Once again, Paul woke up crying.
He had dreamt of it again.
It was always the same.
He would find himself back in Rand, eating porridge with his mother. Her soft voice was reassuring him as he was about to leave for battle. The smell of food, the rustling of dried reeds on the floor, his mother’s shaky breathing, it was all there. But suddenly, the popping of the fire in the hearth would become louder and louder. The dancing flames would deafen him like grenades as the flickers grew larger, burning away at the sight before him. He would try to get up and tear his mother away from the flames, but was chained to the chair, forced to watch as the flames swallow his hearth, his house, his mother…
He wanted to get up and catch some fresh air, but didn’t dare to disturb the soft weight of Lotti’s arm resting on his chest. Instead, he focused on her gentle rhythmic breaths, hoping it would bring him at least a semblance of calm.
Ever since he returned from Rand, he’d lived through the same nightmare every night.
Paul just wanted it to go away. To stop.
At first he tried to avoid sleep as much as possible, but Lotti quickly put an end to that. She insisted that sleep is essential for health. And Paul didn’t dare to push back, worried it might make her feel like he is being cruel to her, like back when his father died and he refused her help. Because of this, he agreed to follow her advice even if it meant dealing with the horrifying dreams each night.
After everything, he didn’t want to lose her too.
Her sweet smile, her comforting presence, her eyes shining like the twin Suns. Without her, he would probably not have managed to get through the first dozen days in Grenzberg. He could barely keep himself together after returning from Rand as it was. But having her by his side was like having a fire to come home to after a day in the cold. It didn't make the cold any less cold—but it helped.
Eventually, the first of the twin Suns crept through the narrow windows of the great hall.
It was time to go.
He carefully lifted Lotti's arm and set it down on the blanket beside her. He sat on the edge of the bedding for a moment, pressing his fingers against his eyes. The nightmare was already fading at the edges, the way it always did in daylight. His mother's face was the last thing to go.
He stayed still a moment longer. Then got up.
He put on his brave face along with his clothes.
The new soldiers already thought him too young to command them—some were even jokingly calling him the Little Corporal when he’d look away.
He didn’t need to give them more reasons to doubt him.
***
A rough line of recruits clumsily saluted Paul as he passed them by.
Thirty people.
It was almost as big as the entire army that set out from Rand.
But unlike then, there were no Kurt or Ralf to defer to. Lord Karl had told them that their absence, such as during the battle on the bridge, would become a rule, rather than an exception. He said they were to be kept for important missions that normal soldiers could not handle. And the troops needed officers who could be with them on the field.
Because of that, Paul was now one of those expected to give orders.
But not just give them. He had to come up with them, enforce them, and stand behind them if they turned out incorrect.
He needed to lead.
Paul kept waiting for the moment it would start feeling natural.
So far, it had not.
Still, each morning he got up, put on his clothes, and showed up to the training grounds. He was given a duty to fulfil by Lord Karl, and after everything the prince had done for them, Paul didn’t want to disappoint. He owed Lord Karl that much. He owed Rand that much.
“Are we going to be running around the castle town again… sir?” one of the younger men asked him as Paul returned their greeting with a stiff salute.
“Bah, not that again. I joined to be a soldier, not a runner,” another complained in a somewhat quieter tone.
“Or a ditch digger…” a third one added with a nod.
Paul couldn’t help but chuckle dryly.
He understood the new recruits better than they probably imagined.
When he first joined Lord Karl’s army, he was the first to sigh and complain to anyone who would listen. All those seemingly useless drills and exercises. Not to mention how they spent the first few dozen days without even seeing a proper weapon. If it wasn’t for the meat in the porridge, he would have left after the first few days.
Thinking back to it now, it felt so distant. Even though it was only a season ago. Back when Rand was still…
Paul shook his head as the uneasy feeling started to grip his heart once again.
He forced his shoulders straight.
“Soldiers! You knew what the expectations were when you joined.” Paul answered the trio in the firmest voice he could manage. “You are all Lord Karl’s soldiers now and have to follow orders given to you. And if you disagree, you are free to leave. This is not a levy.”
He wanted to explain more, but both Dietrich and August had told him to keep his distance from the new men for now. They said it maintains discipline. The recruits would simply have to learn the value of their exercises by themselves, just as Paul had.
“Besides, it’s not that bad.” Paul continued in a slightly more lenient tone. “You do the work of a labourer but get paid twice as much.”
The answer earned him a few wry smiles, but it was clear no one was all too impressed.
Still, they spoke no more as the formation set off on their morning run, boots squelching in the muddy path that wound through the castle town. Paul took his place at the head, setting a steady pace.
***
They were just finishing their second lap around the fields when a commotion interrupted their run.
Two recruits, probably ones from Eric’s group, stood in front of the baker's stall. The baker, a stout woman with flour smeared across her apron, was waving her hands, her voice rising shrill enough to carry.
“I told you already! I can't accept that,” she was saying, pushing something back across her wooden counter. “What am I supposed to do with this? Feed it to my children?”
The recruit looked helpless as he held up one of Lord Karl’s new Marks. “But the lord decreed—“
“The lord can decree the Suns are made of dough.” The baker's voice cracked. “You think I haven't heard about these Marks? My cousin took them to the castle to exchange for real coins, and they told him to come back in three days. Three days." She spat on the ground. “It’s promises, not money. And I've lived through enough famines to know what promises are worth. I am not giving you my bread for it, let alone the change.”
The recruits behind Paul had stopped, murmuring. He felt their eyes on him.
They were all waiting for him to do something.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked in a stiff tone as he approached the stall.
The baker turned her glare on him. “These men here want bread. And I want coin. Not this.” She held up the Mark between two fingers, as if it carried a sickness.
Paul looked at the recruit. “You haven't exchanged your wages yet?”
The recruit shifted uncomfortably. “The line at the castle was all the way to the gatehouse yesterday, sir. I figured I'd just… spend it directly. Like the lord said we should.”
“The lord said a lot of things,” the baker cut in. “The lord also said we'd have new ploughs by spring. Still waiting on those, too.”
Paul took a breath. He understood the baker's suspicion. He had felt the same thing himself the first time Lili's assistant pressed one of the flimsy things into his hand.
But he also understood that Lord Karl had given them those Marks for a reason, even if Paul didn't fully grasp it. If nothing else, Lotti always insisted he use them for payment whenever he could. She said it was an important piece of Lord Karl’s plans.
With a sigh, Paul stepped forward and reached into his own pouch. He pulled out his last two coppers and set them on the stall. “Take this and give them the bread. And keep the Mark.”
The baker's eyes narrowed. “Why would I keep useless rags?”
“If nothing else, you must pay your taxes with it. And it is worth a whole silver coin.”
A long pause.
Then the baker sighed, swept up the coppers into her apron, and pushed the two loaves across.
“Next time, bring real money.”
The recruit scooped up the bread, shooting Paul a grateful look before running back to their group.
Soon after, Paul’s group began moving again, though muttering trailed behind him all the way to their assigned construction area.
"D'you really think those Marks will catch on?" someone asked. “I mean, they are practical so you don’t have to haul coins around, if nothing else.”
Paul simply shrugged and permitted no more talking.
They needed to pick up the pace before they wasted any more time.
Because once their morning exercises were over, they were to continue digging the long trench that ran through the middle of the castle town and branched outward in various directions. Paul had hoped they would get started on foundations for the new homes instead, but Lord Karl insisted this needed to come first. Something about latrines and public health and keeping waste away from the water. Staring at the ditch—almost as deep as he was tall, its walls shored up with cut timber—Paul still had no clear picture of how any of it was supposed to work.
But he had learned, slowly, that not understanding something was not the same as it being wrong.
He picked up a shovel and dropped down into the ditch alongside the men.
It was another thing that Grandpa August often talked about.
To earn the respect of one’s men, one had to lead by example.