The general’s boots crunched over the gravel of the training yard, his sharp gaze sweeping over the line of recruits. Most were lean, weathered men with eyes that already knew the cost of battle. But one figure stood out instantly.

The boy was smaller, shoulders not yet fully broad, uniform hanging just a bit loose on his frame. His helmet sat too low, threatening to slip over his eyes.

General Harlow slowed, arms clasped behind his back.

When the whistle blew, the recruits took off for the obstacle course—dust flying, boots pounding. And the boy—this... reckless boy —moved like a shot. He was past the first wall before half the men reached it. Rope climb? He was over in seconds. Crawling under barbed wire? He darted like a fox, low and swift.

By the end, he was the first across the line, chest heaving but eyes alight with something dangerous: pure determination.

The general stepped forward, blocking his path.

“You,” Harlow said, voice like gravel. “Name.”