Paul's days began to blur together as he settled into the new routine.

  Every morning he woke with first light to perform the morning prayers and rekindle the fire from embers that had survived the night. As the kindling slowly caught flame, he put on the cauldron with yesterday's leftovers—usually a thick pottage—to heat while he brought in firewood for his mother to keep warm through the day. He then took his breakfast with a few slices of rough bread, hugged his mother goodbye, and left for training. After training, he returned home with the last rays of light, ate dinner, then helped with spinning and weaving to finish the lord's commission. Then he slept.

  Thinking about it, life was almost as monotonous as it had been before Lord Karl's arrival. Maybe even more so, given the mind-numbing training regime Kurt and Ralf put them through.

  On one hand, Paul didn't mind routine. It meant no surprise duties. It meant knowing he'd get a portion of porridge every day. It meant stability.

  But on the other hand... Paul found it really boring.

  He wanted more excitement. More fighting. More action.

  He could see it written on the faces of many others, too.

  Looking back, he really wished he'd bit his tongue before saying such things.

  ***

  That morning, Kurt announced they would be performing drills without direct supervision again. Lately their 'officers'—as Lord Karl insisted they call them—often had important business with the lord, so it came as no surprise.

  What they were doing that was more important than preparing the army to fight, Paul didn't know. He'd seen them hiking up the mountain a few times, but hoped they weren't just guarding the prince as he went for a stroll.

  But whatever it was, at least it meant an easier day. With no one to bang the marching drum and bark orders, everyone took it easy. They still carried their logs in case someone checked in, but nobody really put their back into it.

  However, they may have been a bit too careless.

  Just as they were about to reach the forest's edge and turn back toward the village, a dull thud shook the ground. Snow cascaded from shaking branches overhead. A moment later, a shout pierced the air.

  Paul turned to see one of the giant logs half-buried in snow. Next to it—Markus, clutching his leg and rolling around in pain. Even from here, Paul could see it bent at an angle that made his breakfast threaten to come back up.

  For a moment, everyone just stood there. Frozen. Staring.

  Markus let out another scream that echoed across the field.

  "Someone... someone get help!" one of his carrying team stammered, face pale as the snow around them.

  But nobody moved.

  Everyone just stood there, looking at Markus writhing in the snow, then at each other.

  Then, just when Paul thought things couldn't get worse, a howl echoed from deep inside the forest.

  Then another, closer.

  Then another.

  Wolves. The commotion must have caught their attention.

  Paul felt his throat tighten. He'd heard the stories—people from the village torn apart by hungry wolves. Old August had lost a sister that way, years ago.

  The howls were getting closer.

  Run. They needed to run. Before they shared Mai’s fate.

  And yet everyone still stood frozen, as if rooted to the ground. Some still gripping their logs.

  Someone had to do something.

  If only Lord Karl had given them weapons. Real weapons. Instead, the whole army would be wiped out by wolves before ever facing their first battle. What a piss-poor army this was.

  Paul thought of his mother. Who would help her if he died here? Could she manage alone?

  He'd never see Lotti again either. Never get a chance to apologise.

  Argh, if only this whole training wasn't so useless. What good was hiking and hauling logs and standing in formations and—

  Then an idea flashed through Paul's mind as he gazed at the scattered villagers.

  "S-square!" Paul first mumbled, then shouted at the top of his lungs as he rushed toward Markus, grabbing a thick branch on the way. "Grab a branch or a rock and form a square around Markus! Square!"

  For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

  Then, as if waking from a trance, everyone snapped into motion. Bodies shifted, feet found their positions on their own. One man next to another, shoulder to shoulder.

  And just in time.

  Several wolves emerged from the tree line—five, no, six of them. Lean and grey, their ribs showing through matted fur. Starved and desperate. Their eyes gleamed yellow in the dim light filtering through the clouds, and their breath steamed in the cold air. The lead wolf was massive, a scar running across its muzzle, lips pulled back to show yellowed fangs.

  Despite the shaking, despite gasps at the sight of those teeth, nobody broke formation.

  The wolves circled, growling low. Testing. Looking for weakness.

  "Hold!" Paul heard himself shout, his voice cracking. "Stay together!"

  His heart hammered so hard he thought it might burst from his chest. His hands were slick with sweat despite the cold, the branch trembling in his grip.

  The scarred wolf lunged forward, testing their resolve.

  "Stand your ground!" Paul screamed.

  The man to Paul's left—Helmuth—thrust his branch forward. The wolf dodged back, snarling.

  They held.

  The wolves circled them again, agitated. They weren't used to this many humans all at once.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "They're just trying to scare us," August said from Paul's right, his voice surprisingly steady. "Wolves go for the weak ones. The ones that run. We don't run, we might have a chance."

  Might. That wasn't exactly reassuring.

  The scarred leader suddenly darted in from the left, jaws snapping at the formation's edge. One of the youngest villagers in the army, Hansel, screamed and stumbled back.

  The formation wavered.

  "Fill the gap!" Paul shouted the words that Kurt and Ralf would shout at them. "Reform"

  Erich moved to cover, his face white but his jaw set.

  The wolves pressed the advantage, three of them rushing forward at once.

  The villagers jabbed forward with their makeshift weapons. One wolf yelped as a branch caught it across the snout. Another dodged a rock throw at it, trying a new angle.

  "Tighter!" Paul called out. "Protect Markus!"

  The men shuffled inward, the formation contracting. Closer together now, shoulder to shoulder, branches extended outward like the quills of some massive beast.

  The wolves charged again. This time one got through.

  It happened so fast Paul barely saw it. The beast slipped past a thrust, jaws clamping onto a woman's arm. She screamed and fell.

  "Carla!" someone yelled.

  The formation started to break.

  "No! Hold formation!" Paul roared, surprising himself with the authority in his voice. "Helmuth, pull Carla inside! Everyone else, close the gap!"

  They did.

  Helmuth grabbed Carla by her good arm and hauled her into the centre of the square, next to Markus and Hansel. The gap sealed almost immediately.

  The wolves pressed harder, emboldened by the taste of blood. They came in waves now, coordinated. The scarred leader would feint from one side while the others struck from another.

  Paul's arms ached from holding the heavy branch. His legs shook. Around him, he could hear laboured breathing, muttered prayers, whimpers of fear.

  "I can't—" someone gasped.

  "Just a little longer!" Paul cut them off.

  But how much longer? They were surrounded, outnumbered, armed with sticks and stones against teeth and claws. Carla's blood was pooling in the snow. Markus had gone worryingly silent.

  The pack sensed weakness. They tightened their circle, moving in unison.

  Because they had, Paul realised. This was what they did. Hunt. Kill. Survive.

  And the villagers were just... villagers. Farmers pretending to be soldiers.

  The scarred leader crouched, muscles bunching. This would be the real attack. Paul could see it in the way the other wolves positioned themselves, cutting off escape routes that didn't exist.

  We're going to die here, Paul thought distantly. We're actually going to—

  The wolf's snarl turned into a yelp.

  It stumbled, something protruding from its shoulder. An arrow!

  Another one hissed through the air, taking a second wolf in the haunch. Then another, and another.

  "Kurt!" someone gasped.

  Dietrich, Wulf, Ralf, and Kurt burst from the tree line, weapons raised. Wulf was already nocking another arrow, his movements a blur. Kurt shot again, catching a wolf mid-leap. Ralf then struck it with his cudgel and it didn’t rise again.

  "Hold that formation!" Dietrich bellowed as he advanced, letting loose another arrow. "Don't you dare break now!"

  The wolves, confused by this new threat, hesitated. In that moment of uncertainty, another arrow caught one clean through the ribs.

  The scarred leader, arrow still lodged in its shoulder, made one last attempt. It charged straight at Paul's section of the formation.

  Paul didn't think. Just thrust his branch forward with all his strength.

  It caught the wolf in the throat. The beast's momentum carried it forward, nearly knocking Paul over, but the branch held. The wolf gagged, twisted, and finally retreated, the branch breaking in two. Wulf's next arrow finished it.

  The remaining wolves, seeing their leader fall, broke and ran. One more fell to Dietrich’s bow before they disappeared into the forest.

  Then silence.

  Paul stood there, the remaining half of branch still extended, unable to move. His hands had gone numb—he couldn't tell if from cold or from gripping the branch so tightly.

  "Paul?" Helmuth's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Paul, you can lower the branch now."

  Could he? Paul wasn't sure his arms would obey.

  "Everyone alright?" Dietrich called out, approaching the formation. He looked them over appraisingly.

  "We got wounded!" someone called.

  "I know. Help is coming." Dietrich gestured back toward the village.

  Paul turned to see Lord Karl approaching, his winter cloak trailing behind him. And further behind came several women carrying satchels. Lotti was among them, Paul instantly noticed.

  The women moved immediately to Carla and Markus. Lotti knelt beside Carla, already pulling supplies from her satchel. Paul watched, transfixed, as they worked with an efficiency that seemed almost rehearsed.

  "Carla, I'm going to clean the wound," she said gently. "It's going to hurt."

  She pulled out a pale yellowish block Paul had never seen before. What did they intended to do with it?

  "Water," Lotti instructed.

  The other woman handed her a flask. Paul watched as she carefully poured the water into a small bowl and rubbed the block on its bottom. Then, to his surprise, a bunch of foam formed in the bowl, which she then rubbed onto Carla’s wounds.

  Next to her, Karl knelt beside Markus, examining the broken leg with careful hands. "Hrm, this is much worse than I thought. Seems like a bad break. But can’t say much more than that…" He mumbled into his beard and then looked up at his assistants. "A splint should hopefully fix this. Keep an eye on swelling, pus, redness—any signs of infection.”

  The other two women next to him nodded and quickly moved to treat Markus as directed.

  Within minutes, both wounded men were stabilised, bandaged, and ready to be carried back to the village. The women worked like they'd done this before, Paul realised. This was what they'd been doing at the manor—learning to heal, not... what Paul had assumed. He felt a flush of shame at his earlier suspicions.

  Karl then stood, brushing snow from his knees, and surveyed the group. His gaze swept across the formation, still roughly holding shape even though the danger had passed.

  "So," he said, his voice carrying clearly. "Who called the formation?"

  Silence.

  Everyone looked at Paul.

  Paul felt his face burn despite the cold. "I... I just... we needed to do something, my lord."

  Karl studied him for a long moment. "Your name?"

  "P-paul, my Lord."

  "Paul." Karl nodded slowly. "Good work. I will keep my eye on you.”

  Paul didn't know what to say.

  Karl then turned to address everyone. "I know some of you think the training seems pointless. Marching, formations, hauling logs. You want weapons. You want to learn to fight." He gestured to the dead wolves. "But what saved you today? Was it weapons you don't have? Or was it discipline you've been drilling?"

  The answer was obvious now.

  "Discipline is the most powerful weapon of any army," Karl continued. "It’s what makes you different than a levy raised by a noble. Or a band of mercenaries. It’s the backbone of a modern army.”

  He looked at Paul again. "But you're right that you need proper weapons. And you'll get them.”

  A ripple of excitement went through the group despite their exhaustion.

  Paul simply stood there, still not letting go of the branch’s remains.

  "You heard the Lord," Dietrich said gruffly, clapping Paul on the shoulder. "Good work today. Truly. Not many would've kept their wits like that."

  "I was terrified," Paul admitted.

  "So was everyone else. Difference is, you acted anyway." Dietrich grinned. "That's what courage is, boyo. Not the absence of fear—acting despite it."

  As they started gathering the wounded and the wolf carcasses, Paul caught sight of Lotti helping Carla to her feet. She glanced his way briefly, and for just a moment, their eyes met.

  She gave him a smile. Nothing more, but it instantly made his heart beat faster than when he was facing the big wolf.

  As she followed Karl back to the village, Paul looked down at the broken branch still clutched in his hands.

  It wasn’t a sword.

  But still it had saved their lives, along with the formations they practised.

  So, maybe, the training wasn't so useless after all.

  Maybe, Lord Karl knew what he was doing.

  And maybe, just maybe, they were actually becoming real soldiers.

  Sigh, it was much easier irl where half the village coud be named Hans...