**Shadows of the Forgotten Heir**
**Chapter 2: Forged in Fire**
Fort Benning, Georgia
July 2010
The Georgia heat didn't arrive gradually; it hit like a fist. By 05:30 the asphalt already shimmered, and the air tasted of diesel and wet clay. Alex Thorne stood at the edge of the gravel formation area in brand-new ACUs two sizes too big, dog tags cold against his chest, watching the other recruits shuffle into lines. Most looked terrified. A few looked excited. Alex looked like he was trying very hard not to look like anything at all.
Drill Sergeant First Class Marcus "Mack" Ellison stepped onto the platform. Six-foot-four, built like a brick wall that had decided to grow arms, face carved from midnight and bad decisions. He carried no clipboard. He didn't need one.
"Listen up, maggots!" His voice cracked across the parade field like a bullwhip. "I don't care if your daddy's a senator, a janitor, or Jesus Christ himself. Right now you are all equally worthless. You will remain worthless until I say otherwise. Is that understood?"
A ragged chorus of "Yes, Drill Sergeant!"
Ellison's eyes swept the formation and locked on Alex for half a second longer than the rest. "Thorne!" he barked.
Alex snapped to attention so hard his teeth clicked. "Yes, Drill Sergeant!"
"You look like you've never been uncomfortable a day in your life. That ends today. Front leaning rest position—MOVE!"
Alex dropped into push-up position. Gravel bit into his palms. He counted silently. One. Two. Three.
Ellison walked the line, boots crunching. "You will push until your arms fall off, then you will push with what's left. Because somewhere out there is a very bad man who does not give a damn about your feelings, your pedigree, or your excuses. And when he comes for you, the only thing standing between him and the people you love is the miserable piece of meat you're about to turn into steel."
Alex's shoulders started to burn at thirty. By sixty the burn had teeth. At ninety his arms trembled. He locked his elbows anyway.
Ellison stopped in front of him again. "Still got some rich-boy pride in those arms, Thorne?"
"No, Drill Sergeant," Alex grunted. Sweat rolled into his eyes.
"Liar." Ellison crouched, brought his face close enough that Alex could smell coffee and Copenhagen on his breath. "I can see it. That little spark that says 'I'm better than this.' You want to keep that spark? Good. Feed it pain. Because pain is the only honest thing left in your life for the next ten weeks."
He stood. "Recover!"
Alex collapsed onto his forearms, chest heaving. Around him other recruits wheezed, vomited, cried quietly. He didn't. He just breathed through his teeth and stared at the gravel like it owed him money.
That night in the barracks, lights out at 2100, Alex lay on the bottom bunk staring at the metal slats above him. The mattress was thin enough to feel the springs. The air smelled of bleach, sweat, and fear.
A low voice came from the bunk beside his.
"You really Thorne? Like, Senator Thorne?"
Alex turned his head. The speaker was compact, maybe five-eight, skin the color of strong coffee, a fresh high-and-tight that still looked razor-sharp. A small scar curved under his left eye like a crescent moon. He extended a hand across the aisle.
"Diego Ramirez. San Antonio. You?"
"Alex." He shook the hand. Firm grip, calluses already forming. "Used to be from D.C."
Diego gave a short laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Used to be. I like that. Means you already know how fast shit changes."
They were quiet for a minute.
"You ever shoot before?" Diego asked.
"Range a couple times. Skeet, mostly."
"Skeet." Diego snorted softly. "Man, that's adorable. Wait till they hand you an M4 and tell you to put steel on target while people shoot back. Different game."
Alex stared at the ceiling. "I'm not here to play games."
Diego studied him in the dark. "Good. 'Cause this ain't one."
The next nine weeks disappeared in a blur of sand, sweat, and screaming.
Obstacle courses at dawn. Ruck marches with eighty-pound packs under a sun that felt personal. Night land navigation where the compass was wrong and the stars lied. Hand-to-hand drills where Alex learned very quickly that being big and angry wasn't enough—technique mattered more than temper.
He hated every second of it.
He also loved every second of it.
Because for the first time in his life, no one cared who his father was. Results mattered. Effort mattered. Pain mattered.
And he had more pain to give than anyone expected.
Week six, during the crucible event—a forty-eight-hour sleep-deprived slog through swamps, hills, and simulated combat—Alex's squad got pinned by "enemy" fire on a muddy ridge. The cadre playing OPFOR were merciless, lobbing smoke and blank rounds until visibility dropped to zero.
The squad leader froze.
Alex didn't.
He crawled forward through the muck, low-crawled under simulated machine-gun fire, found a gap in the wire, and flanked the position. When the whistle blew and the exercise ended, the cadre instructor—a staff sergeant with a face like chewed leather—walked over and stared down at Alex, who was still prone, breathing hard, covered head to toe in red Georgia clay.
"You just cost my team the win, kid," the sergeant said. Then he smiled—small, sharp, approving. "But you also just saved your squad from getting smoked for another hour. Not bad for a trust-fund baby."
Alex wiped mud from his eyes. "I'm not a trust-fund baby anymore, Sergeant."
The sergeant studied him. "Prove it."
Alex did.
By graduation day, October 2010, he stood taller—not just in height, but in the way he carried himself. Shoulders squared, eyes steady. The scar on his jaw came later, in Iraq, but the look in those eyes started here.
At the ceremony, when they called his name, he marched across the field in starched Class A's, accepted his certificate, and shook hands with Drill Sergeant Ellison.
Ellison leaned in close. "You still got that spark, Thorne. Only now it's burning clean. Don't waste it."
Alex met his gaze. "I won't, Drill Sergeant."
That night he called the only number he still had memorized.
Mark Reilly picked up on the second ring.
"Jesus, man. You sound different."
"I am different," Alex said.
A pause. "You coming back to Willow Creek after AIT?"
"Not yet. They're sending me to Fort Bragg. Then… who knows."
Another pause. "Vicky's engaged. Some developer guy out of Fresno. Big house. Bigger ring."
Alex's jaw tightened. He could feel the muscle jump under the skin.
"Good for her," he said. His voice was flat. Too flat.
Mark laughed once, short and dry. "Yeah. Sure."
Alex ended the call and stared at the blank screen for a long time.
Somewhere in the barracks a soldier was laughing. Somewhere else a radio played low country music. Outside, Georgia rain tapped against the window like impatient fingers.
Alex closed his eyes.
He pictured the study in D.C.—the oak desk, the crystal decanter, his father's thin lips, his mother's averted gaze.
He pictured Vicky's face when she threw the ring on the table, the relief in her eyes.
He pictured the road sign outside Willow Creek: POPULATION 4,812.
Then he pictured something new.
Himself, years from now, walking back into every one of those rooms.
Not asking for anything.
Taking it.
(End of Chapter 2)