Carl could ask why, the young man continued on his own. "My family's fiefdom is in Torley, near the capital of Godma. You've probably heard of it." Carl nodded, though in truth, he had never been to Godma. Even now, he struggled to let go of the bitterness of losing his homeland. "I have five siblings in total—an elder sister, an elder brother, and two younger sisters. I'm the second son of the family." Noticing Carl was about to speak, Corslin quickly added, "I know what you're thinking. Yes, according to custom, it should have been the eldest son representing the family in this campaign." His voice grew heavy with grief, his tone laced with bitterness. "But my brother Bran had an accident when he was five. He fell from the castle walls and was paralyzed for life." Corslin looked up at the night sky. "His dream, ever since he was little, was to become a knight—a true knight. He wanted to inherit our family's estate, fight for our nation, and earn glory on the battlefield. As for me, I've never had any interest in swords or fighting. While they practiced swordsmanship in the training yard, I would read, draw, write, or listen to street performers and wandering bards. I had a gift for music, and I dreamed of becoming a court musician someday." He lowered his head again. "But after my brother's accident, everything changed. My family placed all their expectations on me, hoping my frail body could bear the weight of managing the estate and governing the fief. The early days were particularly hard. I had to abandon the books, brushes, and lute I loved so much, trading them for heavy wooden and iron swords in the training yard. But I persevered. My transformation surprised and delighted my father, who then wanted me to be knighted on Holy Day in the presence of High Magister Milt. Yet I refused."