CMSC Academy – Orientation Hall, Corven
The echo of footsteps against polished metal floors felt like the sound of reality setting in.
Olivia Compostal stood in a sea of unfamiliar faces, flanked by towering bulkheads and ceiling lights that glowed a cool sterile white. The orientation hall was cavernous—large enough to hold a small fleet—and every cadet, regardless of background, looked a little too small beneath its ceiling.
The Academy officials didn't waste time with pleasantries. A holoscreen flickered to life near the front as a stone-faced woman in a crimson-trimmed uniform stepped up to the podium. Her posture was blade-straight. Her voice, sharper.
"I am Commander Estra Malvek. Welcome to Corven. This is not a school. This is not your home. This is the crucible that will decide whether you become a member of the Corvenian Military Space Corp—or whether you wash out into the vacuum of irrelevance."
The words weren't poetic. But they rang with truth.
"You will be graded over the next two weeks through a series of trials—physical, mental, strategic. Your scores will determine your classification, your team placement, and ultimately, your future. Some of you were born to lead. Most of you will not."
Olivia swallowed, her throat dry. She looked down at her hands, then slowly curled them into fists.
This wasn't like the stories.
There was no awe, no heroic music, no triumphant arrival into a life of purpose. This place was cold, brutal, indifferent—and it demanded more than belief.
It demanded proof.
Cadet Uniform Distribution – Logistics Wing, Corven
The uniform didn't fit perfectly at first. It was close, but the shoulders were just a bit wide and the fabric stiffer than expected. Olivia shifted her weight from one foot to the other, adjusting the collar in front of the narrow mirror in the locker corridor. The CMSC emblem caught the light and shimmered faintly—silver wings embracing a lone star.
It looked… real. Heavy.
Behind her, a voice broke the silence.
"Not bad," the guy said, leaning against a locker with casual arrogance. "You wear authority well. Looks good on you."
Olivia glanced at him in the mirror.
He was tall. Dark-haired. Impossibly groomed for someone fresh off an interstellar shuttle. He wore his cadet jacket open, collar popped in what had to be a calculated act of rebellion. His smirk was the kind that practiced in the mirror every morning.
She didn't bother turning fully around. "Excuse me?"
"Don't get me wrong," he went on, walking closer, "I'm sure you'll do fine. But a face like that? You could skip half the trials and still be sitting in Command by next week."
He leaned a little too close. "We could make a good team."
And then he made the mistake of reaching for her arm.
Crack.
Her knee drove upward into his groin with the precision of a trained blade.
He let out a sound like a punctured engine, staggered backward, and crumpled halfway against the lockers with a wheeze.
"Let's get one thing straight," Olivia said calmly, brushing off the sleeve of her jacket. "I'm not here for your approval. I'm not here to make friends. And if you touch me again, I'll introduce your face to the wall, not just your ego."
She turned and walked out without a backward glance, the hiss of the automatic door slicing through the quiet.
Cadet Dormitory – Evening, Corven
Her room was identical to Mason's, though she had no way of knowing that. Compact, sterile, efficient. A small metal desk, recessed bed, and a screen on the wall flickering with her schedule for the following week: orientation briefings, conditioning tests, mental acuity drills. Everything lined up like an execution list.
She sat on the edge of the bed and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
The ache in her chest was still there. Not from the trials ahead—but from the silence. Mason. She hadn't seen him. Not yet. No messages. No sightings. He was somewhere on this base, possibly just floors away.
But she wouldn't ruin the surprise.
Not yet.
She unpacked a compact toiletry bag, a stack of folded underclothes, and a thin photo strip tucked carefully into the corner of the mirror—her and Mason at the overlook in Solivipad, sunlight caught in their hair, eyes full of possibility.
She was brushing her hair back, mechanically, almost hypnotically, when the door chime pulsed once.
Visitor request.
Her brow furrowed. "Yeah?" she called, voice wary.
The door hissed open.
Two uniformed officers stepped in—one short and wide-shouldered, the other tall and lean with silver-blond hair clipped to regulation length. Between them, practically slinking behind their shadows, was him.
Mr. Ego.
The smug cadet from earlier was not looking so smug anymore. His shoulders hunched in feigned dignity, eyes watering just a bit as he avoided her gaze like it might gut him again.
"Cadet Olivia Compostal?" the tall officer asked, voice flat.
She stood, nodding, arms loosely at her sides but tension blooming beneath her calm. "Yes, sir."
"We received a report from Cadet Vexlan here," the shorter officer said, nodding toward the bruised egotist. "He claims you assaulted him unprovoked. We're here to determine the validity of that claim."
Olivia's eyes narrowed. "With all due respect, that's not what happened."
The tall officer raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"He approached me. Made some… inappropriate comments. Tried to grab my arm. I warned him not to touch me. He didn't listen. So I made sure he'd think twice next time."
Vexlan opened his mouth, but one cold glance from the short officer shut him down before a sound escaped.
The tall officer regarded her quietly, calculating. His eyes weren't cruel, but they weren't warm either. Analytical. Like he was trying to see through her skin into the gears beneath.
"And you're certain he initiated physical contact?"
"Absolutely," Olivia said without hesitation.
The shorter officer grunted. "Didn't think a new recruit would be dumb enough to swing first without cause."
"Still," the tall one said, turning his wrist and pulling up Olivia's cadet ID on his tablet, "violence—even reactive—requires documentation."
He scanned the badge on her chest. The interface beeped softly, logging her file.
She caught it—the faintest flicker of something in his expression. Not irritation. Not judgment.
Something colder. More deliberate.
"Make a note," he murmured to his partner, though not so quiet Olivia couldn't hear it. "We'll keep an eye on this one."
The shorter officer leaned over, peering at the screen. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Potential," the tall one replied. "Promising potential."
His finger hovered, then tapped something on the interface. The words stamped onto her file in quiet digital ink:
—Promising Potential. Monitor for leadership aptitude.—
The tall officer looked back at her, expression unreadable. "That'll be all, Cadet. But in the future, don't be afraid to call for security before you resort to self-defense."
"Understood," she said coolly.
The three men exited, Vexlan still avoiding eye contact like it might ignite something.
The door hissed closed.
Olivia let out a long breath, her pulse slowly leveling. She sank back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling again, but this time her heart thudded with something else. Not fear. Not anger.
Curiosity.
Who were those officers, really? Why did it feel like her reaction hadn't just been noted... but measured?
Whatever this academy was, it went far deeper than uniforms and salutes.
And she'd just been marked—for something more than discipline.