That was the point.
The base sat beyond a flat stretch of scrubland, perimeter lights glowing through fog. At the gate, a young private scanned my badge twice, frowned, then straightened so fast his cap shifted.
“Ma’am.”
I nodded and drove in.
The training field smelled of diesel, wet canvas, dust, and bitter coffee. I took a seat in the second row of the bleachers, where I could see everything and leave quickly.
Down below, recruits stood in staggered lines.
Noah was easy to find. He had our father’s jaw, our mother’s brown eyes, and the family talent for appearing certain when he was not. But I recognized the tension in his shoulders. He was trying too hard.
Sergeant Price paced before the formation like a storm in boots. I knew him by reputation. Voice like steel. Temper like a match. Integrity sharp enough to cut command itself.
“Formation!” he barked.
Boots struck dirt.
The sound moved through my chest. Some people hear discipline in that rhythm. I hear ghosts.
Noah performed well. Not perfect, but steady. When corrected, he recovered quickly. I felt a small, dangerous warmth in my chest and buried it.
Pride was risky when attached to people who could still disappoint you.
Then Price stopped.
His eyes moved across the bleachers. Over the parents. Over the sleepy admin with a clipboard. Over a contractor with a tablet.
Then they landed on me.
Something in his body changed.
His boots snapped together.
Every recruit froze because Price had frozen.
Then he raised his hand in a perfect salute.
“General.”
He did not shout.
He didn’t need to.
The word crossed the field like lightning.
A rifle clattered to the dirt.
Noah’s.
I stood, returned the salute, and said, “At ease, Sergeant.”
