The First Step into War

The Western Guard Camp looms ahead, its wooden palisades sturdy but weathered, banners snapping violently in the wind. The faint scent of burning wood and oiled steel lingers in the air, mixing with the dust kicked up by soldiers moving about in tense, methodical precision.

This is not Velia.

Velia is a village—peaceful, slow, warm.

This?

This is a border outpost on high alert.

Elias and I exchange a glance as we step forward.

Then, together, we enter.

——

The first thing that greets us inside is movement.

Guards in dark blue and steel-coloured armour pass by in tight formations, some carrying supplies, others checking weapons. Horses stamp their hooves restlessly near a fenced-off area, their breath visible in the cool evening air.

A few wounded men sit against a stack of barrels, their bandages fresh but stained. The tension is thick, as if the entire camp is holding its breath, waiting for something.

A **soldier—broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, and sharp-eyed—**approaches, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

He squints at us. "You're not merchants, and you're definitely not guards."

Elias grins, spreading his arms. "Observant."

The soldier doesn't smile.

I clear my throat. "We heard about the Imp problem. We're here to help."

The soldier exhales sharply, tilting his head slightly. "Help, huh? You two mercenaries?"

Elias shrugs. "Something like that."

The soldier studies us for a long moment before jerking his chin toward the largest tent in the camp.

"If you're serious, talk to Captain Cliff (Western Guard Camp's Commander). He'll decide if you're worth his time."

Elias grins, nudging me. "See? We're moving up in the world."

I elbow him as we walk past.

——

The command tent is simple—functional, but commanding presence. The entrance is held open by thick wooden poles, the fabric rippling in the wind. Inside, a large map of the region stretches across a wooden table, weighted down by daggers and stones.

And behind it, standing tall, arms crossed, is Captain Cliff (Western Guard Camp's Commander).

His presence is immediate.

Broad-shouldered, clad in well-worn but well-maintained armour, a heavy sword strapped to his back. His eyes are sharp, the kind that have seen too much, calculated too much.

A soldier first, a leader second.

He watches us as we enter, his expression unreadable.

"New faces," he notes.

Elias salutes dramatically. "Pleasure to meet you, Captain. We're here for the Imps."

Cliff doesn't react.

He doesn't even blink.

Instead, he slowly shifts his gaze to me.

I clear my throat. "We've heard reports that the Imps have been more aggressive. We wanted to offer assistance."

A beat of silence.

Then—Cliff exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "You two have no idea what you're getting into."

Elias shrugs. "Probably not."

Cliff watches us for another long moment.

Then, finally, he turns toward the map, tracing a finger along a section east of the camp.

"There's been an increase in Imp raids along this road," he explains. "Merchants, scouts, even some of our patrols have been ambushed. We've held our ground so far, but something's changed."

Elias folds his arms. "Changed how?"

Cliff taps his finger against the map. "Imps aren't just attacking anymore. They're organizing."

I frown. "Meaning?"

Cliff exhales, rolling his shoulders. "Before, they were scattered—small packs, disorganized, easy to handle. But now? They're moving with purpose. They're hitting supply lines, retreating before we can retaliate, using tactics. And they've stopped fighting over scraps."

His gaze sharpens.

"They're stockpiling."

A chill runs down my spine.

Elias raises an eyebrow. "Stockpiling what?"

Cliff's jaw tightens. "Weapons."

Silence.

The implications settle between us, heavy and unspoken.

This is not random violence.

This is preparation.

Elias lets out a low whistle. "That's… concerning."

Cliff grunts. "Which is why we need all the help we can get."

I nod slowly. "Then we're in."

Cliff watches me carefully.

Then, finally, he nods. "Good."

He steps back, crossing his arms. "You'll report to Fergus Grez (Senior Sergeant, Western Guard Camp) for your orders. Prove yourselves, and we'll talk about bigger tasks."

Elias smirks. "Prove ourselves? What do we have to do, wrestle an Imp?"

Cliff does not smile.

Instead, he gestures toward the tent entrance.

"Get to work."

——

Fergus Grez (Western Guard Camp's Senior Sergeant) is a towering man with a scar cutting across his nose, his armour dented in multiple places—a sign of experience, not neglect.

He looks us over with mild scepticism, adjusting the heavy axe strapped to his back.

"You two the new recruits?" he grunts.

Elias shrugs. "Recruits, volunteers, unpaid interns—whichever you prefer."

Fergus snorts. "Unpaid, that's for sure."

I sigh. "What do you need us to do?"

He jerks a thumb toward a small group of soldiers sharpening blades near the campfire. "First, get familiar with the men. If you're gonna be fighting alongside them, you should at least know their names."

Elias smirks. "I like him already."

Fergus ignores him. "Second, you're on patrol duty at dawn. We'll see if you can actually handle a fight before throwing you into the deep end."

I nod. "Understood."

Fergus watches us for a moment, then exhales. "And third…"

He grins, cracking his knuckles.

"You two ever fight in formation before?"

Elias and I exchange a glance.

Then—simultaneously—

"Nope."

Fergus laughs, shaking his head. "Figures. Well, let's fix that before sunrise."

——

The night deepens, but there is no rest.

Training begins.

Weapons clash.

Tactics are drilled.

Elias grumbles under his breath, but there is something sharp in his eyes—a glint of realization, of understanding.

This is not a game.

These are not theoretical fights.

This is war, unfolding beneath the stars.

And when the sun rises?

We will be standing at its frontlines.