Chapter 2: Baptism by Fire
The morning after the battle at Redbrook was eerily silent. Smoke still clung to the air, and the charred remains of the village stood like blackened skeletons against the rising sun. Dikun Silver trudged through the wreckage, his boots caked in mud and blood. The victory had been claimed, but it came at a steep cost.
The bodies of fallen comrades and rebels alike were being gathered. The survivors worked without words, their faces hollow. Sergeant Deren stalked the field, barking orders at the soldiers.
"Get those fires burning! We can't leave the dead to rot."
Dikun obeyed. His hands were raw from hauling corpses, but he said nothing. Among the lifeless, he spotted familiar faces. Private Orren, the young man who had spoken eagerly of returning home to his wife. Fenrik, who had laughed the night before around the campfire. Now they lay still, their eyes empty.
"First battle," Joran muttered beside him, his voice barely above a whisper. "Never thought it'd feel like this."
Dikun nodded. The stories of glory and honor rarely spoke of the lingering smell of death.
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The Weight of Survival
Later that day, the remaining soldiers gathered as Lieutenant Varlen addressed them. His chainmail gleamed despite the dried blood that stained his arms. A man hardened by war, Varlen's gaze held no warmth.
"We took Redbrook, but the rebellion is far from over," he declared. "Our next orders will come soon. Until then, you will clean this village and bury the dead."
No one protested. The fear of the next battle lingered in every man's mind.
Dikun and Joran worked side by side. Despite the horrors they had seen, a strange sense of resilience bound them. They had survived when others had not.
"You alright, Dikun?" Joran asked, breaking the silence.
"I will be," Dikun replied, though the ache in his chest told him otherwise.
They didn't speak further. In war, words were often unnecessary.
---
No Glory Without Struggle
The following days passed in relentless labor. Dikun's squad was assigned to fortify the burnt village, repairing crude barricades and digging trenches. Every task reminded him of the burden of his rank — Private, a title that held no authority, only orders to follow.
The corporals commanded their men with harsh precision, and Sergeant Deren's voice was ever-present, berating those who lagged behind. Dikun bore the brunt of the scorn without complaint. To question was to invite punishment.
Joran, however, was less tolerant.
"One more insult from Deren and I'll plant my fist in his face," he growled after a particularly rough day.
"And end up with latrine duty for a month?" Dikun shot back with a rare smirk.
"Better than listening to that bastard."
Despite the bitterness, there was a grim comfort in their friendship. In the trenches of war, bonds were forged stronger than steel.
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A Taste of Leadership
A week passed before the next battle call arrived. The rebels had regrouped, striking a supply convoy along the northern road. Lieutenant Varlen wasted no time in forming a pursuit.
"Every man is expected to fight," the lieutenant commanded. "No exceptions."
Dikun's squad was assigned to the vanguard. As they marched, the distant echoes of battle grew louder. The forest path twisted ahead, shadows flickering beneath the thick canopy.
"Stay sharp," Joran whispered. "They could be anywhere."
The ambush came swiftly. Arrows rained from the trees, striking down the leading soldiers. Cries of pain echoed through the ranks.
"Shields up!" the sergeants roared.
Dikun's heart pounded as he raised his shield. The rebels descended from the foliage, their ragged forms barely visible in the chaos. Blades clashed, and the forest erupted into war.
He fought without thinking, his sword meeting the crude weapons of the enemy. Every strike, every parry, was driven by instinct. But amidst the chaos, Dikun saw his fellow soldiers faltering.
"Fall back! Form a line!" Dikun shouted, though the words were not his to give.
Yet the men listened. Shield by shield, they tightened their formation. Joran stood beside him, blood staining his tunic.
"Hold the line!" Joran bellowed, echoing Dikun's command.
The rebels' assault wavered. Unable to break through the shield wall, they faltered. The soldiers pushed forward, driving the enemy back.
And then, it was over. The rebels fled into the shadows, leaving behind their fallen. The forest grew still once more.
---
Acknowledgment Without Reward
Back at camp, Dikun's squad tended to their wounds. Joran's arm was bound tightly, a crimson gash marring his shoulder. Despite the pain, he grinned.
"Not bad for a couple of farmers," he joked.
Dikun couldn't deny the rush of relief. They had survived once again.
Later, Sergeant Deren approached, his stern gaze fixed on Dikun.
"You took initiative," Deren growled. "That's not your place, Private."
"I only wanted to keep our men alive," Dikun replied, standing his ground.
Deren studied him for a moment before nodding curtly. "Next time, wait for orders. But… you did well."
It wasn't praise, but it was the closest Dikun would receive.
"Get used to it," Joran said, grinning as Deren walked away. "That's about as warm as he gets."
Dikun only nodded. There was no glory in war, only survival. And if he wanted to see the next battle, he would need to earn more than acknowledgment. He would need to earn their trust.
And so, Dikun Silver remained a Private — not yet a leader, but no longer just a name on a list. The road to becoming a general was long, and his journey had only begun.
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To be continued in Chapter 3: Bonds of Brotherhood