The Sovereign Codex.

Recognized Followers

Edrin waited for the world to change and it did not.

A thin thread of warmth slipped into his chest then disappeared almost immediately. There was no sudden rush of strength coursing through his veins, no clarity illuminating the chaotic haze surrounding him. There was no power to draw from the lifeless body of the squad commander lying dead at his feet. The Codex had whispered in cryptic tones, then gone silent, leaving him just a recruit with a cracked sword gripped tightly and blood spattering his once-white boots, a strong reminder of brutality at this moment.

Confusion and fear weighed heavily in his gut, that dark weight pressing down on him harshly. He felt like a marionette with cut strings, feeling vulnerable and lost. There was no time to untangle emotions, no luxury to process the dread gnawing at him.

Around him, the line was coming apart already.

Without the squad commander to guide them, the newer men floundered like fish thrown from a net. Two of them turned and sprinted toward the rear of the convoy, desperate to escape. Edrin watched in helpless horror as an arrow, sleek and deadly, found one of them between the shoulder blades before he could take ten steps. The soldier dropped face-first into the dirt, a sudden and brutal end to his flight, lying still, lifeless. The second man kept stumbling forward, panic propelling him until bodies pressed together swallowed him, scattering the remnants of their once-solid formation.

Edrin grabbed Taren by the arm, pulling him away from chaos.

They stumbled behind the nearest overturned supply wagon, the sturdy wood serving as a vague promise of safety against the onslaught. The wagon was thick, well-constructed, and bore the scars of countless journeys. It was filled with sacks of grain and crates of spearheads, vital supplies of a war effort turned into a makeshift barricade. Arrows thudded into the far side like a relentless drumbeat, sharp points embedding in the warrior's wood. A few soldiers crashed down beside them, breathless and wide-eyed, their expressions mixed with despair and tenacity.

Edrin looked up at the looming cliffs above. The archers held the high ground, their shadows stark against sunlight, a constant reminder that any foolish soul in the open was just a target waiting to be struck. The wagons, now upright and arranged defensively, had become the only cover that mattered in this hour of desperation.

He did not choose to take command. Instead, he recognized that no one else stepped up to offer guidance needed in chaos.

“Move that wagon. Push it tighter against this one.” His orders emerged sharp and clear, cutting through the tumult around him. “Shields up. Keep them overlapping.” The words felt foreign on his tongue yet oddly empowering. “Watch the left. They’re coming down the slope there.” His voice rose above the noise, ringing with unexpected authority. “Do not chase anyone. Stay behind the wood.”

Nine men responded, faces lighting with flickers of renewed hope. They shoved the second wagon into place, the unity of their effort creating a strong barrier. When their shields locked together, a small space opened between the two beds, forming a rough yet solid shelter from the storm they faced.

The golden light returned without warning.

[Recognized Followers: 9.]

Edrin stared at those words for a half a heartbeat, disbelief coursing through him like ice water. More men slid into the gap forged by their makeshift formation, drawn by the only glimmer of organization in chaos, and he could scarcely catch his breath.

[Recognized Followers: 14.]

The number hit him harder than any blade could—like the thundering drum of his own heart echoing in his chest. He almost stopped moving under the weight of it, nearly letting the sword tip drop. The shock sat cold and bright behind his eyes. But he forced himself to keep shouting. Keep pointing. Keep the shields steady.

More soldiers found them. Veterans with grit of experience etched into their faces. Recruits, whose eyes still held wide-eyed innocence of boys caught in maelstroms. Anyone who lost their own officer and wanted to cling to life was drawn to their makeshift refuge.

[Recognized Followers: 21.]

This time, something real surged through him.

Authority settled into his limbs like a second pulse, pushing back fatigue that weighed down his body. The deep exhaustion dragging at his muscles eased slightly, providing welcome relief amidst the turmoil. His thoughts sharpened—not into brilliance or anything superhuman—but just enough that chaos sorted into clearer pieces. He could see which gaps in the shield wall needed filling and hear the difference between arrows still falling and the heavier sound of boots striking stone, the warning rhythm of advancing foes.

In that moment of clarity, he understood that the Codex was responding not to the dead commander at his feet but to the men surrounding him—alive, breathing, full of fear but also determination. Not through bloodline or legacy but because these living soldiers chose, right in the heart of the storm, to listen to his voice.

Why it worked that way would have to wait.

The ground in front of their wagons began to fill with movement.

Dravaran infantry advanced in a loose but steady line, shields raised high, spears ready and glinting menacingly in the sun. They spotted the small knot of resistance and decided it needed extinguishing swiftly and ruthlessly.

Taren raised his head above the wagon bed for half a second, dread pooling in his eyes as he caught sight of the approaching threat. His face turned bloodless in realization of their predicament.

“Edrin.” The word was barely a whisper, laced with fear yet tinged with a trace of hope.

Edrin tightened his grip on the cracked sword, lifting it higher, a rallying banner against the encroaching tide.

Nearly forty enemy soldiers were coming straight toward them, each footfall echoing like a ticking clock, a countdown to an uncertain fate.