Chapter 85: Squad Given

  Laurent reported in at first bell.

  The clerk looked up, recognition flickering before discipline settled. His eyes dropped to the badge at Laurent’s chest.

  “Vanguard,” he said, rising partway from his seat. “Report?”

  “Yes.”

  The clerk nodded once and turned, already signaling a runner.

  No congratulations followed.

  No questions.

  Vanguard presence was not discussed—it was passed upward.

  Laurent waited.

  The city beyond the walls moved in its tight, inward rhythm. No alarms. No crowds. Just work done quietly and without pause.

  When the doors opened, an aide stepped out.

  “Vanguard Laurent,” he said. “The council will see you.”

  Laurent followed.

  The War Council was already in motion.

  Maps covered the table, markers shifting as voices overlapped and separated again. Jorath sat at the head, posture unmoving, presence anchoring the room. To his right stood Osmel, armor worn and travel-scarred, listening more than speaking.

  Along the walls, Vanguard and Clause Wardens stood silent, attention fixed inward.

  Laurent stopped where indicated.

  The room did not pause for him.

  But it adjusted.

  A marker slid half an inch along the map. A Clause Warden shifted his weight to see him more clearly. One of the academy-trained Vanguards along the wall straightened without realizing he had done so.

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  No one greeted him.

  No one dismissed him.

  They were measuring.

  Not how strong he was.

  Whether he belonged in the room at all.

  Laurent held his posture and did not speak.

  No one announced him.

  Jorath looked up.

  “So,” he said. “Your name is Laurent.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “A strange name,” Jorath said, without judgment. “And you’ve taken Vanguard certification.”

  “Yes.”

  No approval followed.

  “You were present during the breach,” Jorath continued.

  “Yes.”

  A pause.

  “I heard you carried Lirien back inside the gate,” Jorath said.

  Laurent did not respond.

  “That’s a merit,” Jorath added.

  Not praise.

  Record.

  Markers shifted.

  “We have excess manpower,” Jorath said. “Volunteers. Refugees. Mostly commoners.”

  He gestured once toward the map.

  “Angry. Uneven. We were deciding where they should go.”

  Silence followed—not a test of courage, but judgment.

  “Are you willing to lead them?” Jorath asked.

  Laurent did not answer immediately.

  He stood still, letting the weight settle. He thought of untrained hands, fear that would turn into motion too fast, anger waiting for permission more than direction.

  “I don’t have experience leading men like that,” Laurent said at last. “Not in war.”

  No one interrupted him.

  “But I’m willing to try.”

  Osmel nodded once.

  “They’re not veterans,” Jorath said.

  “I know.”

  “Then don’t treat them like veterans,” the lord continued. “Keep them alive.”

  Laurent inclined his head.

  “…I’ll do my best.”

  That was enough.

  A slate was passed to him.

  The squad waited in the outer yard.

  They were rough. Mismatched armor. Old blades beside new ones. Stances uneven, discipline absent. Their eyes were sharp with expectation—and something uglier beneath it.

  Laurent stopped in front of them.

  He inhaled. Held it a fraction too long. Then exhaled slowly, forcing the tension down.

  “You’re all assigned to me,” he said. “As your squad leader.”

  A voice broke the line immediately.

  “I’ll listen,” a man shouted, knuckles white on his spear. “As long as we get to kill them.”

  Another laughed, harsh and eager.

  “Yeah. Don’t cage us. Just point.”

  Murmurs followed—agreement, impatience, hunger.

  One man stepped half a pace forward without realizing it.

  Another shifted his spear grip from defensive hold to forward thrust.

  They weren’t waiting for orders.

  They were waiting for permission.

  Laurent saw it.

  That was more dangerous than fear.

  Laurent let it run.

  “You’ll get chances,” he said when it thinned. “Not today. Not on impulse.”

  A few scowled. One spat to the side.

  “Then why follow you?” someone demanded.

  Laurent met their eyes.

  “Because if you rush, you die. If you hold, you live long enough to bleed them properly.”

  Silence returned—uneven, reluctant, but real.

  “I’m Laurent,” he continued. “I won’t promise glory. I won’t promise revenge on your schedule.”

  He gestured once toward the walls.

  “But if you follow my instructions, I’ll do everything I can to make sure you walk back inside them.”

  No cheers followed.

  A woman adjusted her grip. Someone else nodded once.

  Contained.

  Not loyal.

  That would do.

  Later, Laurent stood near the inner wall, watching patrol lights trace disciplined arcs.

  Strength had carried him this far.

  Now people would move when he spoke.

  And if they died, it would be under his command.

  He stayed there a while longer, then turned back toward the yard—already planning how not to waste them.