Gribul woke up to someone screaming outside.
"EVERYONE OUT! COMBAT POSITIONS!"
The voice was rough, ugly, and desperate.
Gribul didn't really understand what was going on. He just knew it was still dark and the ground inside the tent was cold.
He pulled the blanket over himself a bit more.
Maybe it was just a drill.
A prank.
One of those tricks the veterans play on the newbies.
But then he heard another sound.
BOOOOOOOOM
Something exploded.
Far away, but not that far.
"ARE YOU ALL DEAF? IT'S WAR! GET UP, CURSE YOU!"
Someone kicked Gribul's tent.
The canvas fell on top of him.
He screamed.
Not very loudly, just enough to sound like he was being strangled by a wet pillow.
When he came out, tripping over his own cloak, he saw the camp was in chaos.
Demons running.
Orcs shouting.
Someone's hair was on fire.
And a goblin looked like he'd fainted standing up.
"Gribul, run! Come with us!"
It was the stitched-face guy. He was laughing, as always.
Gribul ran.
Well… he tried.
His cloak got caught on a stake. He faceplanted.
Then got up, crooked, with a bit of mud in his mouth.
"The enemy's coming through the forest!" someone shouted.
"What enemy?"
"Elves!"
"Oh no…"
Gribul froze.
Elves were fast.
Beautiful.
Deadly.
And he…
He had a wooden spoon tied to his waist.
It wasn't even real. Rotten wood. The tip already half-eaten by termites.
"Formation, Bloody Vanguard Squad!" shouted Captain Gron.
"Let's show them why our name's so nasty!"
Everyone started banging weapons on shields.
Too much noise.
Gribul walked slowly.
Stayed at the back of the line.
Then pretended to tie his sandal.
Then pretended he lost it.
And finally, he discreetly slipped behind a bush.
It was a tall bush. Ugly. Prickly.
But it looked safe.
He curled up there, trembling.
Tried to breathe quietly.
Hoped no one would see him.
Hoped the war would pass quickly.
Hoped this was all a weird dream caused by spoiled mushrooms.
But then… a body fell from the sky.
Out of nowhere.
An elf.
With an arrow stuck in his neck.
He flew and landed right in front of the bush.
Blood gushed out like a cursed fountain.
And landed all over Gribul.
He screamed.
But it was a voiceless scream.
Came out like "hghlk!"
His eyes widened so much they looked like they'd fall out.
He tried to get up, but slipped in the blood.
Tried to grab the wooden spoon, but he was shaking too much.
There he stayed — collapsed, spoon broken in hand, cloak completely red.
That's how they found him.
Three soldiers came running.
Stopped.
Looked.
Went silent.
"He…" said one.
"Killed an elf?" said another.
"Alone?"
"My gods… look at him. In shock. Cold. Emotionless. A monster!"
Gribul tried to shake his head.
He wanted to say no.
He wanted to shout, "It was an accident!"
But his throat was dry.
And his mouth tasted like rust.
He tried to write in the dirt: "It was an accident."
But it came out crooked.
It looked more like: "Did it without mercy."
"He wrote this! 'Did it without mercy!'"
"Dude… so cold."
"This is the real Darkness Clan."
"A living legend."
Gribul didn't respond.
He was busy passing out.
---
When he woke up, he was in a large tent.
Cleaner than his.
With a good blanket.
And hot soup in a bowl.
He blinked.
Thought he'd died.
But then he saw a demon sitting beside him, smiling.
"Rested well, Silent Captain?"
"Cap… what?"
"Your name's spread through the whole camp.
The way you faced the elf, without saying a word.
How you stood there, covered in blood, staring into the void.
Cold. Ruthless."
Gribul blinked again.
"I fainted."
"Of course you did. Fainted to contain your inner rage. Very wise.
The others wouldn't understand."
He tried to stand.
Fell back down.
"Rest, hero. Tomorrow the general will call for you."
Gribul just wanted to leave.
Go home.
Fry mushrooms with his mom.
Sleep curled up with his smooth stones.
But now he was a legend.
By accident.
And without understanding a thing.