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Eight months.
Eight long months under Commander Dave 5678.
Eight months of swallowing my pride, of standing at attention while a man who once looked up to me now barked orders over my head.
And yet—eight months of sharpening my blade, my patience, my resolve.
The barracks had changed. The men whispered less now. At first, every step I took, I felt their eyes on me—mocking, doubting, pitying. But battles changed that. Patrols changed that. My work spoke louder than their whispers.
Tonight, the campfire cracked as we settled after another drill. Dave stood, chest puffed, giving one of his endless speeches about discipline and loyalty. The men nodded, but I caught a few glances—glances that shifted toward me. Not with pity anymore. With something different.
Respect.
When Dave dismissed us, one of the younger soldiers, barely eighteen, whispered to me as we passed:
"Lieutenant… truth be told, you should be in his place."
I silenced him with a glare, but inside my chest burned.
Eight months had taught me something vital: my demotion wasn't my end—it was my crucible. I was being tempered. Soren knew it. The King knew it. Even Amara, perhaps, knew it.
And now, word was spreading. A new campaign was stirring. Rumors of a foreign incursion against the Blackwood borders. The type of war where ranks could shatter and new leaders could rise overnight.
As I lay in my bunk that night, I clenched my fists.
Eight months had passed.
My time was near.
I whispered to myself in the darkness:
"They may have taken my title. But they cannot take my destiny."
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