Requiem of the Forgotten

The camp stretched before me, sprawling and alive with movement. Rows of sharpened wooden stakes formed a barrier around the perimeter, their jagged points warning off any potential threats. Beyond them, hundreds—maybe thousands—of soldiers moved with purpose, training, sparring, carrying supplies, or shouting orders. The ground was a mixture of dry, compacted dirt and patches of churned-up mud from the countless boots that trampled it daily. The acrid scent of burning metal and sweat clung to the air, mixing with the distant aroma of something cooking over a fire.

I adjusted my grip on the reins of my horse, scanning the camp as we approached the entrance. This was nothing like Dragontown. There were no half-built wooden huts, no people awkwardly figuring out how to live in this world. This was a machine—organized, disciplined, and prepared for war.

Lydia rode ahead, her posture straight as always, her expression unreadable. Behind me, Nikita seemed unfazed, his eyes moving methodically across the camp, taking in every detail like he was already formulating strategies in his head. Cealith, on the other hand, barely reacted. He simply observed, his silver eyes flicking from one group of soldiers to another, showing no sign of interest or concern.

We passed through the gates, and immediately, eyes turned toward us. Not in the way that people in Dragontown had looked at me—curious, sometimes admiring. No, here it was different. Here, it was evaluation.

"New recruits," someone muttered.

"Another batch of dead men walking."

A few soldiers smirked as we rode past, their gazes lingering on Nikita and me longer than I liked. I caught pieces of conversation—mentions of raids, missing patrols, creatures appearing in the night.

My stomach tensed. Nobody told us that was happening.

I thought we still had time.

Lydia pulled on her reins, slowing her horse as we reached a large clearing near the center of the camp. A massive wooden building stood ahead, larger and more solidly built than anything else here, with a thick canvas roof and banners hanging from its frame. The symbol of the united forces—a crude mix of human, elven, dwarven, and orcish emblems intertwined—fluttered lightly in the wind.

She dismounted smoothly, landing with a soft thud before turning to us.

"This is where we part ways," she said.

I frowned. "What?"

She gave me a look that made me feel like a child being told to sit still. "I have my own duties. I didn't bring you here to babysit you."

Nikita swung off his horse, adjusting the sword at his waist. "Then why did you bring us?"

Lydia exhaled, looking between the two of us. "Because like it or not, we all have the same enemy. And we need everyone who's willing to fight. Even if they're…" Her gaze flickered to me. "Too young to be here."

I crossed my arms. "Right. Great vote of confidence."

"I'm not here to make you feel better," she said flatly. "I'm here to make sure you don't die. And if that means being blunt, then so be it."

Her eyes softened—only slightly. "Survive. That's all that matters."

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, her soldiers following behind her. I watched her disappear into the maze of tents and structures, leaving us standing there like idiots.

Nikita clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Well, that was dramatic."

I scowled and shrugged him off. "Let's just get this over with."

We headed toward the registration tent, dodging passing soldiers and supply wagons. Inside, the air was thick with heat and the scent of ink and sweat. Several long tables were set up, each occupied by grizzled officers and clerks scratching names onto thick, yellowed parchment. Some recruits stood in line, looking just as lost as I felt.

We joined the queue, shifting uncomfortably as the sounds of shouting officers and clashing weapons echoed from outside. This place didn't just train people—it prepared them for something we hadn't even begun to comprehend yet.

I forced my thoughts down, focusing as we reached the front. The officer in front of me was an older man with graying stubble, a scar across his cheek, and the dead-eyed look of someone who had seen too much. He barely looked up as he spoke.

"Name?"

"Aleksander."

His quill scratched against the parchment. "Age?"

"Sixteen."

The quill stopped. His bloodshot eyes flicked up to meet mine.

"You're shitting me."

I folded my arms. "What, you need me to bring a permission slip from my parents?"

The soldier's lips twitched slightly. "Tch. You should still be home, boy."

My jaw clenched. That word—home. It stuck in my throat, tightening around my lungs. I forced it down and muttered, "Kinda hard when home doesn't exist anymore."

The officer studied me for a long moment, then sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. But don't expect any special treatment. You'll drop dead like the rest if you can't keep up."

He moved on to Nikita, glancing at his uniform and sword.

"You're eighteen?"

"Yeah."

The officer snorted. "You're already a soldier?"

Nikita didn't hesitate. "More than you know."

Something in his voice made the man pause, then nod slowly before writing his name down.

"Fine. Go through that tent, pick up your training schedule, and find a bunk before sundown."

As we stepped away, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"That could've gone worse."

Nikita gave me a dry look. "It still might."

Before I could respond, a sudden explosion of cheers erupted from outside. Loud, rhythmic chanting followed, accompanied by the sound of weapons clashing.

Cealith turned his head slightly. "A fight."

Nikita arched a brow. "Sounds like a big one."

My curiosity got the better of me. "Let's check it out."

We pushed our way through the crowd, the energy thick with anticipation. The sparring ring was packed with soldiers, their cheers mixing with the metallic clang of weapons and the occasional grunt of pain. I caught glimpses of fighters inside the ring, most of them bloody, bruised, or flat-out unconscious.

Then, the crowd erupted into a deafening roar.

My eyes snapped to the center of the ring just in time to see a man standing over his fallen opponent, his sword lazily resting against his shoulder. He wasn't breathing heavily. He wasn't even sweating. He just stood there—completely untouched, as if he hadn't even tried.

His opponent, on the other hand, lay motionless in the dirt, face-down, arms spread. The fight had lasted seconds.

The victor turned, scanning the crowd with a grin that made me want to punch him for no reason.

Antoine Leroux.

I knew it before anyone even said his name. He had the look—the hero look. Blond hair that somehow wasn't dirty despite being in a war camp, a flawless face like he'd been sculpted by the gods, and posture so perfectly controlled that even standing still looked graceful. The golden son of France. The perfect soldier.

A soldier near me smirked. "That's Antoine. The best fighter in camp. The one-man army."

"The hero," someone else murmured in awe.

I squinted. "This guy… he's like a main character or something."

Cealith, standing next to me, observed silently before tilting his head. "He's skilled."

Antoine sheathed his sword and stepped out of the ring, nodding to the officer running the matches. The moment he was free, several women practically swarmed him. A few soldiers patted his back, others simply watched with a mixture of admiration and jealousy.

It was disgusting.

I felt an elbow nudge my ribs. Nikita leaned closer, grinning. "You jealous yet?"

I scoffed. "I think I just threw up in my mouth."

Antoine met my eyes for the briefest moment, and the smirk he gave me told me everything I needed to know. He didn't see me as a threat. He probably didn't even register me as anything beyond just another random soldier.

Great.

Before I could process my growing irritation, the atmosphere shifted.

A new commotion rippled through the camp, this one different. Not excitement—respect.

The legends had returned.

The gates swung open, and they walked in.

First came the archer.

A woman, tall and elegant, her gold hair catching the light like moonlit silk. She carried a massive bow across her back, longer than she was tall, the wood dark and carved with intricate elven runes. Her emerald-green eyes scanned the camp, cold and calculating.

Someone whispered, "Velana the Silver Arrow."

The best archer alive. Supposedly, she never missed. The rumors said she was Antoine's lover.

Behind her, a monster of an orc strode in, towering over the others.

His gray-green skin was covered in scars and war paint, his massive axe slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

"Gorvak, the Red Axe," Nikita muttered under his breath. "He's famous for leading the most brutal raids against the Darkness."

He looked the part.

Then came the dwarf.

Broad-shouldered, his beard thick and braided with golden rings, his knuckles looked harder than the steel around him. He wasn't carrying a weapon—because he didn't need one.

"Grimnir Stonefist," the soldier next to me whispered. "He once punched a wyvern so hard its skull caved in."

That sounded like bullshit, but I wasn't about to question it.

A woman followed next—tall, powerful, wielding a war hammer that looked like it could flatten a house.

Her dark skin was marked with battle scars, her braided hair swaying slightly as she walked. Her presence alone commanded respect.

"Basha Ironhand," someone murmured. "A blacksmith turned warrior. Nobody wields a hammer like she does."

Then, a man cloaked in shadows.

The Iron Ghost.

A former knight from England, his face covered in old scars, one eye missing. Nobody knew his real name—just the stories. The man had fought through hell and survived.

And last—

A reptilian figure, scales dark green, eyes sharp like a predator's.

Silass, the Scale Tyrant.

Nobody spoke his name too loudly.

They walked past us, silent, their presence enough to part the crowd. No words needed to be spoken.

They were on a different level.

And then—

The officer at the sparring ring called my name.

Loud. Sharp. Impossible to ignore.

I froze.

"Wait, what? Why me?"

The officer smirked. "You signed up, didn't you?"

My stomach dropped.

"Time to see if you're worth keeping alive."