Kael's POV
The arrow missed my head by an inch.
I didn't have time to think. Tom yanked me sideways as another arrow shattered the wooden bench where I'd been sitting. Our wagon crashed through a river, water exploding over us, drowning out the screams of dying men.
When we finally stopped, twelve men were dead. Twelve out of fifty.
And we hadn't even reached boot camp yet.
"Out! Everyone out!" Commander Theron shouted, his perfect armor now splattered with blood. "Move!"
I stumbled from the wagon, legs shaking. Bodies floated in the river behind us—men I'd stood beside just an hour ago. Tom vomited in the grass.
"Who attacked us?" someone demanded.
"Orcish scouts," Theron said quickly. Too quickly. "They're everywhere. This is why we fight."
But I'd seen those arrows. Human-made. Human-fletched.
I opened my mouth to say something—
Tom's hand clamped over it. He shook his head desperately. Don't.
He'd saved my life twice in one day.
We marched the rest of the way in silence, thirty-eight survivors instead of fifty. The training camp appeared as the sun set—rows of tents, practice yards, and hundreds of men who'd arrived before us.
"Fresh meat!" someone called out, laughing.
"Boot Camp Nightmare" they called this place. I was about to learn why.
Morning came too early.
"UP! NOW!" A giant of a man stormed through our tent, kicking cots and throwing buckets of ice water. "I'm Sergeant Brutus, and for the next two weeks, I own your miserable lives!"
We scrambled outside, still half-asleep. The practice yard was packed with recruits—at least three hundred men.
"Swords!" Brutus roared. "Everyone grab a practice blade!"
I'd never held a sword in my life. The weapon felt wrong in my hands—too heavy, too long, too everything.
"Pair up! Basic drills!"
A massive recruit with a scarred face stomped toward me. This was Rodrick—a blacksmith's son built like a boulder.
"You're the bastard from Thornwood," he sneered. "Let's see what you got."
We hadn't even started when his practice sword slammed into my ribs. I went down hard, gasping for air.
"Get up!" Brutus yelled. "This ain't a tea party!"
I struggled to my feet. Rodrick kicked my legs out from under me. I ate dirt.
Laughter erupted around me.
"Again!" Brutus commanded.
I tried. I really tried. But Rodrick was faster, stronger, better. Every time I stood up, he put me back down. My body became one giant bruise.
"Pathetic!" Rodrick shoved me into the mud. "How'd you even pass the draft? Oh wait—your daddy's a lord. Bought your way in, didn't you?"
"I didn't—"
His boot caught me in the stomach. I curled up, gasping.
"ENOUGH!" Brutus pulled Rodrick back. "You—bastard boy. You're done for today. You'll never survive combat."
I limped away, every part of me screaming in pain. Tom found me behind the supply tent, trying not to cry.
"That was brutal," he said quietly. "Rodrick's a bully. He's been beating up smaller guys since we got here."
"I can't fight," I said miserably. "I'm going to die out there."
"Maybe. Probably." Tom sat beside me. "But hey, at least we'll die together, right?"
Despite everything, I almost smiled. "That's not comforting."
"I'm a farmer, not a priest. Comfort ain't my job." He offered me his water skin. "You read a lot, right? I saw books in your pack."
"Yeah. Military strategy, battle tactics, historical campaigns..." I trailed off. "Fat lot of good it does when I can't even hold a sword."
"Maybe. But brains beat muscle sometimes."
I wanted to believe him.
That afternoon, Brutus gathered everyone in the main yard. "Strategy test! The commander wants to see who's got a brain in their skull!"
He pointed to a huge map drawn in the dirt—valleys, rivers, forests, a fortified position on a hill.
"Scenario!" Brutus barked. "You've got two hundred men. The enemy has five hundred holding that fortress. How do you win?"
Silence. Men shuffled nervously.
A recruit raised his hand. "Frontal assault? Overwhelm them with courage?"
"You just killed all your men. Sit down." Brutus pointed at another. "You?"
"Um... wait for reinforcements?"
"They're not coming. Next?"
More wrong answers. Brutus grew more disgusted with each one.
Then his eyes landed on me. "You. Bastard boy. You've been quiet. Got an answer, or are you as useless with your brain as you are with a sword?"
Every eye turned to me. Rodrick smirked, waiting for me to fail again.
I stared at the map. I'd read about this exact scenario in The Campaigns of General Aldous. Chapter Seven.
"You don't attack the fortress," I said quietly.
"Speak up!"
"You don't attack it!" I stood, moving to the map. "The fortress is on a hill, yes, but look—the river flows from the mountains behind it. You take fifty men upstream at night, dam the river with rocks and logs. By morning, the fortress has no water."
Brutus's eyebrows rose. "Go on."
My confidence grew. "You send another fifty men to burn the forest on the eastern side. The smoke will blow toward the fortress, choking them. Make them think you're attacking from that direction. Meanwhile, your main force—one hundred men—circles around the western valley. When the fortress garrison is weak from thirst, blind from smoke, and looking the wrong direction, you hit them from behind. They surrender before you lose ten men."
Complete silence.
Then Brutus started clapping. Slow, deliberate claps that echoed across the yard.
"Well, well. The bastard's got a brain." He looked at the other recruits. "You all see that? That's strategy. That's why smart men survive while brave men die." He pointed at me. "What's your name?"
"Kael Thornwood, sir."
"Thornwood. I'll remember that." For the first time, Brutus smiled. "You might survive this war after all. Now sit down before I change my mind."
As I returned to my spot, I caught Rodrick's expression. Pure hatred.
I'd just made an enemy.
But when I sat down, Tom patted my shoulder. "Told you. Brains beat muscle."
That night, I couldn't sleep. My body hurt from Rodrick's beating, but my mind hurt worse. I kept seeing the arrows in the river. The blood message in the tower. THEY KNOW NOTHING.
Someone wanted me dead for what I knew.
"Can't sleep either?" Tom whispered from the next cot.
"Too much thinking."
"Yeah." He paused. "Kael... that ambush earlier. Those weren't orc arrows."
My heart stopped. "You noticed?"
"I'm a farmer. I know arrows. Made plenty for hunting." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Human arrows killed those men. Why would humans ambush their own draft?"
I wanted to tell him everything. About the murdered messenger. About Father's threats. About the conspiracy.
But telling him put him in danger too.
"I don't know," I lied. "War makes people crazy."
"Maybe." Tom didn't sound convinced. "But if someone's killing us before we even reach the enemy... we gotta watch each other's backs. Deal?"
He stuck out his hand in the darkness.
I shook it. "Deal."
"Good. 'Cause you're the only smart person I've met here, and I'm the only one who doesn't want to beat you up. We're a team now."
A team. The word felt strange. Good, but strange.
I'd never had a team before.
"Get some sleep," Tom mumbled, rolling over. "Tomorrow's going to—"
The tent flap burst open.
Sergeant Brutus stood there, torch in hand, his face grim. "Everyone up! Now!"
We scrambled out of our cots, confused and terrified.
"What's happening?" someone asked.
"Change of plans." Brutus's voice was cold. "The front lines need men immediately. Critical situation. We march at dawn—not in two weeks. Tomorrow. You've got four hours to say your prayers and write your goodbye letters."
Panic swept through the tent.
"But we haven't finished training!" Tom protested. "We'll be slaughtered!"
"Then you'll be slaughtered," Brutus said flatly. "War doesn't wait for training. The orcs are pushing hard, breaking our lines. Command needs bodies to throw at them." He looked directly at me. "Even smart ones die the same as stupid ones. Get your affairs in order."
He left us in stunned silence.
Around me, men started crying. Praying. Writing letters home.
Tom grabbed my arm. "Kael, we're not ready. We're going to die."
He was right. We'd had one day of training. ONE DAY. And now we were being sent to the front lines to be meat for the grinder.
But something felt wrong about this. Felt planned.
I looked at Tom. "When Brutus called out the schedule change, did you see his face?"
"Yeah, he looked grim."
"No," I said slowly. "He looked guilty. Like he knew something we don't."
"What do you mean?"
Before I could answer, a soldier ran past our tent shouting: "The Thornwood unit! Commander Theron specifically requested the Thornwood unit for the front lines! They're being sent to the worst position!"
My blood turned to ice.
The Thornwood unit. That was us—the thirty-eight survivors from the ambush.
The thirty-eight men who'd witnessed the attack by human arrows.
Tom's eyes widened with understanding. "They're sending us to die."
"Not sending us," I whispered. "Executing us."
Someone in the Radiant Shield didn't just want me dead. They wanted everyone who'd survived that ambush dead.
Because dead men tell no tales.
And in twelve hours, we'd all be standing on the front lines with our backs exposed.
The perfect battlefield "accident" waiting to happen.