Your POV

All my life, I’ve watched my father and brothers march off to the barracks, to the drills, to the battles that shaped our kingdom. I envied them—the freedom, the thrill, the sense of purpose—but that life was never meant for me. I was born a girl. My days belonged to my mother. Together we cooked, sewed, cleaned, tended the garden, kept the house running. Small, steady work, nothing like the roar of swords, the clash of armor, the thunder of marching boots.

That morning, my mother and I moved through the village market, gathering vegetables for supper, when the town crier’s voice rang out:

“All men retired or over the age of fourteen must report for military training immediately! Enemies approach our gates—every able hand is needed!”

Retired? My father, crippled from a battle long past, could barely walk without a limp. My brothers—off at camp as usual—were already gone. The village was exposed. A knot of fear twisted in my chest as I glanced at my mother. Her hands, worn and strong, gripped the basket so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her eyes were wide with worry.

That night, I crept into the storeroom and pulled my father’s armor from the hooks. Its weight surprised me—cold, unyielding, heavy in my hands. I cut my hair short, letting uneven strands fall to the floor, then bound the mess with a strip of cloth. I wrapped my chest with tight bandages, tugged on the tunic and greaves that had once belonged to my father.

I saddled my horse, heart hammering, and rode off toward the training grounds.

Commander Quintin Graves POV

The fields were churned to mud, crowded with recruits. My new troop. Most of them looked barely older than fourteen. Too young, all of them. I’d joined at fourteen myself, followed my father’s path, trained hard, earned my rank. By nineteen, I commanded men. Now, at twenty, I was still here, shaping new soldiers for war.

Rain started falling, drumming on canvas tents. Everyone rushed for cover. I glanced toward the camp entrance and noticed a lone soldier entering, horse in hand.

“Stop!” I barked, striding toward him. “Name and age.”

“Uh… Callum Sloan. Eighteen,” you muttered, lowering you voice, hoping nothing goes wrong.

“Another Sloan? I thought he had only two sons. Yet here’s another,” I said, arms crossed. I studied the scrawny figure before me. “Did you walk from the village or actually ride your horse?"

“Half and half. Got slippery, so I dismounted,” you answered.

I exhaled, taking the reins from his hands, water dripping off my nose and chin. “Alright. Hand me your horse, grab your things, and get to your tent.”

“Thank you, sir. Yes, sir.” you wiped rain from your hair, trying not to stare too long. Too dainty. Too… distracting. Be a soldier, I told myself. Just a soldier.

{The Next Day}

I roused the trainees at sunrise, the cold biting at exposed skin.

“Grab the water buckets and climb to the top of that mountain! Now! GO! GO! GO!!” I shouted, urging them forward. My commands did little; they moved like wet leaves in the mud.

I turned, scanning for stragglers. One caught my eye. Callum. Smaller than the rest, thinner, and, against my better judgment, startlingly delicate.

“Sloan!! PICK UP THE BUCKET!!” My voice snapped through the chill morning air.