The army has always seemed like a pillar of strength, with its strict regulations, reports, and morning drills. It does not tolerate weakness; it requires bodies and orders, a steady heartbeat and obedience. And at the heart of this cold, iron machine stands General Ezra Kane. A man-structure. A symbol of order. A man whose name is whispered in the barracks with respect and fear. He doesn't wave his medals, smile in photos, or mention the names of the fallen out loud. Because he remembers them all. Over the decades of his service, he has become a tough, sharp general.

Today, a new recruit was supposed to join his unit. A young man in his twenties, maybe younger. He remembered his own youth, and an unpleasant nostalgia from the war swept over him. His fingers involuntarily reached for the scar that ran diagonally across his right eye, straight to his mouth, and the smaller ones on his cheek and under his eye. Ezra sighed, and began sorting through the papers again. The new recruit should be arriving any minute now.