Herald of death

Sylas stands in the shadows of the garrison, watching as young soldiers form three groups of nine in the center of the yard. His heart pounds, and a knot of anxiety tightens in his stomach at the thought of meeting them. Beside him, Captain Cassandra Emberlain sips from a steaming cup while her eyes scan a parchment.

"What’s that? It smells nice," Sylas asks, his curiosity piqued.

"This?" Cassandra replies without lifting her gaze. "It’s coffee. Made from roasted and ground beans. Keeps you awake, and soon enough, you'll probably be hooked on it."

As three men emerge from the barracks to join the formations, they bark orders at the recruits, adjusting their stances with precision. Each young soldier clutches a spear and a kite shield, their bodies clad in gambesons and helmets that cover their heads, cheeks, and noses. The men shouting instructions wear more elaborate armor: chest plates and chainmail over their gambesons, with iron greaves on their legs and short swords at their belts.

"Those are your Corporals," Cassandra explains, her voice steady. "They'll manage the troops on the battlefield and handle their daily duties. The Men-at-arms should report to them first and only come to you when absolutely necessary."

Sylas glances down at himself, feeling out of place with just a longsword at his hip. Unlike the others, his armor includes thick leather shoulder pads, gauntlets, a brassard, and cuisses. A blue cape, embroidered with his rank—a sea serpent above three golden Vs—drapes over his shoulders.

"I still think I should be properly trained before taking command of any troops," Sylas confesses, unease creeping into his voice. "Wouldn’t that be better?"

Cassandra finishes her cup, her expression unchanging. "Experience is the best teacher. Besides, you won’t be alone. Another Sergeant will shadow you to make sure you’re properly trained."

"And who will that be?" Sylas asks.

"Hi," a voice chimes in, startling Sylas. He turns to see a young woman with golden hair cascading down her shoulders, her blue eyes sparkling with a mix of confidence and mischief. She extends her hand. "I'm Liliana Eirlys, pleased to meet you."

Sylas blinks, momentarily caught off guard by her striking appearance. Her leather armor accentuates her athletic build. The blue cape on her shoulders adds a touch of elegance to her otherwise practical attire.

He hesitates, then takes her hand, his grip firm but slightly trembling. Cassandra’s subtle smile doesn’t escape his notice before she returns to her neutral demeanor. "Pleased to meet you as well, Sergeant Eirlys," he stammers, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Liliana’s fine," she says with a light laugh. "We’re equals, after all."

Sylas nods, his heart still racing. He swallows hard, searching for his voice amidst the swirl of emotions in his mind. "Liliana it is, then," he manages, trying to keep a manly voice.

"Don’t worry," Cassandra adds with a teasing tone. "Liliana’s one of our best. Trained since childhood to lead troops and fight alongside them. You’re in good hands."

Liliana gives a modest shrug, but pride flickers in her eyes. "I've been through my share of dungeons and fights," she admits, her gaze shifting to the soldiers in the yard. "But I'm here to help you. We’ll get you up to speed in no time."

Sylas takes a deep breath, straightening his posture. "I’m just a Blacksmith," he confesses, his stomach twisting with the fear that his honesty might be met with disdain.

"I know," Liliana replies with a reassuring smile. "I’m not a Warrior or anything of the sort either. Don’t doubt yourself—abilities can be bought."

Relief washes over Sylas though his heart continues to race. Cassandra hands him another parchment, detailing the names and roles of the soldiers assembled before him.

As Liliana steps forward, her smile fades into a serious expression. The soldiers straighten, a hush falling over the yard. Cassandra nudges Sylas forward, and he moves to stand beside Liliana. He feels the weight of the soldiers' stares, assessing him with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. Sylas can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t belong here, that he’s an outsider in this world.

Liliana’s voice rings out, commanding the soldiers' attention. "Listen up!" she calls, her tone sharp and authoritative. The soldiers snap to attention. "This is Sergeant Hartwell. You will respect him as you respect me! I trust you all understand the consequences of disobeying one of us."

Sylas exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, feeling the knot in his stomach loosen slightly. He forces himself to meet the soldiers' eyes. They no longer glare at him with disdain but look ahead, waiting for orders.

"Adding the Leadership skill. Based on your previous experience a level of 0 has been applied," the system announces. Sylas restrains a smile as he realizes every soldier before him must have a higher leadership level than him. "Leadership leveled up."

Sylas stands there, still grappling with the reality of his new role. A mix of relief and amusement fills his mind as the system's announcements echo in his mind.

Liliana glances at him, offering a subtle nod of encouragement. Sylas turns to the soldiers. "I’m not here to tell you how to do your jobs," he begins, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "I’m here to learn from you, and I hope we can benefit from each other's skills."

A tense silence follows, stretching out painfully long. Sylas’ heart pounds, his vision blurring at the edges as he waits for a response.

Finally, one of the corporals, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, chuckles. He locks eyes with Sylas, and for a moment, Sylas fears the worst.

The corporal nods. "Understood, Sergeant," he says, his voice rough but respectful. The other soldiers nod in agreement.

"Leadership leveled up, Leadership leveled up, Leadership leveled up, Leadership leveled up," the system announces.

"All right, let's not waste any more time," Liliana commands, her voice strong. "Sergeant Hartwell and I will be joining today's training. I expect nothing less than your best!"

The soldiers respond with a unified shout, their voices echoing off the garrison walls. As the drills begin, Sylas stays close to Liliana, closely observing her movements and commands. Despite his unease, he can’t help but admire her commanding presence.

"Leadership leveled up (x5), Melee Weapon (Spear) leveled up (x10), Shield (Kite) leveled up (x10)," the system announces as the training progresses. Sylas surprises himself with his stamina, barely winded while the soldiers around him pant heavily. While he didn't have to use Endurance, some are collapsing from exhaustion.

"In formation!" Liliana orders. The soldiers scramble to their feet and reform into their three groups. "Tonight, say your goodbyes. Tomorrow, we march north to Alderwood Grove, where you’ll complete your training and serve your people."

Sylas feels a sharp pang in his chest at her words. As he looks over the soldiers, he notices their determination, though one face stands out, etched with stress and worry. The familiar burn of anxiety resurfaces in Sylas' stomach, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

"Dismissed!" Liliana commands. The soldiers disperse, some heading to the barracks, others leaving the garrison. She approaches Sylas with a smirk. "Don’t be late tomorrow, or I’ll drag you out of your home myself."

As Liliana exits the garrison, Sylas stays rooted in place, absorbing the gravity of her words. The realization that she sent him into danger in a single sentence dawns on him. After a moment, he shakes off the lingering dread and heads back home.

As the sun sinks below the horizon, Sylas hears a knock at his door. He lives in a modest apartment above the forge, a space rented to him by Edgar. When he opens the door, Edgar stands there with a basket in hand. "Please, come in," Sylas invites him.

"You probably aren't in the mood to celebrate tonight, but I thought you'd still appreciate a good meal," Edgar says, stepping inside. His basket is filled with a bottle of wine, fresh salmon, potatoes, herbs, and butter. He hangs his coat on a nearby hook and sets the basket on the kitchen counter. "I'm sorry for what you're going through."

"How did you find out?" Sylas asks, adding logs, sticks, and dry moss to his furnace before striking a flame. "I've been thinking all afternoon, and I suppose it was inevitable. From the moment I set foot in this city, I exposed myself to those people."

"I still have friends in the guard," Edgar replies, taking out a knife to scale the salmon. "Could you cut the potatoes into small chunks?"

Sylas peels the potatoes effortlessly before chopping them into cubes. Edgar gestures toward the herbs, and Sylas season the potatoes with crushed, fresh peppercorns, mustard, and garlic.

Edgar sets two cast iron pans on the furnace, throwing in unhealthily large chunks of butter. Sylas chuckles at the sight before adding the potatoes to one pan as Edgar lays the salmon in the other. The rich aroma soon wafts through the air, drawing curious sniffs from passersby outside Sylas' windows. They set the table with plates, cutlery, and glasses before Edgar pours them both a generous glass of wine.

"I’ve been drafted myself," Edgar begins, causing Sylas' heart to skip a beat as he wonders if it happened today. "It was four decades ago, and I was only a little older than you."

"That would make you nearly sixty, yet you look like you're in your thirties. Not exactly on the brink of death," Sylas remarks, flipping the salmon. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude."

Edgar chuckles. "Oh, I don’t have long left; that’s true. I already have great-grandchildren," he jests. "My service lasted a year, and though I was mostly in the rear, repairing their broken gear, I saw things that still haunt me."

"I’d rather you lied to me," Sylas admits, his heart sinking as he stirs the potatoes, ensuring each piece turns to the unfried side.

Edgar sighs heavily. "I wish I could, Sylas. But the truth is, war changes a man. It takes something from you that you can never quite get back."

Sylas glances at Edgar, noticing the shadows under his eyes. "I’m not strong enough for this. I’ll probably freeze again the moment an enemy charges at me—it’s happened before. When I saw the eagerness of the kids they assigned me, I couldn’t understand it. How can anyone be happy at the thought of walking to their doom?"

"I was like them once," Edgar says softly. "They grow up hearing stories of great heroes and dream of becoming one themselves. I guess you never heard those stories, given your circumstances."

"No, I didn’t," Sylas replies as he dresses the food onto their plates.

"Alchemy (Cooking) leveled up," the system announces as they sit. They eat in silence, the meal melting on their tongues, the white wine enhancing each bite.

"You haven’t forged yourself any gear," Edgar observes as he finishes his plate. He nods at the sword resting against one of the walls. "That sword is standard issue for the guard; it won’t suit you."

"It’s not like I can just swap my equipment," Sylas replies, polishing off the last of his salmon.

"You can," Edgar counters, locking eyes with Sylas. "They call it personal additions. As long as it’s your own, you can use it—unless a commanding officer says otherwise. It was common in my time, and today, no noble would send their sons out in standard gear."

"If I had known, I would’ve made this armor heavier. I need a thicker chest plate, a helmet with a visor, and all the leather parts should be replaced with iron. As for my weapon, it should be heavier. And if I had the money for pure Ether crystals, I’d enchant it well."

"Get some rest tonight," Edgar advises as he carries the plates to a bucket of dirty dishes. "You’ll need your strength for the days ahead—the Alderwood Grove is quite a journey." The mention of his destination surprises Sylas, as Edgar shouldn’t have known. Edgar retrieves his coat and heads to the door. "But if you can’t sleep, I suggest you work on that sword."

"Good night, and thank you for the meal," Sylas says as Edgar closes the door behind him. He sighs at the sight of the dirty dishes, muttering to himself, "If I don’t clean this now, it’ll turn into a monster by the time I get back… if I return."