Roland Tenebrae stepped through the guard-post gate at dawn on the appointed day, the black-sun crest on his breastplate catching the first pale light. Behind him walked his six brothers—Chris, Tom, Sam, Harold, Jeffrey, Matthew—each carrying the same Levithoro-forged steel, each wearing the same quiet determination. Five hundred young men filled the muddy parade ground before them, a sea of farm boys, miner's sons, apprentices, and a few who looked like they'd never held anything heavier than a quill. The air smelled of wet wool, woodsmoke, and nervous sweat.
Captain Ulric Dane stood on a low wooden platform, flanked by his sergeants. His voice carried like a hammer on anvil.
"Welcome to the militia of Eldermere. You are here because the wilds do not care for your age, your trade, or your prayers. They care only that you stand between them and what you love. Today we find out who among you can stand."
The evaluation began without ceremony.
They ran the obstacle course first—logs to vault, ditches to cross, ropes to climb—until lungs burned and hands bled. Then came the shield wall: three ranks deep, shields locked, advancing against wooden battering rams swung by veterans. Roland felt the impact shudder through his arm, felt the line hold because the man beside him—some lanky boy from the Thorne house—did not flinch. They held.
Sword drill followed. Wooden blades clacked in the chill air. Roland paired with Chris; they moved through forms they had practiced in the yard behind home. Strike, parry, recover. Footwork precise. Eyes locked. When the sergeant called time, both were breathing hard but unmarked.
By dusk they stood in ranks again. Captain Dane walked the lines, eyes sharp. He stopped before the seven Tenebrae brothers.
"Step forward."
They did.
Dane studied their faces, then their gear—the etched crests, the oiled edges, the way they stood without fidgeting.
"Perfect marks," he said. "Every test. Stance, endurance, weapon skill, discipline. Your father taught you well, lads."
A murmur rippled through the company.
"Each of you is promoted sergeant. You'll each take a squad of fifteen. Lead them. Train them. Keep them alive."
Roland felt the words settle into his bones like heated steel. Sergeant. At twenty. He glanced sideways at his brothers. Chris grinned like a wolf. Tom looked stunned. Jeffrey's fingers twitched as though already weaving a ward over his new men.
That night, by firelight, Roland penned the letter home. The others added their lines. When the ink dried, he sealed it and handed it to the courier with a quiet prayer it would reach the compound before worry carved too deep.
Days blurred into rhythm.
Dawn muster. Breakfast of porridge and salt pork. Morning drill: shield walls, flanking maneuvers, archer cover. Afternoon patrols along the forest edge—eyes scanning for movement, ears straining for the telltale chitter of kobolds or the shriek of harpies. Evening weapons maintenance, squad briefings, sleep under canvas with one hand on a sword hilt.
The sergeants' tent became their refuge. Seven cots, a single lantern, the smell of oil and leather.
One night, after a long day of rain-soaked marching, Chris leaned back on his elbows.
"Think Clarice's wedding will happen before we get home?"
Tom snorted. "Tyrell's probably forging her a dress of chainmail by now. 'Here, love, wear this to the altar. Keeps the in-laws honest.'"
Sam laughed. "Father'll walk her down the aisle in full plate just to make a point."
Harold shook his head. "Mother's the one to watch. She'll enchant the whole chapel so the flowers never wilt and the candles never gutter. Romantic, but terrifying."
Jeffrey smiled softly. "Roselda's already planning the garden arch. Said she wants ivy that blooms black roses—symbolic, she called it."
Matthew piped up. "You think Father and Mother are lonely yet? Bet they're talking about another set of twins already."
Chris barked a laugh. "Gods help us. Another Belfin and Ophelia? The house would burn down from sheer mischief."
Roland chuckled, though his chest ached at the thought of home. "They'll manage. Always have."
Whispers drifted through camp from other squads.
"AshenVale lost a whole logging crew last week—harpies tore them apart before they could even scream."
"Black Hollow's got tunnels collapsing under their fields. Kobolds, they say. Little bastards dig faster than we can fill."
Roland listened, jaw tight. Eldermere held strong so far—five hundred militia made the difference—but the other settlements were bleeding.
He turned to his squad the next morning.
"Listen close," he said, voice low but carrying. "We're not just holding a line. We're holding for every family back there—yours, mine, the ones in AshenVale and Black Hollow who can't send five hundred. You see something move in the trees, you call it. You hesitate, you die. You run, we all die. But you stand, we live. Clear?"
Fifteen heads nodded. Eyes wide, but steady.
They patrolled the western perimeter three days later.
The forest pressed close—pine and cedar, underbrush thick with ferns. Roland led point, shield raised, sword loose in his right hand. His squad fanned out behind him in loose pairs, moving quiet. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and resin; every snap of a twig felt like a warning.
A low hiss cut the silence.
Then another.
Six shapes exploded from the green—goblins, small and sinewy, skin the dull gray-green of wet slate, eyes burning yellow in the dappled light. They wore ragged scraps of hide and bone, clutched crude iron-tipped spears and notched short blades. Their mouths twisted in feral grins, jagged teeth flashing as they fanned out to encircle the patrol.
For one frozen heartbeat, terror clawed up Roland's throat—raw, primal, the kind that made knees want to buckle. The goblins were closer than any drill, their stench of rot and unwashed fur sharp in his nostrils. One of them, the largest, let out a guttural yip and pointed a crooked finger at Roland's squad.
Then training took over.
"Shields up! Tighten the line!" Roland roared, voice cracking only slightly on the first word.
The squad reacted like a single organism. Boots scraped dirt as fifteen men snapped into a rough half-circle, shields overlapping edge-to-edge, points of spears and swords thrusting forward in a bristling hedge. Roland anchored the center, heart hammering against his ribs.
The goblins charged.
The largest one leaped straight at Roland, spear leveled at his chest. Roland met it with the flat of his shield—boss slamming into the goblin's face with a wet crunch. Black blood sprayed across the steel; the creature staggered, dazed. Roland didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, sword rising in a tight arc, and brought it down across the goblin's neck. The head came free with a sickening pop, tumbling into the ferns.
To his right, young Willem from the Calder house—barely seventeen, still growing into his armor—faced a goblin that darted low, slashing at his legs. Willem yelped, stumbled back a step, then thrust his spear forward with desperate force. The point punched through the goblin's ribs; it shrieked, clawing at the shaft as dark blood bubbled from its mouth. Willem yanked the spear free, eyes wide with shock, and the creature collapsed.
Another goblin flung itself at broad-shouldered Tomas, blade flashing toward his throat. Tomas caught the strike on his shield rim, twisted, and drove his own sword up under the goblin's armpit. The creature spasmed once and went limp, sliding off the blade in a heap.
On the left flank, two goblins tried to flank the line together. One hurled a crude throwing knife that clanged off a shield; the other leaped high, aiming to vault over the wall. The squad member there—quiet, steady Elias—met the leap with an upward thrust. The goblin impaled itself mid-air, legs kicking uselessly before it slid down the spear and fell still.
The remaining two goblins faltered, seeing their pack broken. One turned to flee; Roland barked, "No escapes!" and his squad surged forward. A spear caught the runner in the back; it pitched forward with a gurgling cry. The last goblin swung wildly at Tomas, who parried and countered with a brutal overhead chop that split skull and shoulder in one stroke.
Silence fell—sudden, ringing, broken only by heavy breathing and the drip of blood onto leaves.
Six bodies lay twitching in the mud. No losses on the Tenebrae side. A few shallow cuts wept red through gambeson sleeves; one man nursed a bruised forearm where a club had glanced off his shield. Nothing mortal.
Roland exhaled, shaking. His sword hand trembled; he forced it steady.
"Heads," he ordered, voice hoarse. "Proof. And check each other for wounds."
They severed the heads with quick, practiced strokes—veterans had drilled the grim necessity into them. The squad bound the trophies by the lank, greasy hair, slung them over shoulders like macabre game bags. Faces were pale, eyes wide, but no one broke. They moved as one.
Back at camp, the sentries raised a cheer as they approached. Captain Dane met them at the gate, expression unreadable.
"Report."
"Six goblins, sir. Ambush on the western trail. Squad held formation. No casualties."
Dane studied the heads, then the squad—taking in the blood-streaked shields, the steady gazes, the faint tremble in some hands that would harden with time.
"First blood for this company," he said. "Well done, Sergeant Tenebrae. Clean the gear. Rest. You've earned it."
Roland felt the weight of eyes on him—pride, respect, a little awe. His squad stood straighter, shoulders back despite the exhaustion.
That night in the sergeants' tent, the brothers gathered close.
Chris clapped Roland on the shoulder. "You led like Father would've."
Tom grinned. "Did you see Willem's face when he skewered that one? Thought the boy was going to faint, then he just… did it."
Jeffrey spoke quietly. "They listened. Every one of them. That's what matters."
Harold nodded. "We keep them alive, they keep Eldermere alive."
Matthew looked up. "Think we can send word home about this? Let them know we're not just drilling?"
Roland smiled, though his pulse still raced when he closed his eyes and saw yellow goblin eyes staring back. "Next courier. We'll tell them the black sun shines bright out here."
He lay back on his cot, staring at the canvas ceiling. The fear was still there, a cold knot under his ribs, but it no longer paralyzed. It sharpened.
Somewhere beyond the trees, more eyes watched. Goblins. Kobolds. Worse things, perhaps.
But here, in the flickering lantern light, seven brothers and five hundred young men stood ready.
And Roland Tenebrae, sergeant at twenty, felt the iron in his blood run true.