The air tastes like metal. Or maybe it’s just the nerves. The sky’s the color of old steel, and the wind keeps catching the edge of my uniform collar, whispering against my neck like it knows something I don’t. First day of service, and I already feel like the world’s holding its breath.

The base smells of gun oil and wet concrete. Everywhere I look, there’s movement, boots pounding, orders shouted, people pretending not to be scared. I’m pretending too. My hands are steady, my face blank, but my heart keeps skipping beats like it’s not sure it wants to be here.

They say our country’s “on the brink.” That’s the word they keep using on the news, brink, like we’re standing on the edge of a cliff, just waiting for someone to shove.

Varka’s the one leading our regiment. I’ve only seen him once before, during inspection, a man who looks like he’s carved out of the same stone as the tanks. His eyes are sharp but tired, the kind of tired you don’t fix with sleep. Rumor says he’s fought in three wars and lost count of the scars. The kind of man who doesn’t break; he just keeps walking through fire until the fire gives up.

When he passes by us this morning, the entire row straightens like we’ve been struck by lightning. I don’t even breathe. His boots echo across the training ground, slow, deliberate, heavy