The Army
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Part 15
Darion stood rigid as the recruitment officer finished jotting down his name. The veteran, with his weathered face and stern gaze, gave him a cursory glance.
"Darion," the officer repeated, the name sounding foreign in his gravelly tone. He shifted his attention to Lira. "And you?"
"Lira," she said, her voice firm.
The officer raised an eyebrow. "It's rare for a girl to sign up. You sure you know what you're doing?"
"I'm not here to be coddled," Lira replied, her tone sharp.
The officer grunted. "We'll see if your actions match your words." He handed them their assignments. "Training starts at dawn. Don't be late."
The next morning, Darion and Lira joined the line of new recruits at the break of dawn. The training yard was vast, a muddy expanse lined with wooden dummies, practice weapons, and a makeshift arena. Shouts and groans filled the air as the recruits were thrown into grueling drills.
From the start, Darion pushed himself harder than the others. He woke before dawn to practice sword strikes and stayed late into the night to study battle formations. Each blister, bruise, and ache reminded him of why he was here—why he couldn't afford to fail.
Lira trained with equal intensity, though her approach differed. Where Darion relied on raw strength and determination, she used precision and strategy. Her skill with a bow quickly earned her recognition, and it wasn't long before the instructors began to pair her with Darion for drills.
"Looks like we're stuck with each other," Lira teased one afternoon after a particularly grueling sparring session.
"Could be worse," Darion replied, a small grin breaking through his exhaustion.
Their bond deepened as the weeks passed. Late at night, after the others had fallen asleep, they would sit by the dying embers of the barracks fire, whispering about their dreams and fears.
"Do you ever think about leaving all this?" Lira asked one night, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire.
Darion shook his head. "If I leave, I have nothing. At least here, I have a chance to make something of myself—to make things better for my mother."
Lira nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Then I'll stay too. Someone's got to keep you out of trouble."
Their training continued, and soon, Darion began to outpace the other recruits. He had a natural talent for leadership, and his instructors took notice. He was tasked with overseeing small groups during drills, a responsibility rarely given to someone so new.
It was during one of these exercises that he first encountered Cyrus.
The rebel king arrived unannounced, his presence commanding attention. He wore simple yet finely made leather armor, a stark contrast to the grand robes Darion had imagined. His eyes were sharp, taking in every detail of the training yard as he spoke quietly with the officers.
Darion didn't notice him at first, too focused on leading his group through a mock battle. It wasn't until the drill ended and the recruits lined up for inspection that Cyrus approached.
"You're Darion," Cyrus said, his voice low but steady.
Darion looked up, startled. "Yes, sir."
Cyrus studied him for a long moment, his gaze piercing. "You fight like someone with a purpose. Why are you here?"
Darion hesitated. "To protect what matters to me."
Cyrus smirked, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Good. We'll see if you're as strong as you think."
From that day forward, Cyrus took an interest in Darion, though the young recruit didn't fully understand why. He was given assignments that pushed him to his limits—delivering urgent messages across dangerous terrain, leading small patrols through hostile territory, and eventually, carrying out tasks that tested his moral boundaries.
One of these tasks stood out: a raid on a group suspected of hoarding food and supplies. Darion led the mission with precision, but when they arrived, he discovered the "hoarders" were a group of desperate families.
"We'll starve without this," an elderly woman pleaded as Darion's soldiers gathered the supplies.
Darion hesitated, his hands clenching into fists. He wanted to leave the families enough to survive, but the orders were clear. Reluctantly, he obeyed, the guilt weighing heavily on him as they returned to the camp.
That night, he sat alone by the fire, his head in his hands. Lira found him there, her expression soft with concern.
"You're not okay," she said, sitting beside him.
Darion shook his head. "What if we're not the good guys, Lira? What if… what if all of this is wrong?"
Lira placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're not wrong to question. But if you stop now, who will protect the people who need it most?"
Her words stayed with him, though the doubt lingered.
Over time, Darion's reputation within the army grew. Cyrus continued to watch him from the shadows, testing him, pushing him further. And while Darion didn't yet know the truth about his lineage, he began to sense that his life was part of something much larger.
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Part 16
Darion's first major assignment came unexpectedly. He had just completed his morning drills when an officer approached, his expression grim.
"You're leading a patrol tonight," the officer said, thrusting a folded map into Darion's hands. "There's been trouble near the western farms. Bandits, they say. You're to secure the area."
Darion nodded, hiding his surprise. "Yes, sir."
The patrol was small—just six soldiers, including Lira. As they rode through the moonlit countryside, Darion felt the weight of command pressing on his shoulders. The recruits looked to him for guidance, their trust evident in their expectant gazes.
When they reached the farms, it was eerily quiet. The fields stretched out like a sea of shadows, the occasional whisper of the wind breaking the silence. Darion signaled for the group to dismount and proceed cautiously.
The first attack came swiftly—a flash of steel, a cry of alarm. Bandits emerged from the darkness, their faces obscured by scarves and their movements wild and desperate. Darion reacted instinctively, drawing his sword and shouting orders.
"Form a line! Protect the farmers!"
The battle was chaotic, but Darion's clear commands and quick thinking turned the tide. Lira's arrows struck true, and the bandits soon scattered into the night.
As the dust settled, Darion approached one of the farmers, an older man with a trembling hand gripping a rusted pitchfork.
"Are you hurt?" Darion asked, his voice calm despite the adrenaline still coursing through him.
The man shook his head, his eyes filled with gratitude. "You saved us. We thought no one would come."
Word of the successful patrol spread quickly through the ranks. For many soldiers, Darion's ability to maintain composure under pressure and protect the innocent marked him as a leader worth following.
But not all assignments were as straightforward.
A few weeks later, Darion was tasked with quelling a protest in the city. The people were angry—food supplies had been diverted to the army, leaving many families to starve. Darion and his unit were ordered to "restore order," though the instructions were vague.
As they arrived in the bustling square, Darion saw the faces of the protestors—men and women, young and old, their eyes filled with desperation.
"We don't want trouble," an elderly woman said, stepping forward. "We just want to feed our children."
Darion hesitated. The anger in the crowd was palpable, but so was their pain. He turned to his soldiers. "Lower your weapons," he ordered.
"Sir?" one of them asked, confusion flickering across his face.
"I said lower your weapons," Darion repeated firmly.
He stepped forward, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. "I understand your frustration," he said, addressing the crowd. "And I promise to bring your concerns to those in charge. But please, disperse for now. Violence won't solve this."
The crowd murmured among themselves, and though some were reluctant, they eventually began to scatter.
That evening, Darion was summoned to Cyrus's chambers. The rebel king sat behind a large wooden desk, his expression unreadable.
"You disobeyed orders," Cyrus said, his tone cold.
"I prevented bloodshed," Darion replied, meeting his gaze.
Cyrus studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. "You have potential, Darion. But remember, a soldier's duty is to follow orders, not question them."
"Yes, sir," Darion said, though the words felt hollow.
Despite the reprimand, Darion's actions did not go unnoticed. Soldiers began seeking him out for advice, drawn to his calm demeanor and moral conviction. Among the common people, whispers of a young soldier who protected them spread like wildfire.
One day, after returning from another mission, Darion found a small group of recruits waiting for him near the barracks.
"We want to learn from you," one of them said, a young man with wide, earnest eyes.
"I'm not an instructor," Darion replied, surprised.
"Maybe not, but you're a leader," the recruit said.
Darion reluctantly agreed, and soon, informal gatherings began in the evenings. He taught them not just how to fight but how to think critically, how to adapt to challenges, and most importantly, how to stand by their principles even in the face of adversity.
Lira watched from a distance one evening, a faint smile on her lips. "You're building something here," she said when Darion joined her by the fire.
"I'm just trying to do the right thing," he replied.
"Sometimes, that's all it takes," Lira said.
As the weeks turned into months, the group around Darion grew. Soldiers from different units sought him out, and even some civilians began to view him as a symbol of hope. Darion, however, remained humble, focused on his duties while grappling with the growing tension between his loyalty to the army and his conscience.
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Part 17
The knock on the barracks door came late at night, sharp and deliberate. Darion, seated at a small desk with maps spread before him, glanced up as the door creaked open. A soldier stepped in, saluting briskly.
"The king has summoned you," the soldier said, his tone carrying an edge of urgency.
Darion rose immediately, his mind racing. Summons from Cyrus were not unusual, but the late hour suggested something out of the ordinary.
When he arrived at Cyrus's chambers, the rebel king was seated behind his desk, the room dimly lit by a single lantern. Papers and maps were scattered across the surface, and Cyrus leaned over them, his expression hard.
"Darion," Cyrus began without preamble, "I have a mission for you. One that requires… discretion."
Darion stood at attention. "What do you need, sir?"
Cyrus leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "There's a small village to the north—Glenmere. They've been withholding their grain shipments. Claim they've had a poor harvest, but my sources tell me otherwise."
Darion frowned. "You think they're hoarding?"
"I'm certain of it," Cyrus replied. "We need that grain to feed the army. If they won't comply willingly, you are to make an example of their leaders. Destroy the stockpiles if necessary. Let the rest of the kingdom see what happens to those who defy us."
The weight of the words settled heavily in the room. Darion's stomach twisted.
"With respect, sir," Darion began carefully, "if we destroy the grain, we risk starving the villagers."
Cyrus's eyes narrowed. "And if we don't, we risk starving the soldiers who protect this kingdom. Sacrifices must be made, Darion. Do you understand?"
Darion hesitated, the conflict evident in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. "Yes, sir."
---
The journey to Glenmere was tense. Lira accompanied him, her silence speaking volumes. When they arrived, the village was eerily quiet, the streets deserted. A few villagers peeked out from behind curtains, their expressions wary.
Darion and his unit approached the village square, where the elder stood waiting. The man was thin and frail, his hands clasped tightly before him.
"We've come for the grain," Darion announced, his voice steady despite the unease coiling in his chest.
The elder shook his head. "There's none to give. The harvest was poor this year."
"We've been told otherwise," Darion countered. "If you're hiding it, you're risking not just your lives, but the lives of everyone here."
The elder's shoulders sagged. "Please, sir. We've given all we could. What little remains is for the children. Take it, and they'll starve."
Darion's jaw tightened. He glanced at the barns and storehouses that lined the square, his mind racing. He couldn't ignore the orders, but the thought of leaving these people with nothing was unbearable.
"Search the buildings," Darion ordered his unit, his voice clipped. "But no unnecessary force."
The soldiers moved quickly, and within moments, they found small caches of grain hidden in the barns. It wasn't much—certainly not the hoard Cyrus had described.
Darion stood in the center of the square, his thoughts a whirlwind. He couldn't follow through with Cyrus's orders, not like this.
"Take half," he said finally, his voice firm. "Leave the rest for the villagers."
One of the soldiers hesitated. "But, sir, the king—"
"I'll handle the king," Darion interrupted. "Do as I say."
---
When they returned to the capital, Darion was summoned to Cyrus's chambers once again. The rebel king's gaze was sharp as Darion entered, his expression unreadable.
"You defied my orders," Cyrus said, his voice low and dangerous.
"I made a decision," Darion replied, his tone steady. "If we'd taken everything, the villagers would have starved. That's not the kind of kingdom we're fighting to build."
Cyrus leaned back in his chair, studying Darion. "You're bold, I'll give you that. But boldness without discipline is dangerous."
Darion held his ground. "Discipline without humanity is worse."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Finally, Cyrus waved a hand dismissively.
"Get out," he said. "But know this, Darion—your actions have consequences. Next time, I won't be so forgiving."
---
Despite the tension with Cyrus, news of what happened in Glenmere spread quickly. The villagers spoke of a soldier who had shown mercy, and even among the army, whispers began to circulate. More soldiers started seeking out Darion, drawn to his integrity and unwillingness to blindly follow orders.
"He's different," one soldier said to another. "Not like the others. He cares."
As Darion sat by the barracks fire that night, surrounded by a growing circle of recruits, Lira leaned over and whispered, "You're walking a dangerous line."
Darion met her gaze, his expression resolute. "Someone has to."