The brush wall along the northern edge of camp was a jagged shadow under the starlight, the air crisp enough to sting the lungs. Second watch had its own rhythm, quieter, heavier, the kind of stillness that made every creak of leather and crunch of frost seem like it carried for miles. My post was on the far side of the brush, shield propped within reach, spear in hand, the world ahead an uneven sprawl of trees and dark folds in the land.
The camp breathed in slow measure behind me: the dull scrape of a pot being shifted, a sentry’s muted cough, the almost inaudible clink of a belt buckle being adjusted. Far off, an owl’s call broke the stillness, answered faintly from deeper in the woods. My breath puffed in small clouds. I forced myself to keep scanning, left, right, center, listening as much as looking.
Second watch meant you felt the shift in the camp’s pulse. First watch kept the edge of waking; by ours, the sleeping men had sunk deeper, and the ones on duty fought to stay upright. The danger was in letting the quiet trick you into thinking nothing would come. I shifted my grip on the spear. My fingers were stiff, but I welcomed it, cold made you feel alive.
We rotated positions at the half-mark, boots crunching in the frost-hardened ground. Garron relieved me, and I moved to the inner camp circuit, checking stakes, ropes, and the line of stored shields. Everything was still. When the third watch came, I crawled into my tent, boots beside me, and shut my eyes. The rest of the night passed without incident.
We were moving by first light. The sergeant had the camp struck with practiced speed, tents down, brush wall left as a marker for the city watch to dismantle later. The ten scouts spread out like shadows, two ahead on the trail, two on each flank, one pair behind, the rest sweeping the approaches at irregular angles. The forty-five recruits formed a column, split into four squads under acting sergeants: Halvern for mine, Lela for the second, Marrek for the third, and a lanky farm boy named Soren for the fourth.
We kept to a wide cart track at first, shields slung, spears carried upright. When the fields gave way to scrub, Kestrel signaled the turn, two fingers, twist of the wrist, and we filed onto a narrower hunter’s path that wound through alder and beech. The kettle helm muffled sound, so all I heard was the rhythm of boots and the faint metallic clink of spear ferrules hitting stone.
The forest closed in, damp earth underfoot, old leaves breaking into quiet mulch. Visibility dropped; the scouts shifted position, flanks closer now, rear guard tighter. We were a moving knot of wood and iron, forty-five sets of eyes and ears tuned to the trees. Even without orders, our spacing widened slightly, the kind of instinct you picked up after weeks of formation drills.
We found sign of the pack mid-morning, a torn-up patch of ground where something had been brought down, the snow stained brown where the wolves had fed. One of the lead scouts crouched, fingers brushing the tracks. The marks were deep, the spacing wide. Mid-tier ones, maybe a high-tier among them.
Kestrel didn’t step in. Instead, he raised a hand to halt us and spoke low enough only the acting sergeants heard. Then, to all of us:
“From here on, you’ll move under Field Directive. I will not enter the fight unless absolutely necessary. My presence, and that of the scouts, would deter them. We need them to commit. You will hold formation, follow orders, and adapt as commanded. I’ll guide you from range.”When he spoke, I felt it, like someone had cleared the fog from my head. His voice didn’t just carry; it cut, crisp, measured, threading through noise and tension alike. Field Directive wasn’t just a barked command; it was a Sergeant’s class skill, honed over years. Part command, part presence, part timing, it turned a loose collection of soldiers into a single will. Every order landed half a heartbeat before you thought you’d need it, syncing the line into one breathing, moving thing. Under its weight, hesitation simply couldn’t take root.
The scouts led us along the pack’s trail until we hit a shallow ravine. Tracks wove along the far side, disappearing into denser growth. The air had that too-quiet feel. Then came the sound, low, rolling growls that seemed to circle.
“Form Hedge,” Kestrel’s voice rang from somewhere upslope.
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Shields locked, spears angled like thorns, the four squads aligning into a staggered ring with gaps covered by overlapping reach. We advanced at a slow march, the pack shadowing us. Shapes flickered in the brush, gray pelts, yellow eyes, teeth catching stray light.
The first rush came from the left flank, three wolves testing the line. Halvern’s squad took the brunt, shields absorbing impact, spearpoints biting shallow before the beasts darted away. Kestrel’s voice came like the snap of a bowstring:
“Rotate front, two steps, wheel right!”
We moved, second squad sliding up, fresh arms meeting the next charge. The first squad shifted to reserve, catching breath.
The fight became a pattern, two squads forward, two in rest-and-ready, switching every few minutes. Each rotation gave every recruit a turn in the line and kept fatigue from cutting us down too fast. The wolves circled, lunged, retreated, forcing us to turn and adjust. Twice we shifted formation entirely, blocking off narrow gaps in the terrain that could’ve let the pack break away.
When one wolf fell, another took its place. The alpha stayed back, a massive gray-brindle thing with scars across its muzzle, watching, directing. It darted in only to feint, drawing spears and forcing us to overcommit.
Minutes stretched into nearly an hour. My arms burned, my shield arm trembled, but Field Directive kept the line tight. Orders came like clockwork: “brace,” “low hedge,” “hook and peel,” each one landing just ahead of the wolves’ timing. Then, a break in the rhythm.
It happened in a blur. Halvern slipped on the churned ground during a rotation, his shield arm dipping at the worst moment. The alpha lunged, its bulk smashing into him. He went down hard. I didn’t think, just moved, shoving my own shield into the gap and dragging him back by the collar.
The last wolf’s death left a strange quiet. No snarls, no clash of teeth on shields, just the ragged sound of our own breathing and the faint hiss of wind through the trees. My arms ached from holding the spear, and the inside of my shield arm buzzed as though the bone itself were tired.
Kestrel’s voice cut through it.
“Hold position. Check the line.”
The acting sergeants moved down the formation, eyes flicking over dents, split shield edges, torn straps. Nothing that couldn’t be patched in the field. No one was dead. A few were bleeding, but all were standing. The wolves lay in a broken ring around us, most where they’d been struck, a few twisted mid-leap where spears had found them in the air.
Kestrel strode in, boots crunching frost-stiff leaves, his gaze sweeping the kill site once before settling on us.
“Not bad,” he said, and somehow the flatness of his tone made it sound like a compliment. “Not good either. We’ll go over it.”
We stripped the proof marks quickly, one ear from each carcass, and stowed them in a sack. The rest would be left for the city hunters to retrieve and butcher later. Blood steamed faintly in the cold, and the ground where we’d stood was churned into mud from our boots.
Kestrel gathered us in a loose half-circle, the acting sergeants to the fore.
“You held formation better than I expected. You rotated when ordered, you didn’t break when the alpha pushed.” His eyes lingered on me and Halvern a moment longer. “But you also broke ranks without orders.”
The air seemed to press heavier.
“That stunt,” he said, nodding toward where the alpha’s corpse lay, “was luck. Pure luck that it was already wounded, and pure luck that it went for you instead of circling into a gap. Against anything Tier 2 or higher, luck gets men killed. Your job was to hold your place, not play hero.”
My throat tightened, but I forced myself to answer.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Halvern spoke next, voice steady. “Understood.”
Kestrel’s gaze shifted between us. “Understand this, too: Courage is worth nothing without control. You leave your line, you leave your brothers’ backs open. You think you saved the day, maybe you did. But maybe next time, you give the enemy the gap they need. Discipline wins battles. Not luck.”
No one moved. The words sank in like cold water.
Finally, Kestrel straightened. “That’s enough for now. We’ll camp here tonight. Tomorrow, we move on; the expedition’s not over just because you’ve got a few wolf ears in a sack. You’ll get more chances to prove you can fight without thinking you’re invincible.”
He turned away, signaling the scouts to take up their posts. The acting sergeants began assigning night watches. I ended up back near the brush wall, my breath puffing white into the dark, the sounds of the camp settling into its slow, steady rhythm.