Second Life as a Soldier

The night pressed heavy against the camp, broken only by the crackle of fires and the low murmur of tired voices. A few sentries stood in the glow of the wagons, one leaning too hard on his spear, another glancing back at the fire every few minutes. Little tells I couldn’t help noticing. My own grip tightened, eyes straining into the dark fields beyond.

Seven days on the road, and this was only my second night shift. Even after a year of training, a few expeditions outside the wall, and endless sentry drills, the dark still unsettled me. Out here, silence was pressure. Everyone asleep was depending on the line holding. One mistake from me, or the man at the next post, and something could slip through.

There were other sentries spaced along the wagons, but at my patch it felt like I was the only soul awake. The wind tugged at the grass, bending it in shifting waves that looked too much like something slinking low. Vines shivered against the trunks, but not always with the rhythm of the breeze. Even the ruts in the road caught my eye, shadows pooling in them like pits waiting to swallow movement whole. Training had taught me to read terrain, to notice the wrong kind of stillness, and that knowledge made every snap of a twig feel sharper, more deliberate.

So for my four hours, I kept [Guard Duty (C)] active. It drained me, but better to run low on mana than to miss a threat. Once the watch changed, I could rest easy, knowing another squadmate would take my place.

Just as I was busy with my thoughts, movement flickered at the edge of my vision, just beyond the reach of [Guard Duty (C)]. My gut clenched. Probably nothing, I told myself. Seven days on the road without a single attack, and a caravan this size should have been enough to scare off anything short of madness. Still, I took a few steps forward, probing the dark with my senses.

Then the warning struck, sharp and cold. In training, [Guard Duty (C)] had been a faint itch, just enough to keep me alert. Now it hit like a hammer, leaving no doubt. This was real threat. I opened my mouth to shout, and that’s when I saw them: two eyes gleaming in the dark like lantern glass. My blood iced over.

“Panther!” My voice tore across the camp as the shadow lunged from behind a tree. I barely raised my shield in time, the impact rattling my arm to the shoulder. Claws tore sparks from the steel edging, the wood creaking under the strain as I shoved back with all I had. Instinct took over, [Defensive Spearplay (C)] flared, my spear darting up in tight, practiced thrusts, forcing space between me and the beast.

It was fast. Too fast. My first strike glanced off, its hide tough and hardened like armor. A mid-tier Tier 1, not a fledgling, heavy-muscled, built to kill. It circled, tail lashing, and sprang again. I braced, shield forward, spear thrusting, each clash jarring my bones. My skill kept me alive, without it, the panther would’ve already torn me open.

Shouts answered my alarm. Boots pounded the dirt. Another spear jabbed in from my left, then a second from the right. The panther snarled, twisting, striking at all of us at once. We locked into formation the way we’d drilled, three shields forward, spears stabbing in rhythm. The beast shrieked, snapping at the nearest man, but the wall held. A veteran’s strike caught it deep in the flank. My own spear slid past its ribs, and with a final howl, it collapsed in the dirt.

I stood panting, shield arm numb, sweat pouring cold down my back. Around us, the camp was awake now, men shouting, sergeants cursing, torches flaring against the night. The panther twitched once, then went still.Staring at it, I couldn’t help but think: alone, it would have taken me twenty minutes or more to bring it down, if I survived at all. With every strike, it had tested my guard, and without the others, one mistake would’ve been the end.

My breath rasped loud in my ears until a hand clapped against my shoulder, firm but not unkind.

“Good job shouting, greenie,” one of the veterans said, patting my back as he and another man grabbed the carcass by the legs. “Carry on with your post. We’ll let the sergeant know it’s finished.”

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

I nodded, throat too tight for words, and tightened my grip on the spear. My shield arm still shook from the impact. Part of me wanted to collapse by the fire with the others, but duty was duty. I turned back to the dark, [Guard Duty (C)] still humming faintly in the back of my skull, sharper than before, every rustle setting my nerves on edge.

Scouts slipped past, melting into the trees with torches and bows to check if the beast had been alone. Their shadows stretched long in the firelight, then vanished into the black. I kept my eyes forward, forcing my breathing even, the memory of glowing eyes refusing to leave me.

The hour that followed dragged like a lifetime. Every gust of wind made my grip tighten, every snap of grass sounded like claws. But nothing came. When at last my relief arrived, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Off you go,” the man said, taking my place. I passed him a nod and staggered back into camp. A few veterans were already gathered by a fire, the panther’s hide stretched out near them, its dark fur catching the glow. One of them waved me over.

“Come on then, greenie,” he called, a grin in his beard. “Sit. You’ve earned a drink after that.”

I hesitated. Sixteen. Too young for ale back home, too young here too, maybe. But the memory of glowing eyes still clung to me, heart hammering, nerves raw. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt.

“Careful, greenie,” one man chuckled, wiry with a scar tugging at his jaw. “First sip and you’ll be on your ass. Happens to every pup.”

“Nah,” another said, a barrel-chested fellow with a broken nose, “this one’s steadier than he looks. Milk drinkers don’t stand their ground against a beast.”

Laughter rippled around the fire. Their voices were different, one sharp, one gravelly, one booming, but together they carried the same rough warmth.

My face heated, though whether from the flames or their words I couldn’t tell. “Thanks,” I muttered, setting my shield aside.

Only then did I realize I’d been clutching the spear like a lifeline. My fingers stiffly uncurled as I accepted the cup.

The ale burned going down, bitter and sharp, but the warmth spread quick in my chest. It was harsher than I’d expected, but welcome after the fight.

The bearded veteran slapped his thigh. “Ha! Look at that, the pup can swallow without choking. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.” He tore off a strip of meat from the carcass roasting on the fire and passed it over. “Eat. Beast meat’s worth more than its taste. Strengthens the body, helps with cultivation. If Fort Darrow has one blessing, it’s that they’re never short of it.”

I bit into the panther meat. Tough, gamey, but something richer beneath. My tongue couldn’t decide whether it liked it. “Hmm. First time eating panther. Leaves something to be desired.”

The scarred man barked a laugh, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “Don’t worry. The first bite always tastes like boot leather. By the third, you’ll swear it’s steak.”

The wiry one leaned back, smirking. “Don’t fill his head with lies. Beast meat’s always beast meat. Better than starving, worse than home cooking. You’ll get used to it.”

Their banter rolled on, voices overlapping. I kept quiet, just listening. In the firelight, I caught little things: the scarred man always rubbing his jaw when beasts came up, the wiry one tapping his foot like he couldn’t sit still, the bearded one’s eyes never leaving the dark past the flames. Old hands, every one of them.

I leaned forward. “What’s the Fort really like?”

The bearded man’s grin turned wry. “Mess. Commander’s Lord Alaric Darrow, royal knight. Captain in the royal army, runs it tight, has been at it for forty years. But the men? Different story. There are conscripts, prisoners trying to buy their freedom, and farmers dragged off the fields and handed a spear by their lords. Then there are commons like us, who signed for coin or bread. And a few trained lads, sharper than most, usually tied to a house. All thrown together and told to hold the wall.”

He tipped his cup. “Half the officers follow the Count, half follow nobles. Politics don’t touch us. We’re too low for scheming.”

He peered at me. “But you? You fight too clean for a farmer’s brat. Had training, didn’t you?”

“A bit,” I admitted. “Stonegate drills. Eleven months of marching and spear work.”

The scarred man snorted. “Figures. Too young to fight like that without someone drilling you. Most lads your age don’t know which end to stab with. You’re green, sure, but steadier than most.”

The broken-nosed veteran jabbed his cup toward me. “We signed for pay. Farms can’t feed us, debts on our backs. Soldier’s coin ain’t much, but it’s steady. Better in supply than frontlines, less teeth, less blood.”

“Aye,” the wiry one muttered, rubbing his knee. “And if luck hates you, you end up like us. Old, sore, and still marching.”

Laughter rolled around the fire, rough and easy. I found myself smiling with them.

The bearded man drained his cup and pushed to his feet. “Enough talk. March in the morning. Don’t drink too much, greenie. Sergeant won’t care if your head’s spinning.” He stretched, joints cracking, and wandered into the dark.

I handed back the cup and rose too, my head buzzing faintly from the ale. For the first time since leaving Stonegate, I felt almost welcome. Sleep came more easily that night.