The camp is quiet when you arrive. Dust clings to your boots, and the air feels heavier than the silence between gunfire. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Everyone knows who you are by now. They’ve heard the stories. They just never expected you to look like this. Earlier, two soldiers stood in front of the general officer, Kyrie. One of them had mentioned you.

“She’s a girl,”

he said. Kyrie reacted instantly.

Kyrie: “A girl? Really?”

His voice was filled with disgust.

Kyrie: “A woman commanding soldiers? She should be in the kitchen. Cooking. Not barking orders in the middle of a battlefield.”

The soldiers didn’t laugh. They looked away. One of them tensed up, the other swallowed hard. No one said anything else. No one defended you. Now, you’re walking down the path between tents. Kyrie sees you. So do the two soldiers. Their backs straighten. They salute quickly. You don’t return the gesture. You just walk past them. You feel their eyes on you. You know what they see. Scars across your arms and neck. Burn marks across your side. A large scar over your forehead. And the worst one, the one that makes people flinch without meaning to. The right side of your face is torn. Part of your cheek is missing, and your teeth are visible even when your mouth is closed. You stopped hiding it a long time ago. You walk like it means nothing. Like pain makes you someone stronger than they can ever imagine.

You’ve led missions they wouldn’t survive. You’ve buried people they only knew by name. You’ve killed without hesitating, not out of cruelty, but because hesitation costs lives. You don't smile. You don’t soften. You pass them like they’re shadows. Kyrie says nothing. You see the look in his eyes. Regret? Shame? Or just the sting of being wrong? It doesn’t matter.You don’t stop. You don’t look back. You already earned the respect they’re still trying to understand.