The first week of marching was a blur of mud, cold, and exhaustion. Each day began with Seeker waking his unit before the sun crept over the horizon, their breath visible in the frigid air as they stretched and prepared for the endless road ahead. His commands were quiet but firm—partly because he wasn't used to giving orders, and partly because he feared they wouldn't listen if his voice faltered.
He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say most mornings. Words like form up or stay sharp felt hollow, like an untrained actor delivering lines they barely understood. Yet his unit obeyed without complaint. Even Marlen, who usually found a way to wriggle out of responsibilities, muttered a joke or two before falling into line. Whether it was respect, fear, or simple necessity, Seeker didn't know, but he clung to their obedience as a lifeline.
The terrain was unforgiving, a mixture of thick, sludgy paths and frozen ground that made every step a battle. Frost clung stubbornly to the edges of the road in the mornings, only to turn the mud into a sucking mire by afternoon. Sparse forests flanked their route, the skeletal trees casting long shadows that stretched across their path like fingers clawing at the remnants of winter.
Seeker often found himself watching his unit, trying to gauge their morale. Liora, ever determined, marched with her spear held tight, her expression caught between fear and resolve. Harken trudged ahead, unbothered by the weight of his hammer or the cold that stung their faces. Jara occasionally muttered under her breath, calculating rations or grumbling about the efficiency of supply lines. Marlen complained loudly, as expected, but it was half-hearted, like even he knew the futility of it.
Seeker didn't speak much, but the weight of their gazes told him they were waiting—for direction, for reassurance, for something he wasn't sure he could give. Instead, he leaned on the veterans, hoping their experience could guide him through.
On the third morning, as frost clung to their cloaks and the camp slowly stirred, Seeker pulled Harken, Gale, and Jara aside. The weak light of dawn barely broke through the canopy of skeletal trees, casting faint silhouettes as they huddled near the remains of a small fire.
Seeker looked down at his hands, scarred and calloused, but now oddly still in the chill air. "So," he began awkwardly, "how does this... work? A unit like ours, in an army this size?"
Harken grunted, his breath a visible plume as he adjusted his worn breastplate. "You mean, how do we stay alive, or how do we keep from embarrassing ourselves?"
Gale smirked, leaning casually against a tree. "Both are valid questions, to be fair."
Seeker huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. "Let's start with staying alive."
"Easy," Harken said, his tone flat. "Don't be a hero."
Seeker frowned. "Isn't that what they want us to be? Heroes?"
"No," Jara said sharply, cutting through the cold air. "They want us to be useful. Heroes die early, usually in spectacularly stupid ways."
"Think of us like a knife in the ribs," Gale added, his sharp eyes darting around as if expecting an ambush. "Quiet. Fast. Effective. We're skirmishers, not shock troops. That means we don't hold lines—we hit the enemy where it hurts, then disappear before they know what happened."
"And in a battle this big? With thousands of soldiers?" Seeker asked, his voice quieter now. The question felt naive as soon as it left his lips, but he needed to understand.
"That's where the chaos comes in," Jara said, her voice calm but laced with dry humor. "Big armies mean big opportunities. Elves and Zoomorphs have their own skirmishers, sure, but they're not expecting a group like us to disrupt their supply lines or pick off their mages."
"They'll be focused on the walls," Harken said, nodding toward the direction of Torvald's Crossing. "Their big hitters, their siege crews, their frontline warriors. If we do our jobs right, they won't see us coming until it's too late."
Seeker absorbed their words, though unease churned in his stomach. It was easy to talk about tactics and maneuvers here, with the fire warming their faces and the day still full of promise. But he couldn't shake the image of his unit scattered across a battlefield, their blood soaking into the mud. He tightened his grip on his cloak.
"And when we're out there," Seeker said, his voice careful, "how do I keep them... together? How do I make sure they follow me?"
Jara gave him a long look, her expression softening. "You don't. Not at first. They'll follow you because they have to. But if you keep them alive—if you prove you're worth listening to—they'll follow you because they want to."
Seeker nodded slowly, though the weight of her words settled heavily on his shoulders. He wasn't sure he could live up to that.
"Relax, lad," Harken said, clapping a heavy hand on Seeker's shoulder. His rough grin was faintly visible beneath his scruffy beard. "You've got the instincts. We'll make it through—if we don't get bogged down with overthinking."
"Instincts," Seeker repeated under his breath. He wasn't sure if Harken meant it as a compliment or a warning.
"Just don't get us killed," Gale added with a smirk. "That's all anyone expects of a leader."
"High standards," Seeker muttered, but his lips twitched into a faint smile.
They lingered a moment longer, the fire crackling softly as the rest of the camp began to stir. Seeker felt the knot in his chest loosen slightly. He still didn't know if he was ready, but at least he wasn't alone.
Evenings became a ritual, a hard-earned rhythm that gave Seeker's unit a sense of purpose amidst the endless march. After the camp was set up and the fires sputtered to life, Seeker would call his unit together for drills. The bitter cold crept into their bones, gnawed at their fingers, and made every movement feel heavier than it should. But Seeker refused to let them grow complacent. If anything, the harsh conditions were their whetstone, sharpening them with every frigid breath and aching limb.
The small clearing they claimed for practice was illuminated only by the glow of their campfire, the flickering light dancing on tired faces and glinting off steel. The forest beyond loomed dark and restless, the faint rustle of leaves whispering threats none of them could afford to ignore.
Liora stood near the edge of the clearing, her spear clutched awkwardly in her hands, the weapon nearly as tall as she was. Her grip was too tight, her stance too rigid. The girl was trying too hard to force herself into something she wasn't—yet.
Sarra, her own spear resting against her shoulder, stepped forward with the ease of someone who had fought and survived enough battles to stop worrying about perfection. She gave Liora a long, appraising look, her expression unreadable.
"Your reach is your strength," Sarra said, nudging Liora's hands into a better position on the shaft. "But don't overcommit. If you lunge too far, you'll leave yourself open. This isn't about looking impressive—it's about surviving the second swing."
Liora nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line of determination. She adjusted her stance, her movements still hesitant but more deliberate. She thrust the spear forward, and while it lacked the precision Sarra's strikes carried, it wasn't bad.
"Better," Sarra said, stepping back with a faint smile that might have been encouragement. "You'll get there. Just keep your feet under you."
Seeker watched from a short distance, his arms crossed over his chest as the faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips. It wasn't much, but it was progress. And progress, he'd learned, was something to hold onto in times like these.
Near the center of the clearing, Harken and Taren practiced side by side, their blows landing with deliberate, bone-shaking force. Harken's heavy blade whistled through the air with each swing, cleaving the practice dummy in front of him into uneven chunks of splintered wood. Taren's hammer was slower but no less devastating, each arc of the weapon sending a satisfying crack through the cold night air.
"You're wasting energy," Harken said without looking at Taren, his tone blunt. "You want to smash skulls, not flatten the entire damn forest. Keep the swing tighter."
Taren grunted but didn't argue, adjusting his grip and stance. His next strike landed with a more efficient motion, splintering the top of the dummy's head in one brutal blow. He stepped back, wiping the sweat from his brow despite the chill.
"Happy now?" he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"Getting there," Harken replied with a chuckle, swinging his own blade down again.
Gale moved like a shadow through the group, his twin daggers flashing as he demonstrated close-quarters techniques to Elara. His steps were light, his movements fluid, and he carried himself with the air of someone who had learned the hard way that speed often mattered more than strength.
"Strike here," Gale said, tapping the side of a wooden dummy's neck with the flat of his blade. "Quick and clean. But only if you're sure. If you hesitate, they'll have your guts on the ground before you blink."
Elara frowned, studying the dummy with an expression that bordered on disdain. "Feels like a waste of effort. Why not just stick a knife in their ribs?"
"Because," Gale replied with a smirk, "you're assuming they'll just stand there and let you. People move, Elara. They block, they dodge, they scream for help. You strike where it's quickest, cleanest, and least expected."
He stepped back, gesturing for her to try. Elara's first attempt was clumsy, her blade dragging too slowly across the dummy's neck, but by the third or fourth strike, her movements began to smooth out.
"Not bad," Gale said, stepping back to watch her work. "Stick with me, and you might actually survive this mess."
Marlen, predictably, leaned against a tree at the edge of the clearing, his sword propped beside him as he watched the others with an air of exaggerated boredom. He was halfway through a flowery compliment about Jara's organizational skills when she tossed him a bundle of firewood without looking up.
"If you can't fight, you can at least keep us warm," she said dryly, her eyes scanning the ledger she always seemed to carry.
Marlen caught the bundle with a dramatic sigh, cradling it like an insult. "You wound me, Jara. Truly. I'd have you know I am a man of exceptional talents."
"Sure," Jara replied, flipping a page in her book. "Let me know when you find one that's useful."
The others chuckled, their laughter a rare and welcome sound in the cold evening air. Even Seeker allowed himself a faint grin as he turned back to the group, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Enough banter," Seeker said, his voice cutting through the crisp evening air. It wasn't a bark, but it carried a weight that silenced the laughter and pulled their attention. His tone was firm but not unkind, a balance he had learned to strike through trial and error. "Form up."
The group shifted into position with a series of tired groans and half-hearted mutters, their exhaustion momentarily set aside as muscle memory took over. The scrape of boots on frost-bitten ground and the faint clinking of weapons filled the clearing as they moved into their drills.
Seeker watched them with a critical eye, his arms crossed tightly against the cold. Each movement, each strike or parry, was a reflection of their collective survival. He told himself he was looking for flaws in their form, but the truth was, he was looking for something else—proof that they could become more than they were. That he could become more than he was.
He moved among them, correcting stances, adjusting grips, pointing out weaknesses in their strikes. His hands were steady, his words confident, but inside, he was far less sure. Every adjustment, every command, felt like a gamble. He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't a leader. The memories he had—the ones he trusted—were of farming and blood-soaked sand, neither of which prepared him to guide others.
When he stepped behind Liora, who struggled with her spear, he hesitated for a moment before placing his hands over hers to guide her. Her stance was too narrow, her grip too high. "You're using too much strength," he said quietly, his voice low enough not to carry. "Let the weight of the spear do the work. It's not about forcing the strike—it's about control."
Liora nodded, her expression tightening with determination. Her movements became smoother, more deliberate, and Seeker stepped back, letting her practice on her own. He didn't let himself smile, though he wanted to. There was too much riding on her learning this quickly. If she doesn't, she dies. If she dies, that's on me.
He drifted over to where Harken and Taren were working, their blows heavy and deliberate as they practiced breaking shields and overwhelming defenses. Harken's laughter punctuated each strike, a sharp contrast to Taren's silent focus.
"Looks good," Seeker said, nodding at their movements. "But if you're up against cavalry, what do you do?"
Harken shrugged, his grin wide. "Pray the rider's dumber than I am."
Taren grunted, his hammer swinging in a brutal arc that cracked the edge of the practice dummy. "Drop the horse. Easier than dealing with a mounted man swinging steel."
Seeker nodded again, filing the advice away. It was practical, straightforward—just like the man who'd offered it. "And against archers?"
"Cover and charge," Harken replied immediately. "You don't stand there and let them turn you into a pincushion."
Seeker didn't reply, but the weight of their words lingered. These were things he should know. Things a leader should understand without needing to ask. Instead, he felt like he was piecing together a broken puzzle from fragments handed to him by others.
He caught himself slipping into the rhythm of the arena, the echoes of those brutal lessons bleeding into his commands. "Don't swing so wide," he said to Gale, who was demonstrating dagger work with Elara. "You're exposing your ribs every time you step left. Tighter arcs, more control."
Gale shot him a glance but adjusted without argument. "You've got a good eye for someone who doesn't carry blades."
Seeker didn't answer. The truth was, he did carry blades—in the arena. His body still remembered the feel of them, the way they had saved his life time and again when survival came down to inches. But he hadn't been a tactician there. He'd been a survivor. And surviving alone wasn't enough here.
He circled back to the center of the clearing, his breath visible in the frigid air. The sounds of weapons clashing and grunts of exertion filled the space, and for a moment, it felt like they were more than a group of mismatched strangers. They weren't polished soldiers—not yet—but they were trying. And that was something.
Seeker's gaze lingered on each of them, noting their progress. Sarra was patient as she worked with Liora, her sharp commands cutting through the younger woman's self-doubt. Jara was off to the side, managing supplies even as she practiced with her spear, her multitasking skills as sharp as ever. Even Marlen, who had reluctantly joined after another round of sarcastic comments, was swinging his sword with more precision than usual.
He exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. This might just work, he thought. Then the doubt crept in again. Or it might not.
He didn't know if he was teaching them what they needed to survive. His knowledge of tactics came in fragments, borrowed from the veterans and the brutal simplicity of the arena. But as he watched them move—flawed but improving, tired but determined—he allowed himself a sliver of hope.
For now, they were moving forward. And sometimes, that was enough.
As the days stretched on, the land bore the scars of war more plainly. The forests thickened, their canopies weaving a tapestry of shadows that muffled even the faintest sounds. The air felt heavier, filled with the damp chill of late winter and the lingering scent of ash. Along the road, burned-out villages and abandoned farms stood like grim monuments to the conflict that consumed the land.
"Fields like these take years to recover," Jara murmured as they passed a ruined farmstead, her tone subdued. She gestured toward the broken fences and the blackened husks of buildings. "Even if the fighting stops, the land won't be the same."
"Fighting won't stop," Gale said, his voice sharp. His eyes darted toward the treeline, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger. "Not until one side wipes the other out."
Seeker walked at the head of the group, his grip on the worn hilt of his sword tightening. He didn't speak, letting their words hang in the cold air. The weight of their steps felt heavier with every mile, as if the road itself was conspiring to slow them.
It was on the seventh day while they got order to scout in front of army that they stumbled upon the clearing. The air changed first—colder, sharper, with a faint metallic tang that set Seeker's teeth on edge. He raised a hand to halt the group, his gaze scanning the dense underbrush.
"What is it?" Harken asked, his voice low as he stepped up beside Seeker.
"Not sure," Seeker replied, his tone equally cautious. He gestured for the others to spread out and stay alert. The forest seemed unnaturally quiet, the usual sounds of birds and rustling leaves conspicuously absent.
As they crested a small rise, the remnants of a ambush came into view. Bodies of human soldiers were scattered across the clearing, their armor twisted and broken, their weapons still clutched in stiff hands. The ground was churned with mud and blood, the telltale signs of a desperate struggle.
Harken crouched beside a shattered shield, his fingers running over the jagged edges. "Ambush," he muttered, his brow furrowing. "Dark Elves. They hit hard and fast, then disappear before anyone has time to respond."
Jara knelt beside one of the fallen soldiers, her expression tight as she examined the wounds. "No burn marks or explosions," she said, her tone clinical. "This was precision. Blades, not spells."
"They took their dead," Gale added, his voice grim. His eyes scanned the clearing, as if expecting the shadows to come alive. "That's what they do. Leave nothing behind. Not even their tracks."
Seeker's stomach churned as he took in the scene. The arena had been brutal, but there had been rules of a sort. Here, there was no such order. The silence felt oppressive, indifferent to the violence that had unfolded here.
"Why take the risk?" he asked quietly. "Why not leave their dead behind and move faster?"
"Because they're not like us," Harken said, standing and brushing the dirt from his hands. "Dark Elves fight with purpose. They're not just killing—they're sending a message. To us, to their own people. We're supposed to see this and remember what they're capable of."
"And forget about taking their territory," Gale added bitterly.
Liora stood a few steps behind Seeker, her spear clutched tightly in her hands. She stared at the bodies, her wide eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination. "Do you think... do you think they're still watching us?"
"Probably," Harken said, his voice blunt. "They don't make a move unless they've already decided it's in their favor."
Seeker glanced at the treeline, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. "Then we keep close to main body of army," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "We don't give them a reason to strike again."
The unit fell into step behind him, their silence more telling than any words could be.
By the tenth night, the camp had settled into an uneasy quiet. The soldiers moved slower now, the weight of constant vigilance dragging at their movements. Seeker sat at the edge of their campfire, watching the flames flicker and dance, his mind heavy with thoughts he couldn't fully untangle.
When the others began to drift off, he rose and walked to the edge of the forest, the crisp night air biting at his skin. The darkness pressed in close here, the faint rustle of leaves almost drowned out by the distant murmur of a river. He stared into the trees, letting the quiet wrap around him like a heavy blanket.
A prickle ran down his spine, sharp and insistent. He turned sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. The campfires were behind him, their flickering light casting faint shadows, but there was no one nearby.
Still, the feeling of being watched lingered.
"Who's there?" he called softly, his voice steady despite the unease curling in his chest.
Silence. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the rustling of leaves ceasing as if even the wind had paused to listen.
Seeker took a step forward, his boots crunching softly on the frosted ground. His eyes scanned the shadows, searching for a flicker of movement or the glint of light against a blade. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then, faintly, a ripple in the air—a distortion like heat rising from a stone—caught his attention. It flickered at the edge of his vision, subtle and unnatural.
And then, it was gone.
Seeker's chest tightened, his breath visible in the frigid air. He lingered there for a moment, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles ached. The forest was still again, but the feeling of eyes on him didn't fade.
Finally, he turned back toward the camp, his steps slow and deliberate. His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to keep his breathing steady.
As he passed the campfires, he glanced over his shoulder one last time. The shadows were deep and unbroken, but the sensation hadn't left him. Someone—or something—was out there. And it was watching.