The Last Banner

The training grounds outside the manor were a simple but functional space, bordered by low wooden fences and lined with roughly marked rows for drills. A group of one hundred men stood in uneven lines, their clothes patched and their expressions a mixture of curiosity and doubt. They whispered among themselves, casting skeptical glances at the neatly stacked wooden rods that Hadrian had prepared for their training.

Hadrian stood before them, his back straight, his voice calm but commanding. "Thank you for coming. I know many of you are here because you have no other choice. But this isn't just a job—it's a chance to defend your homes, your families, and your future."

The murmurs quieted as the recruits focused on him. Alexander stood nearby, leaning against the fence with a faint smirk, watching his younger brother's attempt to shape this ragged group into something formidable.

"We've been defending ourselves with swords and arrows for generations," Hadrian continued, his gaze sweeping across the men. "And while those weapons have served us, they're not enough. The world is changing. The threats we face are changing. And we need to change with them."

One man near the front—a wiry farmhand with calloused hands and a skeptical expression—raised his hand. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but all I see are wooden sticks. Are we supposed to beat goblins with these?"

Laughter rippled through the recruits, though it was more nervous than mocking. Hadrian let it subside before stepping forward, his expression calm but firm. "Fair question. And you're right—these sticks won't save us. But what they represent will."

He turned to Alexander, who stepped forward and pulled a cloth-wrapped object from a nearby crate. The recruits craned their necks, the tension in the air thickening as Alexander handed Hadrian the matchlock musket.

"This," Hadrian said, unwrapping the weapon and holding it up, "is a matchlock musket. It's not like anything you've seen before. And while it might look strange, it works."

The murmurs returned, louder now, as the men whispered to one another. Hadrian ignored them, focusing instead on the makeshift target at the far end of the grounds—a roughly constructed wooden board propped against a post.

"Let me show you," he said, stepping forward.

He knelt by the musket, his movements deliberate as he began the process. First, he opened the small pouch at his side, carefully pouring black powder into the barrel. He then added a lead ball, pressing it firmly into the barrel with the ramrod. The recruits watched, their curiosity building with each step.

Hadrian stood, holding the musket steady as he reached for the slow match—a length of smoldering cord held in place by a small clamp on the musket's trigger mechanism. He adjusted the match, ensuring the glowing ember was ready to ignite the powder in the firing pan.

"This is how it works," Hadrian said, raising the weapon to his shoulder. "The powder ignites, propelling the ball through the barrel. It's not as fast as a bow, but it's powerful—and it doesn't rely on years of training or strength."

He took a steadying breath, aiming at the target. The recruits fell silent, their eyes fixed on the musket.

Hadrian pulled the trigger.

The musket roared to life, the slow match igniting the powder in the pan with a sharp hiss before the main charge fired. Smoke billowed from the barrel, and the wooden target splintered as the lead ball struck it dead center. The sound echoed across the grounds, leaving the recruits stunned.

"Well," Alexander said, breaking the silence with a grin. "That'll do."

Hadrian lowered the musket, turning back to face the recruits. "This is the weapon you'll be training for. But for now, we focus on discipline—on formations, timing, and coordination. These wooden rods will serve as substitutes while you learn the basics."

The wiry farmhand from earlier raised his hand again, his tone less skeptical this time. "We'll all get one of those, right? Eventually?"

"In time," Hadrian replied. "But to use these weapons effectively, you need to trust each other—and trust me. That starts here, with discipline."

The murmurs among the recruits shifted, their doubt giving way to a cautious sense of purpose. Hadrian allowed himself a small smile as he gestured toward the rows marked on the ground. "Take your positions. Let's begin."

The training grounds bustled with activity as the recruits began to take their places in the hastily marked rows. Wooden rods—simple stand-ins for the matchlocks—were distributed among the men, their rough surfaces a far cry from the polished steel Hadrian envisioned for the future. Still, they served their purpose, helping the recruits learn the motions of loading, aiming, and firing in formation.

Hadrian stood at the center of the grounds, his sharp eyes scanning the group as they fumbled with their makeshift weapons. Some recruits handled the rods like tools they'd never used before, while others carried themselves with the stiff awkwardness of men unaccustomed to drills.

"Straighten those rows!" Hadrian barked, his voice cutting through the clamor. "You're not wandering in a field. You're soldiers. Act like it."

Alexander, leaning casually against the fence, chuckled. "You've got quite the way with words, little brother."

Hadrian shot him a glare before turning back to the recruits. "The first thing you're going to learn is how to stand together. When you're in formation, you're not individuals. You're a unit. If one of you falters, the whole line falls apart. Is that clear?"

A chorus of hesitant "Yes, my lord" followed, the voices uneven and uncertain. Hadrian's jaw tightened, but he nodded. It was a start.

Hadrian stood near the edge of the training grounds, his gaze fixed on the recruits as they stumbled through some rough training drills. His mind, however, drifted elsewhere—back to Sophia's pale face and feverish murmurs.

She had fallen ill days ago, her usual brightness dimmed by fatigue and heat. The healer assured them it was nothing unusual, just a passing sickness. Still, the sight of her so weak gnawed at him in ways he didn't expect.

She'll get better, he told himself firmly, clenching his fists. I have to focus on this. If I falter now, I'll be failing her—and everyone else.

Pushing the thought aside, Hadrian turned his full attention back to the recruits. He had work to do.