Chadwick Rye

General Marcus Ironheart stood at the edge of the alabaster balcony, his weathered hands resting on the sun-warmed stone as he surveyed the training grounds below. Young recruits clashed in organized chaos—swords singing against shields, commands bellowed across the dusty yard, the rhythmic percussion of marching feet establishing the heartbeat of a nascent army. Their faces were still soft with youth, unmarked by the scars that would inevitably come, should they survive long enough to earn them.

A cool breeze carried the scent of distant rain, a welcome respite from the relentless summer heat. It stirred the silver threads now dominating his once-raven hair and teased the edges of the crimson cape that marked him as Commander of the Royal Forces. Forty-three years of military service hung from those shoulders—enough time to transform a desperate peasant boy into the most feared strategist in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Your young scholars await, General,” announced Captain Thorne from the doorway, his voice respectfully subdued. “They’ve assembled in the War Room as requested.”

Marcus nodded without turning, his eyes still fixed on a particular recruit—a gangly boy whose determination outweighed his skill, who fell repeatedly yet rose with stubborn persistence. Something about the youth’s tenacity stirred ancient memories, uncomfortable in their clarity.

“Tell me, Captain,” Marcus said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder, “what do they say about me in the barracks? Not the official histories—the whispered legends.”

Thorne hesitated, shifting his weight between feet. “They say you’ve never lost a campaign, sir. That you can read an enemy’s intentions from the pattern of their campfires. That you once held the Northern Pass with three hundred soldiers against an army of thousands.”

“Myths and exaggerations,” Marcus replied, though both men knew most of the stories contained kernels of truth. “And what do they say of how I learned these supposed gifts? Do they believe I was simply born with a sword in hand and strategy in my blood?”

“They… don’t speak much of your beginnings, sir.”

Marcus finally turned, the movement deliberate and controlled like everything else about him. The scar that bisected his left eye caught the afternoon light—a pale, jagged line that disappeared beneath his close-cropped beard. “No, they wouldn’t. Glory casts long shadows, and origins are often lost within them.”

He straightened his ceremonial breastplate—polished silver etched with the royal lion—more from habit than necessity. “Let us not keep our future commanders waiting. Today’s lesson appears increasingly… relevant.”

—

The War Room fell silent as Marcus entered, twenty young officers rising in unison from their seats around the massive oak table. All had been handpicked for this exclusive mentorship—the brightest tactical minds from noble families and distinguished military bloodlines. Their immaculate uniforms and perfect posture spoke of privilege and expectation.

Marcus gestured for them to sit, then removed an ancient scroll case from within his cloak. The leather cylinder was cracked with age, its metal fittings long tarnished. Several students leaned forward, curiosity overcoming their cultivated restraint.

“You asked yesterday about influential teachers,” Marcus began, his voice filling the chamber without effort. “About who shaped the general you hope to learn from.”

He placed the scroll case reverently upon the table. “You expected, perhaps, tales of legendary commanders? Of noble warriors who took a promising youth under their wing?”

A few heads nodded, though uncertainty had begun to creep into their expressions.

Marcus smiled thinly. “I had many teachers. Commander Alexius, who trained me in formations. Lady Ravenna, who taught me battlefield medicine. Duke Valorian, who showed me the importance of supply lines and seasonal planning.”

His fingers traced the worn surface of the scroll case. “But none of them—not the tactical geniuses nor the weapons masters—influenced me like this.”

With practiced care, he removed a brittle parchment from the case. Brownish-red stains marred its surface, the writing barely legible in places where some liquid had soaked through.

“This,” Marcus continued, “is the last military order issued by General Tiberius Blackthorn during the Crimson Rebellion. Delivered to my village when I was eleven years old.”

The room remained utterly silent as he carefully unrolled the document.

“It reads: ‘By decree of His Majesty King Aldric III, the village of Riverbend is deemed in support of rebel forces. All able-bodied men are to be executed. Women and children to be displaced. Structures burned. Let this serve as example to those who would harbor enemies of the crown.’”

Marcus looked up, meeting the shocked expressions of his students. “The blood staining this parchment belongs to my father. The courier permitted him to read it before carrying out its instructions.”

He rolled the scroll with the same care one might handle a newborn. “Forty-six villagers were executed that day. Women and children—myself included—were marched from our homes with nothing but what we could carry. I watched my village burn from the hillside road that led us into exile.”

One brave student raised his hand. “But sir… you serve the crown now. The same crown that ordered…”

“Yes,” Marcus acknowledged. “Because General Blackthorn taught me the most valuable lesson any military leader can learn, though it came at unimaginable cost.”

He returned the scroll to its protective case before continuing. “He taught me that words written on parchment can kill more efficiently than any sword. That decisions made in comfortable chambers like this one transform into blood and suffering in distant places. That power without compassion or understanding is merely cruelty wearing a uniform.”

Marcus moved to the enormous map dominating the eastern wall—the Seven Kingdoms rendered in exquisite detail, complete with miniature forests, mountains, and rivers. His hand hovered over a small, unmarked area that would once have been his village.

“I carry this scroll as others might carry a sacred text. Not for vengeance—though there were years when that consumed me—but as a constant reminder that we who command armies must understand the true cost of our orders.”

The afternoon light streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across the chamber. Outside, the training continued—swords rising and falling, orders being followed without question.

“General Blackthorn never knew my name. Never saw my face. I was simply one insignificant consequence of strategic calculus. But he shaped every decision I have made since that day.”

Marcus returned to the table, placing both palms flat against its polished surface. “You’ve studied my campaigns, memorized my battle formations, dissected my strategies. You know I’ve never ordered the execution of civilians, never punished communities for the actions of few, never sacrificed innocents for expedience.”

He tapped the scroll case gently. “This is why. My most influential teacher wrote this order, never knowing he was creating the man who would eventually replace him.”

A profound silence filled the chamber, the usual scratching of quills on parchment notably absent. These privileged young officers, raised on tales of battlefield glory, suddenly faced the sobering reality of command’s moral dimension.

“Tomorrow,” Marcus said finally, “we will return to conventional lessons. Siege tactics. Defensive formations. Supply chain management.” He straightened, his expression softening slightly. “But today, I needed you to understand that your most influential teachers may not be those who impart knowledge you wish to emulate, but those who show you paths you vow never to walk.”

As he gathered the ancient scroll case, preparing to dismiss the shaken students, Marcus caught sight of his reflection in a polished shield mounted on the wall. For a moment, he saw not the legendary general, but the terrified village boy watching flames consume his world. Both were him. Both had been shaped by a teacher who never knew he was teaching.

“Class dismissed,” he said quietly, tucking the blood-stained lesson back within his cloak, close to his heart, where it had remained for over thirty years.