KIERAN POV
The practice dummy's head flew off and nearly hit Father's prize horse.
"Kieran!" My oldest brother Marcus thundered across the training yard, his face red as a tomato. "That's the third dummy you've destroyed this week! Do you have any idea how much those cost?"
I did know. Exactly twelve silver coins. I also knew Marcus spent fifteen silver last month on fancy wine he spilled all over the dining room. But pointing that out would earn me kitchen duty for a month, so I kept my mouth shut.
"Sorry," I muttered, picking up the dummy's wooden head. "I was trying that spin move you showed me."
"I never showed you that move because you're too clumsy to pull it off." Marcus snatched the dummy head from my hands. "Father wants you anyway. Something about the grain storage reports."
Finally. Something I was actually good at.
I jogged toward the manor house, ignoring Marcus's loud complaints to his friends about "the useless spare son." Being the youngest of three brothers meant I'd heard worse. Much worse.
The thing is, I didn't mind being the spare. While Marcus learned battle strategy and my middle brother Thomas studied politics, I got to manage the grain stores, check on farmers, and actually talk to regular people. That's where the real work happened anyway.
Father barely looked up when I entered his study. "The eastern farmers are complaining about tax rates again."
"Because the rates went up twenty percent last month," I said, setting my report on his desk. "But their harvest was down fifteen percent due to the early frost. They can't pay more when they're growing less."
"Then they should grow more." Father signed some paper without reading it. "The Church needs funds for the new cathedral."
"The Church already has three cathedrals."
Father's cold blue eyes finally met mine. "Are you questioning the Church, Kieran?"
My stomach dropped. Nobody questioned the Church. Not if they wanted to keep their lands, their titles, or their heads.
"No, sir. I'll tell the farmers to work harder."
"See that you do. You're dismissed."
I left before he could find something else to criticize. Thomas passed me in the hallway, barely nodding. He was seventeen—two years older than me—and already engaged to some lord's daughter I'd never met. Marcus was twenty-one and commanded a unit of soldiers. Meanwhile, I counted grain sacks and tried not to break training dummies.
The one bright spot in my boring life waited at the blacksmith's forge.
"Kieran Ashfeld!" Mira's voice rang out as I approached. She stood at the anvil, hammer in hand, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. Soot smudged her cheek, but her smile lit up her whole face. "Come to watch me actually accomplish something with a weapon?"
"Ouch." I clutched my chest dramatically. "That hurts worse than Marcus's insults."
"Good. You need tougher skin." She plunged a glowing horseshoe into the water bucket, steam hissing up. "Your brother was here earlier, complaining about you destroying property again."
"The dummy attacked first."
Mira laughed—a real, genuine sound that made my chest feel warm. She was the blacksmith's daughter, which meant Father would never approve of me courting her. Not important enough. Not noble blood. All the things that made her perfect in my eyes.
"Walk with me?" I asked. "I need to check the southern grain storage before dinner."
"Such romantic words," she teased, but wiped her hands and joined me.
We walked through the village, past the baker's shop and the weaver's stall. People called out greetings—to both of us. That was another thing Father hated. I was too friendly with "common folk."
"Do you ever think about leaving?" Mira asked suddenly. "Going somewhere else? Becoming someone different?"
"Every single day," I admitted. "But where would I go? I'm the spare son of a minor lord. No skills except counting grain and breaking training equipment."
"You're kind," Mira said softly. "That's a skill. A rare one."
Before I could respond, shouting erupted from the village square.
We ran toward the noise and found a crowd gathered around two men in crimson robes—Church missionaries. Their voices boomed across the square like thunder.
"Citizens of Caldris!" the taller missionary shouted. "Dark times approach! The orc savages from the northern mountains prepare for war! They've attacked three border villages, slaughtering innocent families!"
My blood went cold. Orcs? I'd heard stories about them—tall, gray-skinned monsters who ate human flesh and worshipped demon gods. But those were just stories to scare children.
"The Church calls all able-bodied men to defend our great principality!" the second missionary continued. "Conscription begins immediately! Every noble house must send their sons! Every village must send their strongest!"
The crowd erupted in panic. Women cried. Men shouted questions. Children clung to their mothers' skirts.
Mira grabbed my arm. "Kieran, conscription means—"
"I know what it means." My voice sounded distant, like someone else was speaking. "They're drafting us for war."
"Your father will send Marcus, right? He's the soldier. The trained warrior."
I wanted to believe that. But looking at the missionaries' hard eyes and remembering Father's cold dismissal in his study, I knew the truth.
Father would send me.
The spare son. The useless one. The one he wouldn't miss.
"Kieran?" Mira's voice cracked. "You're scaring me."
Before I could answer, a runner in Ashfeld colors sprinted into the square, heading straight for us. He bowed quickly, gasping for breath.
"Lord Kieran! Your father demands your immediate presence! He says—" The runner swallowed hard. "He says to pack your things. You leave for the war camp at dawn."
The world tilted sideways. Around us, the missionaries continued shouting about glory and duty and defending civilization. The crowd roared with fear and anger and confusion.
But all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart.
Mira's hand tightened on my arm. "No. No, there has to be a mistake."
"There's no mistake." My voice came out flat, dead. "He's sending me to die."
The runner shifted uncomfortably. "Lord Kieran, there's more. Your father said... he said if you try to run or hide, he'll have the blacksmith's family arrested for harboring a deserter."
I looked at Mira. Her face had gone pale.
Father wasn't just sending me to war.
He was making sure I couldn't escape.
The messenger continued, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "And sir... the Church missionaries brought execution orders. They're hanging deserters in the village squares. Starting tomorrow. They've already built the gallows."
In the distance, the sound of hammering began.
They were building my gallows right now.
Just in case I was stupid enough to run.