Second Life as a Soldier

We broke camp at first light, the mist still clinging low over the grass, turning the world into a gray, quiet blur. The wolves’ bodies were left behind, already drawing scavenger birds. We carried only the proof marks, a sack heavy with ears, their fur matted and stiff with blood. The smell was sharp even in the cold morning air. No one complained. Proof was currency in the army; everything else was work for the city watch.

Kestrel didn’t waste words.

“Form up. We’re moving east.”

We fell into our marching order without needing to be told twice. My shield arm ached from yesterday’s fight, the muscle in my forearm still tender from the constant jarring of impacts. The metal-tipped spear felt heavier than it had that morning, but it was familiar now, molded to my grip by sweat and strain.

The track wound east, the trees slowly thinning until the forest gave way to a rolling expanse of grass and low scrub. This was still wolf territory, but the air felt different here, not safer, exactly, but… claimed. Somewhere ahead lay Fort Darrow, thirty-five kilometers from Stonegate, the last major outpost before the wilds truly swallowed the land.

We passed old kill sites: the stripped bones of deer, the half-buried remains of something larger, its ribcage splayed like white fingers. Tracks crisscrossed the softer patches of earth, some fresh, others softened by rain and wind. Halvern muttered something about Tier 2 territory. I didn’t need the reminder. The further from Stonegate we marched, the more the signs told their own story, heavier paw prints, claw marks higher on tree trunks, scat that stank of meat and musk.

By late afternoon, we reached a smaller forward camp on the outskirts of Fort Darrow’s patrol range, a scatter of tents and a few storage wagons. Soldiers mended gear near the fire, others sat sharpening blades, their eyes flicking up as we passed.

Kestrel gathered us in a rough semicircle.

“For the next four days, you’ll work in small teams. Five to ten recruits per group, depending on the target. We’re hunting low to mid Tier 1 beasts, deer, foxes, and shadowcats. This is not about trophies. It’s about learning.”

He let the word hang there before continuing.“You’ll rotate teams daily. Each of you will lead at least once. You’ll track, you’ll stalk, and you’ll make the kill as a group. Your acting sergeants will participate, but they’re recruits like you. This is not a command to be spoon-fed; you’ll make decisions. Mistakes will happen, and that’s fine… as long as you learn.”

Lela raised a hand. “Why not hunt closer to the fort? Wouldn’t that be safer?”

“Closer to the fort,” Kestrel said, “Tier 2s dominate. And as you’ve seen, a Tier 2 beast isn’t just stronger, it’s smarter. Not something a group of unawakened could handle.”

My first team was eight strong, Halvern among them. Our task: track and bring down a small herd of deer grazing in the low scrub.

The tricky part wasn’t the kill; it was getting close without spooking them. We moved in a staggered formation, two recruits ranging ahead to mark wind direction and ground cover. I stayed near the center, spear in hand. It felt strange after weeks of formation drills, but the spear’s reach worked well for hunting too.

We tracked the herd for over an hour, crouching low whenever the lead doe raised her head. When the signal came, we fanned out, cutting off the escape routes. Halvern lunged first, his spear taking the doe through the side; the rest scattered, but one younger buck bolted straight into our waiting flank. The kill was quick.

As we dressed the carcasses, I remembered something from the library, Tier 1 beasts were often described as “pure of form,” meaning their bodies were unshaped by elemental affinities. No frost-bitten fur that hinted at ice in their veins, no ember-hot scales that carried the heat of a forge, no unnatural speed born from muscles touched by the wind itself. Just flesh and instinct.

But as they climbed tiers, they changed. Signs of elemental affinity sometimes appeared as early as Tier 2, a faint glimmer in the eyes, a shift in the fur, an unusual resistance to heat or cold, but it was only the beginning. At Tier 4, the transformation was complete, the mana within them crystallizing into a core much like a human’s or beast-kin’s. That was when affinities fully manifested, and the difference was more than skin-deep.

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That was when a wolf could become a Frostmane, its coat pale as snowdrift and its breath cold enough to freeze a man’s face before the fangs ever found flesh. It was when a panther could grow into a Gale Panther, its body lean and taut, each leap propelled by a burst of wind like a storm gust made flesh. The humble salamander might swell into an Embercrest, its scales glowing with the dull red of a banked hearth, each flick of its tail scattering sparks. And the shadowcat’s kin could birth a Graveclaw Lynx, its fur dull as ash and its claws carrying the rot of grave-soil, a single scratch enough to turn living flesh black within hours.

The next morning, my team shrank to five. Our target was a den of foxes that had been raiding supply wagons.

They were quick, clever, and aggressive. One darted straight at my legs when we flushed it from cover, teeth bared. My spear glanced off its shoulder, buying enough time for another recruit to land the killing blow. Two slipped past us into the brush.

Kestrel’s debrief was blunt: “You won’t win them all, but you can learn why you failed. That’s the difference between a soldier and bait.”

In the library, I’d read that foxes almost never gained elemental affinities, but when they did, they became nightmare tricksters. One story spoke of a Whisper-Fang, an air-aspected fox that could vanish from sight between heartbeats. Another told of a fire-tinged Cinder-Pelt that lured hunters into dry grass before igniting it. I was glad these ones were only teeth and speed.

The shadowcats came on the third day.

Their striped pelts melted into the undergrowth. We found one trail, then another, until we realized we were being tracked as much as we were tracking them. The first charge came from the flank, a blur of muscle and claws. Our lead recruit went down hard, his shield arm shredded before he could bring it up.

The fight lasted less than a minute, a shield block, two quick thrusts, and the cat collapsed, still twitching.

As we patched the wounded man’s arm, I thought again of their higher-tier cousins. A Graveclaw Lynx could turn that single slash into a death sentence within hours. Tier 4 beasts weren’t just stronger, they carried the weight of the elements themselves.

The final day was meant to be a mix of everything we’d learned, but the forest had other ideas. The deer trails we found were cold, the prints softened by rain. A fox darted across our path at one point, but it was gone before anyone could get within striking distance.

By midday, the signs of game had thinned to nothing. The land felt quieter here, the kind of quiet that made you wonder who was watching. With little to show for the morning’s work, we turned our steps toward Stonegate. We made it halfway before Kestrel called the halt, leading us to a narrow clearing where the trees cut the wind.

Camp that night was subdued. The fire was small, the meat rations thin, and most of us turned in early. I lay awake a while, listening to the slow crackle of the fire and the occasional snap of a branch in the dark.

At first light, we broke camp for the final march home. The air was colder now, the ground silvered with frost in the shadows. The thought of Stonegate’s walls and the smell of hot food pulled us on, step by step, until the gray of the forest finally gave way to the distant rise of the city.

By the time we turned toward Stonegate, my body was tired in a way training never touched. This wasn’t the sharp ache of drills, but a deep weariness from days of moving, stalking, and staying alert.

My mind, though, felt sharper. Every page I’d read in the library on predator territories, feeding habits, and migration patterns now had weight. I understood why Tier 1 beasts rarely had affinities near the city; they simply didn’t live long enough in the safe zones to develop them. But further out, where elemental mana gathered in rivers of invisible power, beasts climbed higher. And in the deep wilds… there were rumors of Tier 8. Beasts so old and steeped in mana they were more elemental than flesh. A Storm-Heart Roc that nested above the world’s highest peaks. A Magma-Tusk said to sleep in the roots of the Great Volcano. A leviathan in the abyssal trench whose name no one dared speak.

We sighted Stonegate’s walls on the sixth day, the sun bleeding low and red into the horizon. Inside, the noise of the streets felt alien after the hush of the wilds.

Kestrel called us together one last time.

“You’ve had a taste now. Beasts don’t fight like men. They don’t care about honor or rules, they care about survival. The higher their Tier, the sharper their mind. A Tier 2 will test your formation. A Tier 3 will try to break it. And when you face what lies beyond that…” He let it hang. “Some of you will end up posted near Fort Darrow. Out there, Tier 2 is routine, Tier 3 not uncommon. Your lives will depend on what you learned this week.”

His gaze swept over us, pausing on me and Halvern. “Discipline keeps you alive. The wrong move doesn’t just kill you, it kills the ones beside you. Never forget that.”