The air around the Third Unit’s barracks was thick enough to chew. It was a repulsive cocktail of unwashed bodies, mildewed hay, and the sharp, cloying stench of cheap potato brandy. Constantine stood at the entrance of the stone courtyard, his silhouette framed by the setting sun which cast a long, menacing shadow across the filth-strewn ground. Beside him, Seraphina held a torch, the flame dancing in the evening breeze and reflecting in her cold, watchful eyes. The sounds of raucous laughter and the shattering of glass drifted from the open doorways of the sleeping quarters, a jarring symphony of indiscipline.
"This is not a barracks, Seraphina. It is a tavern where the patrons happen to wear rusted mail," Constantine remarked, his voice smooth and devoid of heat.
Seraphina adjusted her grip on the torch, her nose wrinkling at a particularly foul gust of wind. "The smell is worse than the sight, My Lord. I am told they have not held a formal roll call in over three months. The officers spend more time in the counting house than on the parade ground."
"Then we shall provide them with a wake-up call that they will remember into their next lives," Constantine said, stepping forward. "Gather the men in the center of the yard. All of them. Use whatever force is necessary to drag them from their cups."
"And if the officers object to being disturbed, My Lord?" she asked, her hand moving toward the hilt of her blade.
"Tell them their new commander is here to collect their souls," Constantine replied. "Or their excuses. Whichever they find easier to part with."
Seraphina moved with the silence of a hunting cat, disappearing into the dark maw of the barracks. Within minutes, the sounds of protest began to rise. There were muffled shouts, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the dirt, and the groans of men being forcibly awakened from drunken stupors. Slowly, a ragged line of soldiers began to spill into the courtyard. They were a pathetic sight; tunics were half-buttoned, boots were missing laces, and their eyes were bloodshot and glazed with confusion.
"What is the meaning of this? Who dares disturb the Third Unit?" a voice bellowed from the upper balcony.
Constantine looked up to see three men dressed in fine, silk-lined surcoats that looked far too expensive for their rank. These were the officers in charge of the unit’s logistics and welfare. They looked well-fed and arrogant, their faces flushed with a different kind of health than the men they commanded.
"I am the meaning, and I am the disturbance," Constantine said, his voice projecting with a quiet power that seemed to vibrate the very stones beneath their feet. "I am Prince Constantine, your new commanding officer. Descend at once, or be brought down as traitors."
The three officers exchanged nervous glances before scurrying down the wooden stairs. They stopped several paces from Constantine, trying to regain some semblance of dignity as the bedraggled soldiers looked on.
"My Lord, we were not informed of a change in command," the eldest officer said, smoothing his mustache. "I am Captain Vane. These are Lieutenants Harl and Marek. Surely there has been a mistake. This unit is... specialized."
"Specialized in what, Vane?" Constantine asked, his eyes narrowing. "Thievery? Sloth? Or perhaps the art of drinking away the King’s coin while your men starve on thin broth?"
"We do our best with the limited funds provided by the treasury," Marek interrupted, his voice oily. "The price of grain has risen, and the men require spirits to maintain their morale in such a dreary post."
"Is that so?" Constantine asked, turning his gaze to the soldiers who were now standing in a tense, silent semi-circle. "Is it morale you find at the bottom of these bottles? Or is it a way to forget that your superiors are stealing the silver meant for your bellies?"
The soldiers remained silent, but a low murmur of discontent began to ripple through the back ranks. Constantine walked toward a stack of wooden crates piled against the wall. He kicked the top one, and the sound of clinking glass rang out clearly.
"Seraphina, the torch," Constantine commanded.
He took the flaming brand from her and held it over the open crate, revealing dozens of jugs sealed with wax. The smell of high-proof alcohol wafted up, sharp and biting.
"This is the poison that keeps you weak," Constantine told the men. "And this is the fire that will cleanse you."
He dropped the torch directly into the crate. For a heartbeat, there was silence, and then the alcohol ignited with a violent, blue roar. The flames leaped high, licking at the stone walls and casting a hellish glow over the courtyard. The soldiers fell back, their faces twisted in shock as the heat began to radiate outward.
"My Lord! That is valuable property!" Vane screamed, stepping forward as if to quench the fire. "That cost the unit hundreds of gold pieces!"
"It cost the men their pride, and it cost this kingdom its security," Constantine said, his voice rising above the roar of the fire. "Every drop of this filth is a drop of blood you have drained from Astraia. I will not lead an army of sots."
He turned back to the officers, his expression shifting from cold to lethal. "But the liquor is only the symptom. You three are the disease. I have reviewed the ledgers you left so carelessly in the library. You have been siphoning forty percent of the food funds for the last two years."
"That is a lie! The records are... they are complex!" Harl stammered, his face turning pale as the firelight danced in Constantine’s eyes.
"Complexity is often the cloak of a thief," Constantine said. "I found the original receipts. You bought sawdust and rancid meat for the men while you dined on pheasant and imported wine. You stole from the very men who are supposed to die for you."
"You have no authority to judge us!" Marek shouted, his hand reaching for his ceremonial rapier. "We are nobles by birth! You are just a sickly prince playing soldier!"
Constantine moved faster than Marek’s eyes could follow. He didn't use a sword. He used a concentrated burst of Essence, driving his palm into the officer’s chest. The sound of ribs cracking was audible even over the crackling flames. Marek flew backward, hitting the stone well with a sickening crunch before sliding to the ground, motionless.
"I have the authority of the King, and the judgment of a tyrant," Constantine said to the remaining two officers, who were now trembling so violently they could barely stand. "And my judgment is death."
He looked toward the soldiers. "Who among you has gone to bed hungry this week? Who among you has seen a comrade fall ill because the meat was rotten?"
Nearly every hand in the courtyard rose, some slowly, some with a sudden, fierce anger.
"These men stole your strength so they could line their pockets," Constantine declared. "They are not officers. They are parasites. And I do not keep parasites in my house."
He signaled to Seraphina. She stepped forward, her blade sliding from its sheath with a whisper of steel.
"Execute them," Constantine ordered. "Right here. In front of the men they betrayed."
"Please! My Lord! I have a family!" Vane begged, falling to his knees in the filth.
"So did the men who died of the winter fever while you drank their medicine," Constantine said, turning his back on them.
The screams were short and sharp. The sound of steel meeting flesh was followed by the heavy thuds of two bodies hitting the dirt. The soldiers watched in a stunned, terrifying silence as the blood of their former masters pooled on the ground, steaming in the cool night air. The fire from the liquor crates continued to burn, a bright, angry pyre in the center of the yard.
Constantine walked to the center of the courtyard, standing amidst the heat and the smoke. He looked at the ragged men of the Third Unit. They were no longer looking at him with mockery or indifference. They were looking at him with a profound, soul-deep fear, mixed with a tiny, flickering spark of something else: hope.
"The old Third Unit died tonight with these three fools and their bottles," Constantine shouted. "You are no longer a dumping ground for the unwanted. You are my personal guard. From this moment on, you will eat what I eat. You will train until your bones ache. And you will never, ever be hungry again."
"And if we fail you, My Lord?" a voice called out from the darkness.
"Then you will pray for the quick death I gave these officers," Constantine replied. "Because I have no use for failure. I am rebuilding this kingdom, and I will start with you. If you wish to leave, walk out of the gates now and never return. If you stay, you belong to me. Body and soul."
No one moved toward the gates. Instead, one by one, the soldiers began to straighten their backs. They looked at the fire, then at the dead officers, and finally at the thin, pale man who had just changed their world.
"Clean this yard," Constantine commanded. "Dispose of these carcasses and scrub the stones until the scent of rot is gone. Tomorrow at dawn, we begin the real work. If any man is late, he will find out exactly how I deal with tardiness."
He walked toward the exit of the barracks, his steps light and his heart cold. The adrenaline of the execution was fading, leaving him with a familiar, hollow fatigue, but his mind was already moving toward the next move on the board.
"You have made a powerful statement, My Lord," Seraphina said, catching up to him. "But the smell of burning spirits will reach the palace by morning."
"Let it reach them," Constantine said. "I want them to smell the change. I want the first concubine to wonder why the Third Unit is no longer laughing. I want the King to know that his son has finally stopped being a ghost."
"And the men? Do you think they will follow you after seeing such brutality?" she asked.
"Brutality is a language they understand, Seraphina. It is the only language this world speaks right now," Constantine replied. "They don't need a father. They need a master who can provide for them. I have given them food and I have given them a common enemy. The rest is just a matter of habit."
As they walked away from the glowing embers of the barracks, the sound of the soldiers working began to fill the air. The clatter of buckets and the scraping of brooms replaced the sounds of drunken revelry. The Third Unit was being purged, and in the ashes of their old lives, Constantine was already seeing the shape of the army he needed. The darkness of the palace loomed ahead, but for the first time, Constantine felt like he was the one casting the longest shadow.
Aksara