The First Charge
A new light burned in Asher's eyes. The promise of freedom—no matter how slim—was enough to fuel his determination. He trained with the shield relentlessly, ignoring the soreness in his arms and the ache in his legs. He would survive. He had to.
Sleep evaded him that night. The barracks stank of fear and sweat. Around him, men tossed in fitful sleep, some whimpering, others crying silently into tattered blankets. On the bunk above, Rin's breathing was shallow and quick—he wasn't sleeping either.
"You believe it?" Asher whispered, not expecting an answer. "About freedom after a month?"
A long pause, then Rin's voice, barely audible, "Does it matter what I believe?"
Asher thought for a moment. "No," he admitted. "But I'm going to survive regardless."
Sleep eventually claimed him, his dreams were filled with charging shields and faceless enemies.
***
On the second day, their morning training abruptly ended. They were ordered to line up at the front. It was their turn to run the shields.
The horn blew three long, mournful notes that froze everyone in place. The one-armed trainer cursed.
"That's the call," he spat. "The 25th Battalion got slaughtered faster than expected. You're up, shields!"
Asher's stomach dropped. They weren't supposed to run for another day at least—they weren't ready. Around him, faces paled as the reality set in.
'We're going to die today.'
Guards herded them to the armory, where they were each handed a massive wooden shield. Asher's was crudely made, splintering along the edges, with a single iron band reinforcing its center. It weighed like a small tree, and his already sore arms screamed as he lifted it.
"Asher."
He turned to see Rin struggling with his shield. The boy was skinnier than him, the wood nearly as wide as his entire body. His eyes were wide with barely contained panic.
"Watch the reload times," Asher said quietly, moving closer to him. "Four to five minutes between volleys. Count it in your head."
Rin blinked at him. "How do you—"
"Pay attention," Asher cut him off. "That's when we push hardest. When the guns stop, we run faster. Understand?"
Rin nodded, still unsure, but Asher could see him repeating the words to himself. It wasn't much, but it was something—a sliver of control in this chaos.
They were marched to the battlefield's edge. Ahead lay a muddied expanse of churned earth, dotted with craters and the occasional glint of spent bullets. Beyond that stood the Republic's frontlines—sturdy fortifications of wood and sandbags, with long gun barrels poking through narrow slits.
Behind them, the Kingdom's forces assembled in grim rows. Spears, swords, and the occasional rifle gleamed in the pale sunlight. They waited for the slaves—their meat shields—to clear the way.
Commander Garrik strode before them, his massive form casting a long shadow.
"Remember your purpose, filth," he growled. "You're nothing but shields. Run. Block. Don't drop your shield, don't fall behind, and maybe—just maybe—you'll live to see tomorrow."
Asher tightened his grip on the shield, his knuckles turning white.
'I am not a tool. I am not going to die here.'
"Ready?" Garrik raised his sword.
Asher's heart hammered against his ribs. Beside him, Rin was shaking so badly he could hear the boy's teeth chattering.
"CHARGE!"
The command split the air, and suddenly they were running. The mud sucked at Asher's feet as he lunged forward, shield raised. The formation rapidly became a chaotic stampede—some running faster, others falling behind. Training meant nothing now, terror drove them forward.
The muddy ground trembled beneath the stampede of feet. The pounding of Asher's heartbeat roared in his ears as he sprinted forward, shield raised high. His arms burned from the sheer weight, but he couldn't slow down—not when death loomed at his back.
Then, the thunder came.
Gunfire exploded from the enemy lines. Bullets tore through the air, slamming into shields with terrifying force. The impact rattled Asher's arms, nearly knocking the shield from his grip. He stumbled but forced himself forward.
Screams filled the battlefield.
The man beside him faltered. His shield tilted too low. A bullet tore through his throat. He gurgled, eyes wide in shock, before crumpling.
There was no time to process it.
Another slave tripped, his shield slipping from his grasp. He fell beneath the stampede, his cries silenced as the soldiers trampled him.
Asher gritted his teeth. He couldn't afford to think. He couldn't afford to fall.
Then, amidst the chaos, he noticed something.
The gunfire wasn't constant.
Every few minutes, the enemy's shots slowed—then stopped altogether. Asher realized this was the "long reload time" Commander Garrik had mentioned. A four-to-five-minute gap. A brief window where they could push forward before the next volley came.
He forced his breathing to slow, counting in his head. One minute since the first volley. Two minutes. Three.
The gunfire began to thin.
"Now!" he shouted to whoever could hear him. "Push now! They're reloading!"
He surged forward, ignoring the burning in his legs. Some caught on, matching his pace. Others were too terrified to listen, still bracing for bullets that had temporarily ceased.
For a moment—just a moment—Asher felt like more than a slave. He was making decisions. He was 'leading'.
Then the guns roared again.
A bullet grazed his calf, searing pain that nearly buckled his knee. He bit down on his scream, forcing himself onward. They were closer now. Close enough to see the Republic soldiers scrambling to reload their weapons, their faces tight with concentration.
Another slave fell, blood spraying from his shattered face. Another dropped his shield and tried to flee, only to be cut down by Kingdom archers—death from both sides.
Asher couldn't find Rin. Had he fallen? Was he among the bodies littering the field behind them?
They were nearly at the enemy lines when the command rang out.
"Shields, retreat!"
Asher turned immediately, running back with what little strength he had left. Behind him, the real soldiers surged forward, weapons drawn, roaring as they engaged the enemy in melee combat.
The plan was simple—horrifyingly so. Expendable slaves would charge first, absorbing the bullets, and allowing the trained soldiers to advance. When they reached the enemy, the surviving shields would retreat while the army engaged in close combat.
It almost made Asher laugh. How little their lives meant to those in command.
On his run back, Asher finally had a moment to process his thoughts. His lungs burned, his legs ached, but curiosity gnawed at him. Mustering enough courage, he stole a glance over his shoulder toward the battlefield.
In the distance, amidst the chaos of war, two men stood apart. Their blades clashed with inhuman speed, sending shockwaves through the air. One warrior, clad in heavy iron armor bearing the Thornhart Kingdom's emblem, fought against another wearing similar armor marked with the Republic's insignia.
They weren't ordinary soldiers.
A burst of fire erupted from one, scorching the air between them. The other countered, lightning crackling around his body as he lunged forward. Their duel was something beyond human, beyond anything Asher had ever witnessed.
'What would it be like to wield such power?'
For a heartbeat, he forgot his pain, his fear. He forgot he was a slave with a brand on his hand and death on all sides. The Weavers moved like gods among men, and something deep inside Asher resonated with their display of power.
A bullet whizzed past his ear, snapping him back to reality. He turned and ran, shield still clutched in his aching hands. The Kingdom's forces had engaged the Republic soldiers in close combat now, filling the air with the clang of metal and desperate shouts.
By the time he staggered into the war camp, he was barely able to lift his arms. His body was covered in bruises, his hands raw from gripping the shield. The once-sturdy wooden shield was now a splintered mess, riddled with bullet holes and barely held together.
Asher made his way to the reporting station, where the one-armed trainer sat lazily on a crate, chewing on dried meat. He handed over the ruined shield. Only then did the trainer glance at him, surprise briefly crossing his features before settling back into practiced indifference.
"Name?" the trainer asked.
"Asher," he breathed, still struggling to catch his breath.
The trainer made a mark on his ledger. "Three days rest. Report for training on the fourth day."
Asher nodded, turning to leave when a thought struck him.
"Sir," he ventured cautiously, "the fighters with the fire and lightning..."
The trainer's eyes narrowed. "The Knight-Weavers? What about them?"
"Nothing," Asher said quickly, lowering his gaze. "I just... I've never seen anything like it."
The trainer snorted. "And you never will again. They're not like us—not like you. They're chosen, trained from childhood. The kingdom spends more gold on one Knight-Weaver than on a hundred soldiers." He waved him away. "Now get out of my sight before I put you on latrine duty."
Asher retreated, mind still swimming with the image of those fighters.
After grabbing food from the mess hall, Asher collapsed onto a bench. His body felt hollow, wrung out, yet somehow still alive. Around him, other survivors sat in silent shock, their eyes vacant, hands trembling as they ate.
Then he saw him.
Rin was alive, sitting alone in the corner. His face was splattered with mud and what looked like dried blood, but he seemed uninjured. Relief washed over Asher—a feeling he hadn't expected. When had this skinny, frightened boy started to matter?
He limped over and sat across from Rin. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"You made it," Asher finally said.
Rin looked up, his eyes haunted. "I heard you. About the reload times. I counted." His voice cracked. "Three others followed me. All dead now."
Asher nodded, not knowing what to say.
"How did you know about the reload time?" Rin asked suddenly.
Asher thought about it for a moment then replied, "One of my previous masters oned a republic gun. I saw him use it"
Something shifted in Rin's expression—a spark of something beyond fear and resignation. Recognition, maybe. Understanding.
"Three days," Rin said quietly. "Then we do it again."
Asher felt the weight of the slave mark on his hand, a constant reminder of what they were. Property. Tools. Expendable.
But they had survived. They had made choices. And for the first time in years, Asher felt something dangerous taking root inside him.
Hope.
"Three days," he agreed. "And then we survive again."
As the sun set over the war camp, Asher lay on his bunk, listening to the moans of the wounded and the occasional sob of the broken. His thoughts drifted to the Knight-Weavers he'd seen, wielding powers beyond anything he'd imagined.
He raised his hand, staring at the slave mark burned into his skin. The mark that bound him, controlled him.
'One month to freedom.'
Asher closed his eyes, but the image of fire and lightning remained, dancing behind his eyelids, calling to something deep within him that he didn't yet understand.
***
Meanwhile, within a large command tent, a heavy map of the frontlines lay stretched across a wooden table. Around it stood four men, their armor gleaming beneath the dim candlelight.
Commander Garrik spoke first, his voice laced with frustration.
"My Lord, why must we keep attacking the Republic's frontlines like this? We're making no progress, and we lose good soldiers every day. The Republic isn't even counter-attacking. They just defend their lines."
Seated at the head of the table was Lord Alaric Drayven, a war hero from his younger days, now a weary but formidable figure. He remained silent for a moment, deep in thought, before finally replying.
"Do you think I want to waste my remaining years at the kingdom's southern edge fighting a pointless battle?" His voice was heavy with exhaustion. "This is His Royal Majesty's command. We are to keep relentless pressure on the southern front so the main army up north can break through."
Garrik frowned but remained silent.