Later, during rifle training, the crisp crack of gunfire was a visceral shock, a punch to the gut that slowly began to normalize. Elara squeezed her eyes shut for a microsecond, the metallic scent of gunpowder filling her nostrils, before snapping them open, her focus narrowing on the target. She had always been precise, meticulous, qualities that had been dismissed as 'fussy' or 'intense' in her old life. Here, they were virtues. Under the watchful eye of Sergeant Thorne, her aim steadily improved, her scores inching upwards.
"Good grouping, Miller," Thorne grunted, a rare, almost imperceptible nod of approval. "Keep that up, and you might actually be useful."
It wasn't praise, not in the traditional sense, but in this world, it was an affirmation. A tiny ember of pride sparked within her, a feeling so foreign it almost startled her. She hadn't sought praise from her family; she had simply yearned for acknowledgement, to be seen not as an extension of Lyra, but as herself. And ironically, in this place of absolute anonymity, where individual identity was systematically stripped away, she was finally finding it.
As dusk settled, painting the sky in bruised purples and fading oranges, the barracks took on a different tenor. The harsh edges softened, replaced by the hushed movements of men and women preparing for an early night, the quiet murmur of conversations, the soft creak of bunks. Elara sat on her bunk, a dog-eared paperback clasped in her hands, though her eyes merely traced the words without truly registering them. Her gaze drifted to the small, dog-tag shaped photo tucked beneath her pillow – a grainy, faded image of Lyra, smiling brilliantly, oblivious.
A pang, sharp and unexpected, pierced through her. Not resentment, not jealousy, but a profound sadness for a connection that had never truly existed. Lyra, with her effortless grace and magnetic charm, had been the sun, and Elara, the satellite, forever orbiting, dimly reflecting a light that was not her own. Here, in the stark reality of khaki green, away from the glittering facade of her family, Elara was learning to generate her own light.
A voice, low and reflective, came from the bunk above hers. "Some nights, the silence is louder than any gunshot, isn't it?" It was Anya again, her silhouette a dark shape against the dim light stealing in from the corridor.
Elara closed her book, a sigh escaping her. "It is."
"What do you think about?" Anya asked, her voice imbued with a quiet curiosity. "When the silence gets loud?"
Elara hesitated, then spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "I think about what it means to truly be seen. And what it means to disappear. And sometimes… what happens when both are happening at the same time."
Anya hummed. "That's a heavy thought, Private. But I get it. Sometimes people join up to find a place where they finally belong, even if it's the last place anyone expects."
Elara lay back, Anya's words echoing long after the barracks quieted. Belonging. She'd never dared hope for it. But here, among grit and sweat and the raw forging of new identities, a strange, fragile sense of purpose had begun to bloom.
Tomorrow, the drill would begin anew.And with each step, each bruise, each earned breath—Elara was not just becoming a soldier.
She was becoming.