The wind howled through the mountain pass, carrying with it the cold scent of war. Trees bent with the force of the gusts, whispering secrets through rustling leaves. Beneath the overcast sky, a column of one hundred riders moved steadily forward — armored men wrapped in cloaks, blades strapped to their backs, eyes wary as they followed a boy no older than fifteen.
At their head, Kaelus rode silently. His black cloak fluttered behind him, his dark eyes scanning the ridgelines. His face betrayed no fear, only thought — constantly calculating, reading the terrain, assessing the men behind him. Though his shoulders were still lean with youth, there was steel in the way he sat his horse, and something more in the eyes: weight. Experience beyond his years. The quiet presence of someone who had lived more than one life.
Two days had passed since his father, Lord Kaelen, had reluctantly granted him command of this small detachment. A test, he knew — not just of his sword, but of his mind.
They were to root out a band of rebel soldiers — over 150 strong — that had entrenched themselves in the borderlands between the heart of Kaelen's realm and the newly conquered provinces. The nobles of those territories were meant to handle such insurgents, but these rebels had crossed the line — and Kaelen, ever the strategist, saw an opportunity. Not just to quell a threat, but to test the boy who would one day bear the weight of a crown.
Kaelus had been given no scout reports. No maps. Just the terrain, a hundred men, and his wits.
He turned slightly in his saddle as the column advanced. Behind him, the men rode in tense silence. Some kept their eyes on the trees, others flicked glances his way. He could feel their uncertainty — he was still a child to them, even if a two-star warrior. They respected his title, feared his lineage, but they had not yet trusted him.
That would change.
His gaze drifted to the boy riding just off his right flank. Darius Velan. Broad as a grown man, his hands like sledgehammers gripping the reins, but eyes sharp with clarity — the kind of eyes that saw patterns others missed.
Kaelus had first noticed him two hours into the march. The boy had walked his horse beside Kaelus's, silent for a long time. Then, in a voice quiet but firm, he'd asked, "If they're in the mountains, why not set an ambush in the ravine ahead? We could force them into a choke point if we feigned retreat."
Kaelus had blinked. Most men his age barely knew how to swing a sword without flinching. Yet here was a teenager — a blacksmith's son — speaking the language of generals.
Over the next day, Kaelus tested him, offering small strategic questions as they rode: how would you deploy archers in this terrain? What if the enemy had hidden reserves? Each time, Darius responded not with textbook answers, but with sharp, adaptive thinking.
By the time they reached the halfway point, Kaelus had made his decision.
Now, riding through the narrowing path of the ridgeline, Kaelus raised a hand. The column slowed.
He turned in the saddle. "Darius Velan," he called.
The boy pulled his horse forward. "My lord?"
"You'll take twenty-five men and hold this position behind the ridge," Kaelus said. "If they try to flank us, I want you ready to collapse on their position. Choose your own men."
A ripple went through the column.
Several older soldiers exchanged glances. One of them, a scarred veteran named Halric, muttered under his breath, "He's putting a child in command of a quarter of the force?"
Kaelus's voice cut through the air. "Speak up, soldier."
Halric blinked, caught. "Apologies, young master. Just… surprised."
Kaelus's gaze was calm. "You'll follow his orders as you would follow mine. If you doubt him, you're welcome to test him in sparring after we return. That is if your confident enough to stand against him"
Halric shut his mouth.
Darius didn't gloat. He simply nodded, turned, and began selecting his men.
Kaelus watched with a faint smile. The test was already working. The army wouldn't follow him because of a name. They'd follow him because he earned it.
That night, they made camp near a village nestled at the edge of the woods. The people there had fled — terrified, Kaelus learned, by raids that had burned their homes and taken their food. One old man wept at Kaelus's feet, kissing his boots. "Please, drive them out. They've taken my daughter…"
Kaelus clenched his fists.
This wasn't just strategy. This was his people. His future subjects. He wouldn't fail them.
He gathered his ten-man commanders, including Darius, around the fire. No maps, no intel, just a hand-sketched terrain outline Kaelus had carved with a dagger into the dirt.
"I've identified at least three terrain routes to the rebel camp," he said. "We'll split into three groups and surround them. No horns. No noise. We move at dawn."
Darius pointed to a path. "If we station archers here, they'll have elevation. Even if they fall back, they'll be exposed."
Kaelus nodded. "Good. You'll lead that flank. I'll strike the center."
No objections came this time.
Tomorrow, Kaelus would meet his first battle. Not with a silver spoon or a golden guard — but with grit, instinct, and men who would learn to follow him not because of blood, but because of fire.