I collapse onto the top bunk, muscles screaming from PT. Every joint, every fiber of me aches. Abigail's smirk from the mess hall still burns in my mind. The dorm is quiet. Shadows stretch over the thin mattresses. My roommates breathe in even, shallow rhythms, unaware.
The letter. The hand-sent recommendation for Advanced Tactical Training. It's a way out. A chance to leave this school and move up, to prove I can survive somewhere sharper, somewhere that will test me differently. And yet… I hesitate.
I want gone. The thought of leaving the classrooms, the drills, the endless physical punishment is sharp. I can taste it, freedom so close it almost hurts. But… Edward pops into my mind. He'd be alone.
No. He'll move up next year. He's strong. He'll survive. I push the thought down. Lock it in place.
Tomorrow. I'll give the letter to Command. I'll leave this school. Move into the advanced training program. I'll see what I'm capable of, beyond the AshFjord's normal grind.
The dorm smells of sweat, metal, and the faint trace of yesterday's rations. The thin metal of the bunk presses against my back, cold and unforgiving. AshFjord hums below, constant and low, like the heartbeat of the whole city. Every vibration seeps into me, a reminder that nothing stops. Not the war, not the drills, not me.
For now, I let my body rest. Tomorrow, I move forward.
Once tomorrow arrives, we're woken up by the sound of shouting, like always. Through the intercoms.
"AWAKE, AWAKE, AWAKE. WAKE UP YOU MAGGOTS, FALL IN, IN THE QUADRANGLE AT O EIGHT HUNDRED HOURS." The loud speaker says.
Everyone gets up and prepares for the day as usual, bathing, brushing teeth, so on so forth. I do it too. And with little time to spare, I make my way to the quadrangle and fall in for roll call.
Once that begins, it soon ends about 30 minutes later. Lucky the buildings of the AshFjord protect us from the sun but caring constant shadows.
"ALL PLATOONS, FALL OUT AND HEAD THE MESS HALL FOR MORNING MEAL!" A sergeant yells.
Boots clank against metal as we all make our way to the mess hall.
I request permission to fall out and make my way to the Command Office.
On my way there I feel sort of, excited. A new life.
I knock on the door and the person on the other side instantly responds.
"It's open."
I enter the room and stand at attention.
"Morning General." I say firmly as I salute him.
He salutes back.
"What is the purpose of your visit cadet?" he ask.
I shift slightly, keeping my spine rigid, eyes forward. The smell of machine oil and polished floors presses in from the Command Office. My gloves scrape faintly against the metal desk as I hold my salute.
"Sir," I continue, voice flat, precise. "I'm here to submit my recommendation for Advanced Tactical Training. A hand-sent letter. And… the monthly letters to my orphanage regarding placement."
The General, an older man with steel-gray hair and eyes sharper than bayonets, studies me. His hands steeple on the desk. The room hums with the faint vibration of the AshFjord below.
"Ryn Weber," he says, slow, deliberate. "I've been reviewing your records. You're thirteen, yes? But your tactical aptitude is beyond most of the officers here. You grasp strategy faster than men twice your age, and your performance in drills, superior. Explain yourself."
I blink once. "Sir, I do what's necessary. I adapt and I learn.
He leans back, letting his chair creak. "I've heard reports. Mess hall confrontation yesterday, cadet. Lack of Discipline?"
I let the silence stretch. "Sir. Abigail disrespected me. I responded. Discipline intact. The outcome… effective."
A twitch of a smile crosses his face. Calculating. "Effective. I like that word. You understand your value, yes? You know what doors this opens, what responsibilities it entails?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He scribbles something on a pad. "Advanced Tactical Training isn't a playground. You'll be tested, physically, mentally, strategically. You will lead simulations, field operations. You will encounter instructors who will break you. And you will continue. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." My voice doesn't waver. My stomach clenches with the thrill and weight of it.
"Then it is decided. You leave this school, effective immediately. You will be transferred to District-7 of the AshFjord. There, you will begin your formal training at the Advanced Tactical University."
I nod once. "Understood, sir. Permission to report there directly?"
He waves a hand. "Granted. Gather your belongings. You leave at once. No detours, no distractions. Your future begins now."
Hours later, I stand on the transport deck, the hum of the AshFjord thrumming through my boots. The district I'm being sent to is unfamiliar, but in a way that excites me. My recommendation letters and placement confirmations are secure in my pack. The city beneath me shifts, grinds, alive and unrelenting.
Tomorrow, I'll report in. Tomorrow, I step into something larger. A new battlefield.
I'm ready for it.
I sling my pack over my shoulder and make my way to Edward's quarters. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable at first. Then I see it, sorrow. He's trying not to show it, but it's there.
"Where are you off to?…" he says, voice low.
"I'm leaving," I tell him. "Advanced Tactical Training. I'm being transferred to District-7."
He exhales sharply. "You're… leaving now? Just like that?"
"Yes," I say flatly. "It's a hand-sent recommendation. I can't refuse it. Not if I want to...nevermind."
He nods, swallowing hard. "You're… going to be good at it. I know it. But… I'll miss you."
I pat his shoulder lightly, forcing a small smile. "You'll catch up. You'll move up next year. Stronger and Smarter. Don't worry about me."
He lets out a sigh, looking away, but I can feel him watching me as I leave.
The halls feel narrower now, echoing with my boots. And then I see her. Abigail, leaning against the wall, grinning. Her little posse behind her, snickering.
"So… Ryn Weber," she calls, tilting her head, voice sharp with mockery. "Finally getting kicked out?"
I freeze. Head down. My stomach twists. Their laughter echoes, sharp and cruel.
Abigail. I hate her.
Hate. She's...
Constantly questioning my abilities.
My mind spirals. Thoughts tearing at themselves. The anger, the humiliation, the old drills, the endless punishments, all of it piles up like fire. My fingers twitch. My teeth grit. I feel my composure start to crack.
I open my mouth, ready to strike with words, to let something, anything, break their smirk.
"Ryn Weber."
Sergeant Rivas steps through the hallway, commanding, precise. Abigail and her posse snap to attention, salute, and retreat, their laughter dying in the corners of the hall.
Rivas looks at me. "Taxi's waiting. Follow me."
We walk in silence. My boots scuff the floor, the hum of machinery around us. Finally, she speaks.
"Advanced Tactical Training, huh?"
"Yes, ma'am," I reply.
"You're looking more into tactics?" Her voice is sharp, knowing. "I thought a young woman like you would want to see what life's like… outside this walking fortress."
I nod. "Exactly."
She studies me. "Good. Along with Tactical Training, I suggest Wilderness Survival and Exo Extraction. Skills beyond strategy. Beyond the AshFjord. Keep that in mind."
"I… will," I say. I don't know what they entail, but I'll keep them in mind.
We reach the cab. She helps me lift my pack into the trunk, quick and efficient. I stand, salute. She returns it crisply.
"Safe travels, Ryn Weber," she says.
I slide into the cab, the engine humming to life. I glance back at the AshFjord wall. Unyielding and godforsaken. The first time I really let myself take in the sight.
And now… I'm headed toward a new set of walls. A new battlefield.
I clutch my
pack tighter. Tomorrow, it all begins.