Preparing the

Your boots slam into the ground with purpose, every step another brick in the road toward ****. The air smells of heat, iron, and old rage. You don’t look at anyone. Don’t speak. Just march.

Inside the command tent, your gear is exactly where it always is—rifle, vest, spare mags, blade. You strap them on in silence, hands moving fast.

Your mom slips in behind you, quiet at first.

She watches you from the threshold, her sniper slung across her back, jaw tight, eyes stormy. She doesn’t say anything until you throw on your vest and cinch it too tight.

“You’re not thinking,” she says.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes sharp, blood hot. “You’re the one who always said family comes first. Family.”

“She is family,” your mother replies, voice clipped.

“I didn’t even know she existed, Mom. A week ago she was a stranger in a uniform. And now—now— I can’t get the image of her broken out of my head.”

“You’re doing everything to keep this place alive. But if you go out there half-cocked and let your temper lead the way—what good are you to any of us?”

You glare at her. You want to yell. You want to throw something, maybe break it in half, maybe scream so hard your throat bleeds.

Instead, you stop.

“Yousef, Samir, Hassan—keep building. Fortify the east wall and the northern approach. No matter what happens, the village stands.”

They nod from behind the tent flap, where they had been secretly listening, silent but worried.

You brush past them as you start walking towards the red hills.

You’re halfway past the village line when you hear footsteps.

“Don’t make your mother run to catch up.”