The sound of the battlehorn shattered the stillness of the night, its deep, earth-shuddering blast ringing through the flimsy canvas of the tent. The cry was low at first, a haunting, mournful note that seemed to rise from the very ground itself. Then, as though the horn could not hold back the fury of war any longer, it blared again, sharp and piercing, cutting through the pre-dawn chill like a blade through silk. The sound rattled the thin fabric, tugging at the seams and shaking the worn poles that barely held the structure upright. It was a deep, mournful tone—heavy with the weight of history and blood—but it was soon followed by a shrill, urgent blast that seemed to shiver through the cold morning air, loud and commanding.
Lance's eyes flew open, heart hammering in his chest. The dark shadows of the tent, normally a comforting embrace, now felt oppressive, heavy with the weight of the sound. His small body tensed beneath the thin blanket, muscles already coiling with the memory of countless nights spent waiting for this very call.
He knew what the horn meant—he had known it for as long as he could remember. The warriors of the encampment were stirring, the camp coming alive, their hearts set ablaze by the call to war.
He listened to the deep, rumbling sound that followed, vibrating through the ground beneath him, then a high, shrill note that seemed to carry across the very sky itself. There would be no sleep now, not when the horn called. Not when the earth trembled with the promise of battle.
Lance's small fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, his breath quickening. He could already hear the distant sounds of boots on dirt, the thud of leather and steel as the soldiers gathered, readying themselves. The fire outside the tent had just begun to crackle, casting long, dancing shadows on the fabric, and the first stirrings of dawn had yet to light the sky, leaving everything shrouded in darkness.
Beneath the thin folds of the blanket, Lance's feet met the cold ground, his bare toes curling against the chill of the earth. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he crawled from the corner where he had slept, eyes darting to the other children lying nearby. They, too, were orphans of the battlefield—some asleep, others waking, but none as familiar with the sound as Lance.
He scrambled up from where he slept, his small bundle of belongings—used as a makeshift pillow. His dagger, worn but well-kept, was already tucked into his waistband, where he had kept it even in sleep. It was small, too light for a warrior, yet carefully sharpened and polished—his only weapon, just as the war was his to face.
Another blast of the horn rang out, and this one was clear, full of wrath and command. The time had come.
Lance's hands shook as he grasped the dagger, its cold hilt grounding him as the weight of the world pressed in. Dawn was close now, the first light of the sun just beginning to creep over the horizon, casting a dim glow over the battlefield. But for Lance, the world was always in twilight—caught between the shadows of childhood and the steel edge of war.
He pulled the flap open and stepped into the encampment, the noise of the camp already beginning to rise in a chorus of shouting voices, clanging metal, and the stomp of heavy boots. Warriors, clad in mismatched armour, were moving like shadows in the growing light. He could feel the heat of their fires against his skin, the weight of their anticipation, and it settled in him, a knowing that ran deeper than fear.
Before stepping forward, he strapped his small bundle over his shoulder and under his arm—a meagre collection of dried meat, some bread, and a leather water pouch. It was not much, but it was enough.
Lance was small, but in this moment, he was more than a child. He was a part of the war. He had always been.
The ground trembled beneath the weight of warriors as they moved toward the battlefield. Shadows flickered in the wavering light of dawn, armour glinting dully beneath a sky that had yet to choose between night and morning. The camp pulsed with the rhythm of war—hushed voices giving way to shouted orders, the scrape of weapons unsheathed, the low murmur of men steeling themselves for what was to come.
Lance stood at the edge of it all, dagger clutched tightly in his small hands. He had no place among the warriors who moved with grim determination. The battle was not his to fight. Not yet.
He took a breath, deep and steady, forcing his hands to still. Fear would not serve him. The others—men who had spent their lives on the battlefield—had told him as much. "Fear slows your feet. It makes you easy to kill." He had listened, learned, and tucked those words away like a secret. Fear had no place here, but survival did.
Beneath his worn shirt, the weight of rusted chainmail pressed against his small frame. It was too big in some places, too tight in others, a relic of a warrior long gone. It clung to him like a second skin, its links rough against his ribs, but it was better than nothing. A piece of armour, however broken, was still armour.
Behind him, the tent flap stirred. A small, shuffling sound followed, barely audible over the restless stirrings of the camp. Lance turned just as Javed stumbled sleepily into the cold morning air, rubbing at his eyes with small fists. The boy was younger, his face still round with traces of softness that war had not yet stolen. His boots, too large and worn at the soles, made quiet scuffs against the dirt as he shuffled forward.
Lance exhaled, a quiet flicker of frustration crossing his face before he crouched down. Javed blinked at him, still caught between sleep and waking, his breaths slow and deep.
"You shouldn't be up," Lance murmured, voice low.
Javed sniffed, shifting his weight. "You are."
Lance hesitated, glancing toward the battlefield. There was no time to send Javed back. The camp was already waking, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and burning wood. If the battle turned, Javed would be caught in the storm, just as he would.
"We need to be ready," Lance said, keeping his voice even. "Come with me. Stay quiet, stay low."
Javed nodded, wiping the last of sleep from his face. He trusted Lance—he always had. Without another word, he trailed behind as Lance pressed forward, slipping between the restless bodies of the camp, past warriors lost in their own quiet rituals. Some tightened the straps of their armour. Others traced fingers over weapons worn smooth by years of war. No one paid them any mind. They were too small, too insignificant to be a concern.
It was better that way.
Lance reached the edge of the camp and hesitated, casting a final glance over his shoulder. Fires burned low in the dim light, faces illuminated only in flickers. This was his home—or at least the closest thing he had to one. But a battlefield was no place for children, and if the tide of war shifted, they would need to move. Fast.
Turning, he pressed forward, feet light on the uneven ground as he made his way up the hill. Javed followed without a word, his small footsteps barely stirring the dirt. The wind carried the distant clang of metal, the guttural war cries of men eager to meet their fate. The enemy was preparing, just as they were.
As they climbed, the battlefield below stretched wider, revealing itself inch by inch. The land was scarred with old trenches and battered earth, a graveyard of forgotten battles. Soon, it would be filled again—men crashing together like waves, their cries swallowed by the chaos of war.
Lance reached the crest of the hill and crouched, the wind tugging at his thin tunic. Javed mimicked him, pressing low against the earth, his breath coming in quiet puffs of air. From here, they could see everything. The enemy's forces stirred like a restless beast, banners rippling in the wind. Their own warriors lined the opposite ridge, waiting for the moment to descend.
Lance's fingers instinctively brushed his arm, feeling for the small ring tied there. The rough knot of the fabric pressed against his skin, secure. He exhaled, reassured, before his grip tightened once more around his dagger fingers curling around the smooth, familiar hilt. He was not here to fight. He was here to survive.
The battle had not yet begun. But it would. Soon.