Forged In Blood

The fortress loomed before us, its walls a jagged scar on the horizon. There was no fanfare as we arrived, just the steady, grinding rhythm of war. The cold reality of this place hit harder than the marches or the drills. No more preparation. No more illusion. This was survival.

We were ushered into the armory like cattle, the room oppressive with the scent of sweat and blood. It was darker than I had imagined, the torchlight casting long shadows that danced across the racks of weapons. The instructor's voice cracked like a whip:

"Arm yourselves! The battlefield waits for no one!"

I moved on instinct, the familiar weight of a blade settling into my hand. A dark steel sword, sharp and sturdy. My other hand found a shield, its surface dented and scarred from countless battles. My armor, light and crafted for mobility, felt simultaneously like a blessing and a curse. It offered speed but little protection. As I moved, the plates groaned softly, a reminder of how fragile I truly was.

No time to think.

I followed the others to the walls, the tension thick enough to choke on. Archers were already in position, their eyes fixed on the dark mass advancing from the treeline. The gnolls moved as a wave, their hunched forms silhouetted against the dim light. Twisted and feral, they resembled monstrous hyenas, flesh stretched taut over muscle, teeth bared in grotesque snarls.

The sight of them clawed at my mind, dredging up the primal fear that no amount of training could erase.

"FIRE!!!"

The commander's roar snapped me back to the present. Arrows darkened the sky, raining death upon the advancing horde. The gnolls shrieked as the projectiles tore through their crude armor and mangy hides. Blood sprayed, their bodies crumpling like broken marionettes.

But they didn't stop.

Another volley followed, and still, the gnolls surged forward. Their ferocity was unlike anything I'd seen before; relentless, unthinking, driven by an insatiable rage. When they reached the walls, their claws found purchase in the stone.

"STONES!"

Veterans hauled massive boulders into position, their faces grim with practiced efficiency. The rocks fell, smashing into the creatures below with bone-shattering force. Some gnolls were crushed outright, their bodies reduced to twisted remnants. Others were sent hurtling back to the ground, broken but still clawing, still climbing.

And then, the inevitable.

"SWORDSMEN!!!"

My stomach churned as I joined the charge. This was no drill. This was no sparring match. The gnolls that reached the top of the wall weren't just enemies, they were monsters.

Up close, their savagery was horrifying. Blood stained their matted fur, their eyes wild with madness. They lunged with a speed that defied their brutish forms, claws slicing through air, teeth gnashing with animalistic fury.

The clang of steel on steel and the screams of dying men filled the air.

I fought beside a veteran whose movements were as precise as a blade's edge. He killed with practiced ease, his sword cleaving through flesh and bone. I tried to mimic him, my strikes mechanical, desperate. My blade found its mark more than once, but there was no satisfaction in the kill. Only survival.

A gnoll lunged at the soldier beside me, its jaws closing around his neck before I could react. Blood spurted as the man crumpled, the light in his eyes snuffed out in an instant.

I froze, the image seared into my mind.

The realization was suffocating: I wasn't strong enough. Not yet.

If I wanted to survive, if I wanted to protect myself from this unrelenting brutality, I needed to change. I needed to become more.

The battle raged on, but the tide began to turn. The gnolls faltered, their numbers dwindling until the last of them fell. Its body hit the stone with a wet thud, lifeless.

The aftermath was colder than the battle itself.

The dead were gathered with no ceremony, their bodies dragged outside the fortress walls and piled high. Flames consumed them, the acrid stench of burning flesh rising into the night. The soldiers worked with mechanical precision, their faces unreadable. This was their routine. There was no mourning here.

The wounded were taken away, their injuries treated with the bare minimum required to keep them breathing. Even as they cried out in pain, they were little more than tools, patched up for another day of use.

I stood on the wall, staring at the dark expanse beyond. The fortress was one of eight, each guarding the empire's borders against a different nightmare. Ours faced the gnolls. To the east, orcs gathered in shadow. The south held back the Zarathids. Lizardfolk clawed at the southwest, while the northern and western fortresses braced against dwarves and elves, respectively.

The Kingdom of Aeladria was a fragile flame, flickering in the heart of a storm. Surrounded on all sides by enemies, its survival seemed nothing short of a miracle.

Rumors drifted through the fortress, whispers of retaliation. A grand assault to reclaim lost lands. To reduce the fortresses, to strike back at the darkness pressing in. But such ideas felt distant and unreachable. For now, survival was all that mattered.

As I lay in the barracks that night, my mind refused to rest. Every scream, every drop of blood replayed behind my closed eyes. I could still feel the gnoll's breath on my skin, hear the sickening crunch of the soldier's death beside me.

I wasn't ready. But I would be.

This world demanded strength.

And I would find it.