Second Life as a Soldier

I sat beneath the night sky for what must have been an hour, staring at the scatter of stars pricked across the black. My first shift waited just beyond that silence.

During the meal, Walter had filled me in on the rest of our duties. The squad was to meet the sergeant at six every morning. We were responsible for expeditions outside the fort, clearing nests and patrolling beast trails. The squad itself numbered ten: four Royal Army veterans like Walter, two new joiners including me, and four conscripts. A single sergeant oversaw us all

Most expeditions, Walter said, were carried out with the full squad, but sometimes the sergeant divided us depending on the level of beast activity. And when that happened, my cursed position as an intelligence private always landed me with the conscripts. Nights were spent on the walls in half-squads. And again, I was stuck with them.

The fort lay in the heart of a forest, its walls warding against beasts rather than men. There was little danger of spies or thieves sneaking through the trees. Night duty meant keeping alert for flocks of winged creatures that swept down from the canopy or sky. If they came in numbers, we were to sound the alarm. If the group was small, we were expected to handle them ourselves and then report to the sergeant.

So I stared at the sky, not just to wallow in dread but to analyze my situation.

I drew on [Memory Recall (UC)] and [Applied Military Theory (UC)], setting them in tandem, combing through every detail since the parchment of orders had been shoved into my hands. The conclusion pressed cold against me: this posting was wrong.

Nothing in my orders or duties made sense. None of the theory I’d read in the library, none of what I’d observed in my year of training at Stonegate, justified assigning a newly awakened Tier 1 to evaluate four hardened Tier 2 criminals. If they had been raw recruits or farmers pressed into service, I might have understood. But not men with bloody pasts, seasoned strength, and dangerous affinities. No one in my position could be expected to “determine their loyalty.”

The Royal Army of Avalon was supposed to be above this. Instructors had drilled into us that soldiers trained before Awakening were rare and prized. We were the backbone of the kingdom’s elite, most reaching late Tier 2, many achieving high Adept classes. Such men weren’t wasted on suicide assignments.

So why me? Postings weren’t random. Someone, somewhere, had signed their name to my assignment. Was it simple error, petty spite, or deliberate intent? If it was deliberate, then who stood to gain?

My training sergeants? No. Lieutenant Clifford? No. I’d had little contact with either, and if they could shape postings this way, Avalon’s military would never deserve its reputation.Nobles? I’d rejected their offer, yes, but my dealings were with retainers, not the highborn themselves. Retainers couldn’t sway the Royal Army’s command structure.

One by one, the suspects fell away, leaving only emptiness. No explanation, no clear thread of cause.

I leaned back against the cold stone of the wall and exhaled. Perhaps this was the price of my decision to enlist. Perhaps even the act of joining had offended someone unseen. But if that were true, then my instincts had been right all along: remaining a civilian would have offered no protection, unless I vanished into some nameless village and spent the rest of my life obscure, forgotten, and stagnant. At least here, wrapped in structure and orders, the Royal Army provided the faintest hint of safety. The Crown still tried to keep noble meddling in check, and while my life might not mean much to anyone, an unexplained death would surely lead to more paperwork than someone wanted. That was comfort, thin as paper but still there.

I drew a long breath. My very existence had unsettled someone enough to throw me in with killers. And now, my survival depended on them.

Pushing the thought aside, I rose from the wall and made my way toward the Longhall.

The Longhall stretched wide, lined with rows of straw mattresses that stank faintly of sweat, oil, and damp wool. Each soldier’s gear lay stowed close by, easy to reach when the alarm sounded. I stepped between bunks, forcing myself not to look at the conscripts sprawled across their corners, their laughter like growls at the edge of my hearing.

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I set about my own routine, trying to drown them out. I checked my spear, slid a hand along the haft to feel for cracks. Boots, straps tight, nails firm. Armor buckles, cloak, knife. Then I poured a splash of water from my skin into my hands, the chill biting as I scrubbed it across my face and collar.

Satisfied, I turned to leave for the night watch. And nearly walked straight into Varric.

He stood far too close, looming, the edge of his frame blotting the lamplight. My body reacted before my head did, muscles tensed, spear haft tightening in my grip. For a heartbeat, I almost thrust. Only Walter’s warning echoed sharp enough to hold me back.

“Wow, Private,” Varric rumbled, voice rich with mockery. “Best be careful where you’re walking. Tickle someone with that spear, they might think you mean it.”

His smile was too wide, his knife still in hand, wood curls clinging to its edge.

I pulled in a slow breath to steady myself. My throat was dry, my grip slick with sweat. No use pretending, I was scared of them. But as I caught the crooked grins flashing between Varric and Barry, something hotter than fear stirred in me. Anger. I promised myself, that once my stats caught up, I’d wipe those grins off their faces.

Still, I couldn’t act on anger now. These men were volatile, dangerous, and only barely held in check by the sergeant. Varric played games, needling the weak just to see them squirm. Garran’s stare was worse, blunt, hungry, like he’d happily drive his spear through me just to feel the weight of it. Barry lingered on the edges, sly as a fox, savoring Varric’s little cruelties like they were entertainment. And Kael… Kael unsettled me most of all. His eyes carried nothing. No mockery, no threat, just emptiness, as if the world could burn to ash around him and he wouldn’t bother to blink.

If I was going to survive among men like this, I had to be more than a regular recruit. More than angry and scared. This might be a death sentence for a sixteen-year-old private, but I wasn’t the same as the rest. A year ago I was weak, but I carried memories they didn’t, a little more sense than most. Now I had [Applied Military Theory (UC)] and [Memory Recall (UC)] to sharpen that edge. I wasn’t giving in. I would use every memory, book, or lecture at my disposal to survive. For now, survival hinged on two plans: first, I needed to shift their focus away from me. Second, I had to erode that “us versus me” divide and scrape together even a fragment of trust.

It went against everything I’d read. Military manuals and Stonegate lectures painted conscripts as disposable carriers, the ones who hauled gear, built fortifications, and died when needed. But that attitude wouldn’t keep me alive here.

We made our way up to the wall. My eyes flicked between the horizon and the men at my side. Not that there was much to see, the fort sat like an island in a black sea of forest, but habit kept me scanning. I triggered [Guard Duty], letting its awareness settle over me, and fed details into [Applied Military Theory (UC)], evaluating the squad as a whole.

They weren’t attentive. The little alertness they showed was purely self-preservation. Their stances were sloppy, their gear worn and poorly maintained. None of it helped me tonight. The only edge I might find lay in their group dynamic.

I decided to move first.

I stepped toward Varric, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry. “You already know my name. Edward of Oxspell. Figured I’d say it again anyway–”

Varric snorted, not even glancing up from the strip of leather he worried between his teeth. “Didn’t ask.”

I forced the words out anyway. “Doesn’t matter. We’re stuck in the same squad, same roof, same jobs. Whether you like it or not, we’ll be working together–”

Varric’s laugh cut me off, harsh and jagged. He leaned back against the wall, tearing another strip of leather with his teeth. “Work together? Kid, you don’t even have a future worth wasting.” His grin split wide, teeth flashing in the torchlight.

My palms were damp, but I kept moving down the line, forcing a nod at each of them. “Barry. Kael.” Then I stopped in front of Garran. The big man’s brow was shadowed, his arms crossed, but I made sure my gaze locked mostly on him.

“I get that your leader Varric, doesn’t like me…”

Garran’s jaw twitched. Just a flicker, but it was there.

I let the silence stretch, then added, quieter, “All I’m asking is a chance to work together.”

Garran’s heavy brow furrowed, just a flicker, but it was there. I turned and walked back to my place on the wall, keeping my pace measured.

From what I’d observed, all four of them carried themselves like alphas. None would want Varric acknowledged as leader. Barry was smart and cunning; he’d see through my intentions. Kael hadn’t said a word yet, so I couldn’t read him. But Garran, Garran was the largest, the shortest-tempered, the least likely to notice a bit of subtlety. In a real confrontation, he’d be Varric’s biggest threat.

I felt Varric’s eyes on my back. Slowly, deliberately, I turned my head and gave him the same crooked grin he’d been flashing at me in the Longhall.

He needed to understand. As long as I didn’t strike first, the mana-oath bound them from touching me. This wasn’t a war of blades, but of words, and whether he liked it or not, I held the greater authority. By naming him as their leader, I could split his pack against him. If I chose to report what I’d seen, with a few carefully chosen details, the sergeant and the lieutenant would have all the reason they needed to remove Varric. His record already marked him as a raider commander; one more whisper of insubordination, or proof he was forming a faction, and they wouldn’t hesitate to cut him down in the name of the Fort’s safety.