Captain Lena Volkova was not just known throughout the Sandstorm Regiment; she was a living legend. With her ice-blue, severe eyes and sharp demeanor, she was the embodiment of iron discipline, a woman who believed that the slightest weakness could lead to catastrophe on the battlefield. To Volkova, discipline was not merely a rule—it was the soul of combat, a second instinct that had to be relentlessly honed. Any unauthorized personal item was deemed a deadly distraction, a hairline fracture in the mental armor every soldier was required to wear.
It was Monday morning. A scorching hot day typical of the desert region. The barbed wire of Delta Training Camp glittered under the early sun, setting a bleak and severe scene.
Hundreds of new recruits stood ramrod straight, sweat dampening their fatigues. There were no sounds but the buzzing of insects in the stifling air and the whisper of the desert wind. Captain Volkova marched down the line, her every step firm and resounding on the concrete. Her eagle eyes, sharp and unforgiving, scanned each soldier, searching for the smallest fault, a smudge, a crease, a stray hair—anything that might betray a lack of focus or non-compliance.
She stopped. The tension in the air was palpable, almost suffocating. She stood before Private Kael.
Kael was a quiet, almost invisible recruit. His face was perpetually smeared with mud and small scratches from the brutal training drills. He completed every assigned task with near-perfect precision, his performance surprisingly high for his age. However, he had one stubborn habit, a single deviation from Volkova’s rigid rules: he always wore an old pocket watch. The brass watch, tarnished by time, etched with faint carvings, and featuring a distinctive deep dent on its side, was meticulously hidden in the breast pocket of his uniform, resting right over his heart.
“Private Kael,” Captain Volkova’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as steel. “What do the regulations state regarding unauthorized personal items, Private?”
Kael immediately tensed, his body taut as a bowstring. “Captain, no unauthorized personal items are permitted, sir.” His voice was rough, a mixture of exhaustion and resolve.
“Then why do I feel a bulge beneath your breast pocket?” Volkova didn’t wait for an answer. She extended her hand, a definitive, non-negotiable command. “Hand it over.”
Kael hesitated, his blue-gray eyes meeting Volkova’s gaze with surprising firmness. He knew the watch’s fate. His silence was an unacceptable challenge to an officer like Volkova. It was not insubordination, but a quiet, desperate resistance, a futile attempt at protection.
“That is an order, Private!” Volkova roared, refusing to wait. With a lightning-fast motion, she snatched the watch from Kael’s pocket.
It felt heavy and cold in her palm. The crystal face was webbed with small cracks, yet still covered the hands that had stopped forever at an unknown time.
“An unnecessary item, Kael,” she said with utter disdain, holding the watch up for the entire line to see. “An emotional burden. A critical weakness. Are you trying to fight a war with a damn timepiece?”
To the horror of the entire formation, Captain Volkova raised the brass watch high and smashed it forcefully onto the hard concrete of the training ground.
The sound of the impact was deafening, a shattering noise that tore through the silence. The watch exploded. Tiny gears, hands, and pieces of the old brass casing scattered across the ground.
Kael remained at attention, a model soldier until the very last second, but his facial muscles twitched uncontrollably. His blue-gray eyes struggled to conceal a profound, painful loss.
“Now you are no longer distracted,” Volkova stated ruthlessly, completely unfazed. “Return to position, Private.”
She prepared to turn away to continue her cold inspection, but a small, shining fragment on the ground caught her eye. It was not a gear. It was not a piece of glass.
It was a tiny photograph that had fallen out of the ruined casing, lying amongst the metallic debris. The photo was carefully folded, pressed tightly against the brass lining inside, protected from the ravages of time and impact.
Volkova picked it up cautiously. The picture was yellowed with age, the image faded but still recognizable. It showed a young woman, strong and resilient-looking, wearing an old Special Forces uniform, clutching an infant tightly to her chest. In the bottom corner of the photo was a tiny, handwritten inscription, almost illegible:
“To my son Kael. You are the pride of Special Forces General A. Volkova.”
Captain Lena Volkova stared at the photograph. She looked at the name Kael. She looked at the deep dent on the broken watch casing—a dent she recognized instantly, an unmistakable mark. It was the only dent on the watch her father had given her mother before he was killed in the legendary Red Band campaign.
A powerful shock wave ran down her spine. She brought a hand up to her mouth, a gasp trapped in her throat. The silent, obedient recruit she had just punished over a minor regulation was no ordinary private. He was… her son, the child she had sent away years ago for his protection, and who had enlisted under a different name to earn his worth without special treatment.
General A. Volkova was no stranger. That was Captain Lena Volkova’s mother, and Kael’s legendary grandmother—a decorated General etched into military history.
Kael hadn’t been wearing an old watch; he had been carrying a cherished family relic, a connection to history, a sacred tribute to the two generations of warriors who came before him.
That truth changed everything. The training ground seemed to dissolve. Amidst the desert wind and the absolute silence of the witnessing soldiers, a moment of staggering revelation unfolded, shaking the very core of Captain Volkova’s steel facade.
