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Chapter 16 - Whispers of Envy

The camp felt different the next morning. There was an edge to it, not just from fatigue but from something intangible—respect. Men nodded when Alexander passed, some subtly shifting to make way for him in crowded paths between tents.

It was strange. Yesterday he'd been another junior officer trying to keep twenty men alive. Today, he was the man who held the flank with fifty and pushed back raiders without losing a single soldier.

Lionel, as usual, noticed first. "Look at that," he whispered, falling in step beside him. "You're a celebrity now."

"I'm not," Alexander muttered.

"Sure you are," Lionel said, grinning. "Next thing, they'll be asking for your autograph on their shields."

Garrick snorted behind them. "If he signs shields, they'll just use them as firewood when the paint peels."

"Funny," Alexander said dryly, but there was a faint smile on his face.

Darian's Approach

Darian caught up, helmet under his arm. He looked at Alexander for a long moment before speaking. "That was good work yesterday. Better than I expected."

Alexander raised an eyebrow. "Better than you expected?"

"You know what I mean." Darian smirked faintly. "Most first-time commanders freeze. You didn't. You adapted."

Alexander studied him carefully. "Is this another one of your backhanded compliments?"

Darian's smirk widened slightly. "Maybe. But I mean it."

For a moment, there was an unspoken acknowledgment between them—we've crossed something.

Command Tent Call

A runner appeared, bowing slightly. "Sir Alexander, you're requested in the command tent. Prince Adrian will be present."

Lionel whistled low. "Royal summons? You keep this up, they'll make you a general next week."

"Shut up, Lionel," Alexander said, but his tone lacked heat.

The command tent was crowded when he arrived: Lieutenant Marcus Hale, several seasoned officers, two noble captains, and Prince Adrian himself standing at the central table. A large map stretched across it, weighted by daggers and mugs.

Adrian's eyes met Alexander's as soon as he entered. "Knight Alexander," the prince said, voice steady. "Yesterday's flank action saved our center. Marcus tells me you identified and neutralized a flanking maneuver before it developed."

Alexander straightened. "Yes, your highness. I saw the creek bed—looked like an obvious path."

Adrian nodded slightly. "Obvious, yet not everyone sees it in time. That kind of instinct saves lives."

One of the noble captains cleared his throat. "With respect, your highness, it was a skirmish, not a pitched battle. We can't judge long-term capability based on one lucky guess."

Adrian's gaze sharpened, though his tone stayed calm. "It wasn't luck. It was decision-making under pressure. Something we need more of." He looked back to Alexander. "You'll retain command of the fifty-man unit for the next engagement."

The noble captain's jaw tightened but he said nothing further.

Whispers in the Ranks

When Alexander left the tent, Darian was waiting. "How'd it go?"

"Prince Adrian wants me to keep the command," Alexander said.

Darian gave a low whistle. "That's rare. Most temporary promotions don't last more than a day or two."

"Yeah," Alexander said quietly. "And some people don't like it."

They both noticed it then: subtle glances from passing soldiers, half-hidden whispers near fires. Most were respectful, but some carried resentment. A commoner rising faster than nobles. It was a dangerous undercurrent.

Lionel joined them, carrying a bowl of stew. "What'd I miss?"

"Politics," Darian muttered.

Lionel rolled his eyes. "I hate politics. It's just fighting but with more backstabbing and less honesty."

Integration

Later that afternoon, Alexander drilled his fifty in new formations: pivot shifts, wedge counters, and emergency retreats. He didn't bark or shout unnecessarily—he spoke clearly, corrected mistakes on the spot, and praised quick learners.

Darian surprised him by stepping in to assist. "Left foot forward, shield angled—like this," Darian told one of the newer recruits, demonstrating with patience.

Alexander watched. This is new, he thought. Darian wasn't just obeying orders; he was helping.

When the drill ended, Alexander clapped his hands. "Better. We're faster already. Dismissed for evening mess."

As the soldiers dispersed, Darian walked over. "I'm not doing this because I suddenly love you, you know."

Alexander smiled faintly. "I figured. So why?"

"Because those men deserve a commander who knows what he's doing. You proved that yesterday."

It wasn't friendship—not yet—but it was the beginning of respect.

Campfire Conversations

That evening, the squad sat around a fire. Lionel, naturally, was telling another embellished version of yesterday's battle, this time claiming he "single-handedly stopped four raiders at once."

"You said it was three yesterday," Garrick grumbled.

Lionel shrugged. "Numbers grow in the telling."

Even Darian chuckled. "You couldn't stop four kittens if they came at you at once."

"Harsh, but fair," Lionel said, raising his bowl like a toast.

Alexander leaned back slightly, watching his men banter. This is what I wanted, he thought. Not just victories—but loyalty. A team that trusts me, even if it started rough.

A messenger arrived as the fire burned low. "Orders from Command: we move at first light for a deeper strike into contested territory. Expect contact."

Alexander took the scroll, reading quickly. The Drovengar weren't retreating—they were regrouping deeper east. The real campaign was about to begin.

He looked around at his men, feeling the shift in atmosphere. Tomorrow would not be a small skirmish. Tomorrow would be war proper.

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