The air was thick with the acrid smoke of dying embers, the remnants of last night's fires from the village forge. In Beron Hollow, the mornings were often quiet, save for the distant cries of crows and the gentle hum of the river. But today, a different sound stirred through the air — the rhythmic pounding of boots and the echo of a distant war horn.
Dikun Silver stood by the crude wooden gate that marked the edge of his home. Beyond it, a dirt road stretched into the fog, winding its way towards the capital. On the weathered walls of the village tavern, a fresh poster was nailed — the royal sigil stamped beneath bold words:
"For King and Country. Enlist and Earn Honor. Glory Awaits the Brave."
A crowd had gathered beneath it, mostly men like Dikun — farmers, blacksmiths, and drifters. Some eyed the parchment with hesitation. Others, with hardened resolve. Dikun was among the latter.
"Still thinking of going, are you?"
The voice came from behind him. Dikun turned to see Jareth, the village blacksmith. His thick arms were folded, soot still smudging his sleeves. The older man had once been a soldier, or so the rumors claimed. His limp spoke of wounds earned in battle.
"I am," Dikun answered, though the words weighed heavier than he intended.
Jareth spat into the dirt. "And for what? A few coins? A uniform? You'll be another name forgotten on the battlefield."
Dikun's jaw tightened. "For my family."
The blacksmith said nothing, only giving a curt nod before limping away. Jareth's warnings did nothing to change Dikun's mind. His mother's frail frame and the growing emptiness of their pantry haunted him more than the fear of battle ever could.
---
The following day, the village square was filled with the banners of the royal army. A line of recruits stood before the registration table, the blue-cloaked officers taking down names. Behind them, armored soldiers watched with indifferent gazes.
"Name!" barked a grizzled officer with a scar running from his brow to his jaw.
"Dikun Silver," he replied, standing as tall as his lean frame allowed.
"Age?"
"Nineteen."
"Combat experience?"
Dikun shook his head. "None, sir."
The officer sneered, scratching the name onto the parchment. "Private Silver. Another farmer boy." He waved dismissively. "You'll learn soon enough."
A cold shiver ran through Dikun's spine. Private. The lowest rank in the army. It meant obedience. No authority, no voice. He would take orders from corporals and sergeants, men who'd likely see him as nothing more than fodder for the front lines.
As Dikun stepped aside, a wiry figure with sun-bleached hair grinned.
"Joran," the stranger said, extending a hand. "Guess we'll be bleeding together."
Dikun clasped it firmly. "Dikun."
"First time?"
He nodded.
Joran snorted. "Mine too. But I heard the pay's enough to fill a hungry stomach. That's good enough for me."
The two fell silent, watching the steady line of recruits. Some wore the determined scowls of men eager for battle. Others bore the dull eyes of those who had no other choice. Dikun knew which one he was.
---
The Road to War
Days passed, and the recruits were herded from town to town, their numbers growing with each stop. At night, they camped beneath tattered tents, the bitter cold biting through thin blankets. Joran, ever the talker, spun stories of city life and grand battles — most of which Dikun suspected were exaggerated.
"You ever seen a real knight?" Joran asked one evening, sharpening a dented dagger he had claimed from a passing merchant.
Dikun shook his head. "Only in the stories."
"Well, they're not all as noble as the bards say. My uncle worked for one. Bastard had a different 'code of honor' every week, depending on whose gold he took."
Dikun smirked. "And yet here we are, swearing loyalty to the same kind."
Joran shrugged. "Better than starving."
The conversation was interrupted by the distant sound of hooves. Riders approached from the west, their cloaks bearing the crimson crest of the king. The lead rider, a lieutenant with a hardened expression, dismounted and addressed the camp.
"On your feet!" he roared. "You're soldiers now. The rebels have taken the village of Redbrook. The king demands it be reclaimed. Prepare for battle!"
Dikun's stomach twisted. The stories of war had become a harsh reality.
---
Baptism by Fire
The morning sun barely crept above the hills as Dikun and the other privates stood at the edge of Redbrook. Smoke coiled from burnt cottages. The distant screams of villagers still echoed through the charred air.
"Shield wall!" barked the officer, his voice hoarse from years of shouting commands.
Dikun gripped his shield, the rough leather straps biting into his forearm. Joran stood to his right, pale but steady. The line advanced. Each step brought them closer to the rebel forces — figures clad in patchwork armor, their faces twisted in rage and defiance.
At the front of the formation, the sergeants and corporals roared commands. Dikun had been assigned to Corporal Isten, a burly man with a jagged scar across his forehead. Isten's voice carried over the chaos.
"Hold the line! Shields up!"
The first clash was deafening. Swords scraped against shields. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the chaos. Dikun's world shrank to the narrow space in front of him — the thrust of a spear, the desperate swing of a blade.
A rebel charged, his axe raised high. Dikun barely lifted his shield in time, the impact jolting through his body. He stumbled, his knees buckling, but before the rebel could strike again, Joran lunged forward, driving a dagger into the man's side.
"Stay up!" Joran shouted, his breath ragged.
Dikun scrambled to his feet, the fight raging on. He swung wildly, his sword finding purchase. The man fell, blood pooling at his feet. Dikun's hands shook, but there was no time to dwell on it.
"Form up!" Sergeant Deren's voice cut through the noise. He was a hardened man, a veteran of countless battles. Dikun obeyed without question, stepping into the shield wall once more.
The rebels broke. Some fled, others fell where they stood. When the last scream faded, the battlefield was silent. The victory was theirs, but the price was clear. Bodies lay scattered, friend and foe alike.
Dikun knelt, his breathing heavy. Beside him, Joran clapped a trembling hand on his shoulder.
"First battle," Joran muttered. "We lived. That's something."
But Dikun could not find the words to agree.
---
To be continued in Chapter 2: Baptism by Fire