Kingdom of Verdwryn

The wagon rattled down the dusty path, its wheels protesting under the weight of the recruits packed tightly inside. Michael sat near the back, his knees drawn up to his chest to accommodate the cramped space. The air inside was thick, a heady mixture of sweat, fear, and muted anticipation.

The men and boys around him were a motley assortment: farmers with calloused hands, blacksmith apprentices still bearing soot-streaked faces, and cobblers' sons who looked as though they'd never held anything heavier than a hammer. Most sat in silence, staring at the rough wooden planks of the wagon or the rolling countryside beyond. A few whispered of glory and heroism, their voices tinged with desperation more than belief.

Michael observed them quietly. His piercing blue eyes swept over the group, noting the way one man's hands trembled as he gripped a rosary, or how another clutched a small wooden carving—a keepsake, perhaps, from a family left behind. These were not warriors. They were men dragged from their lives to fill the ranks, like his father had been before Michael volunteered in his place.

At the front of the convoy, Captain Garren rode his warhorse with practiced ease. His weathered armor bore the dents and scratches of countless battles, and his stern face was set in a perpetual scowl. When the wagons paused to let the horses rest, Garren would dismount, pacing among the recruits like a hawk surveying a flock of sheep.

When his sharp gaze fell on Michael, he stopped. "You're the boy who stepped up for his father," Garren said, his tone carrying a mixture of skepticism and grudging respect.

Michael met the captain's eyes without flinching. "Yes, sir."

Garren snorted. "You think war's some grand adventure? A chance to make a name for yourself?"

Michael's expression didn't waver. "No, sir. I think it's dirty, brutal, and unforgiving. But it's necessary."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Necessary, is it? That's a fancy word for a farmer's son." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "War isn't glory, boy. It's the stink of blood and the screams of dying men. The only victory is surviving long enough to wish you hadn't."

The recruits nearby fell silent, the weight of Garren's words pressing on them like a stone. But Michael held his ground, his voice calm and steady. "I'll keep that in mind, Captain."

Garren studied him for a moment longer, then gave a curt nod. "We'll see if your resolve holds when the arrows start flying."

The military camp sprawled before them like a chaotic hive, alive with activity and noise. Smoke rose in thick plumes from the smithies, where blacksmiths hammered out swords, spearheads, and horseshoes. Sparks flew in bursts of orange and gold, dancing like fireflies in the dim evening light. The clang of metal on metal mixed with the rhythmic hiss of bellows, creating a relentless symphony.

Everywhere Michael looked, there was movement. Soldiers barked orders, recruits stumbled through drills, and messengers darted between tents with scrolls clutched tightly in their hands. Nearby, a medic's tent overflowed with the injured groans and screams punctuating the air as healers worked frantically to save lives. The stench of sweat, blood, and burning metal was suffocating.

Michael and the other recruits were herded off the wagons like cattle. A scribe recorded their names, ages, and villages of origin, his quill scratching furiously against parchment. They were given simple uniforms and assigned to tents, their belongings inspected for contraband.

Despite the chaos, there was a strange order to the camp. Verdwryn's military, for all its brutality, valued its recruits. These men were not cannon fodder. They were the future of the kingdom's defense, and the six months of rigorous training they were about to endure was proof of that. The seasoned soldiers were at the front lines, holding back the Zeranthian advance, while the recruits were shaped into something more than frightened villagers.

Michael was assigned to a tent with five other boys, all around his age. Most of them looked at him with a mix of curiosity and wariness. It didn't take long for them to notice how different he was. At twelve years old, Michael was tall for his age 165 centimeters of lean muscle, and carried himself with a composure that set him apart.

As the weeks passed, Michael's past life memories came flooding back. The drills, the discipline, the endless repetition it all felt hauntingly familiar. He remembered the grueling endurance tests, the weight of a rifle in his hands, the barked orders of drill sergeants. The faces of his old comrades flickered in his mind, their laughter and camaraderie juxtaposed with the hollow stares of those who didn't make it.

One night, as he lay on his cot, the memories became too vivid to ignore. He saw himself in another life, standing in a trench as artillery shells screamed overhead. The mud clung to his boots, the air thick with smoke and the acrid tang of fear. A comrade, barely older than himself, turned to him with wide, panicked eyes.

"Michael!"

The voice jolted him back to the present. One of his tentmates, a wiry boy named Eryk, was shaking him awake. "You were mumbling in your sleep," Eryk said, his brow furrowed.

Michael forced a smile. "Just a bad dream."

Eryk didn't press, but the look in his eyes said he wasn't convinced.

Captain Garren watched Michael from a distance, intrigued by the boy's natural leadership. During drills, Michael corrected his tentmates' stances, offering advice with patience beyond his years. He excelled in every exercise, outpacing even the older recruits.

One evening, as the recruits gathered around a dying campfire, an older soldier approached. He was broad-shouldered and scarred, his breath reeking of ale. "You think you're better than us, boy?" the man sneered, his voice slurred.

Michael looked up calmly. "No, sir. I'm just trying to help."

"Help?" The soldier spat on the ground. "You're nothing but a child playing at being a man."

The tension was palpable. When the soldier stepped closer, Michael shifted subtly, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet. The punch came fast, but Michael was faster. He ducked under the swing, pivoting smoothly to deliver a precise jab to the man's ribs.

The soldier staggered, clutching his side, but Michael didn't press the attack. He simply stood firm, his expression unreadable.

From the shadows, Captain Garren observed the scene with a faint smirk. "Maybe this boy's got more in him than I thought," he murmured.

As the camp settled into uneasy rest, Michael stood at the edge, watching the flickering lights of the forges and the glow of the distant fires. The memories of his past and the reality of his present swirled together, a constant reminder of what was at stake.

"War isn't glory," he whispered to himself. "But I'll survive it. I have to."