The Imperial Recruitment Center looked like every government building—designed to crush spirits and manufacture conformity.
I walked in wearing the plainest clothes I owned, which still cost more than most people's monthly salary. Didn't matter. The Crown Prince walking into a recruitment center was like a lion walking into a sheep pen.
Every conversation stopped. Recruits, drill instructors, even maintenance staff turned to stare.
"Lord Raven Vex'thara reporting for basic training," I announced to the processing desk.
The clerk actually dropped his stylus. "There must be—"
"No mistake. Process me. Unless you want to explain to the Emperor why his son was delayed?"
"N-no, my lord. I mean, yes. I mean—" He fumbled with his terminal. "Right away."
Twenty minutes later, I stood in the equipment room holding standard-issue everything. Gray jumpsuit, basic boots, regulation undergarments that looked like they'd been designed by someone who hated comfort.
"This is happening," I muttered, stripping off my civilian clothes.
The jumpsuit was too short. Of course it was. I stood six-two in a uniform designed for the galactic average of five-eight. The sleeves ended somewhere around my forearms, and the pants showed entirely too much ankle.
"Fucking perfect."
---
Morning was paperwork and processing. Medical examinations where doctors pretended not to be fascinated by the Crown Prince's biological readings. Equipment issue where nothing fit properly. Orientation briefings that could have been summarized as "don't die, don't complain, definitely don't die."
By afternoon, we were finally assigned to barracks and introduced to our training instructor.
"RECRUITS! FALL IN!"
The voice boomed across the training field. Six-foot-four of engineered muscle, scarred face, and augmented arms that could crush steel. The nameplate read "SGT. KRUEGER."
In the game, he'd been a tutorial NPC. In person, he radiated barely contained violence.
"Welcome to hell, maggots! I am Sergeant Krueger, and for the next month, I own your worthless asses!" His eyes found me in the formation. "Even yours, Princess."
The other recruits shifted nervously. Some had phones out, probably livestreaming this to half the galaxy.
"You!" He pointed at me. "Front and center!"
I stepped forward, maintaining eye contact.
"You the prince?"
"I'm Recruit Vex'thara," I replied carefully.
"I don't give a fuck what you call yourself. To me, you're meat. Soft, pampered, probably-gonna-die-in-the-first-week meat." He circled me like a predator. "Drop and give me fifty!"
I hit the ground and started counting. At twenty, my arms began protesting. At thirty, they were screaming. At forty, I was operating on pure spite.
At forty-seven, I collapsed.
"Pathetic!" Krueger kicked dirt near my face. "Maybe I should call daddy—"
I stood slowly, dirt falling from my too-short uniform. "Sergeant, you served at Kallos Prime, didn't you?"
His face changed instantly. "How do you—"
"I make it my business to know my instructors. Just like you make it yours to break recruits." I brushed off dirt, keeping my voice conversational. "So here's the deal: Train me hard. Make me better. But keep it professional, or we discuss what really happened to those three recruits."
The threat hung between us, unspoken but clear. His augmented arms whirred softly—a nervous tick.
"Back in formation, Recruit," he said finally, voice carefully controlled.
"Yes, Sergeant."
As I returned to my place, one display screen near the field flickered briefly, showing what looked like classified Kallos Prime footage before returning to normal. Just for a second. Just enough for me to notice.
The connection was still there, responding to emotional spikes.
"Everyone! Hundred jumping jacks! Move!"
---
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of physical conditioning that left me questioning all my life choices. Obstacle courses designed by sadists, formation marching until our feet bled, basic weapons familiarization that assumed we'd never held anything more dangerous than a dinner fork.
By evening meal, I was exhausted, sore, and covered in dried sweat and dirt.
"Enjoying yourself?" Zek asked, sliding into the seat across from me in the mess hall. He looked just as rough.
"Living the dream," I replied, poking something that might have been protein with my fork.
"Your little speech to Krueger was badass. Scared the shit out of everyone."
"Good. Fear is useful."
"So is having friends." He gestured around the mess hall. "Half these recruits are here because they saw your racing video. The other half are terrified of you. Neither makes for good teammates."
Before I could respond, I caught sight of Meus entering the mess hall. She was in standard military liaison gear, professional and deadly. Her eyes found me immediately.
"Commander," I nodded as she approached.
"Recruit," she replied, tone perfectly professional despite the slight smile. "Surviving your first day?"
"Barely."
She glanced around, then leaned closer. "Your uncle sent a message. Says to remember your timeline."
Right. Valor. The whole reason for this military charade.
"Understood."
"Your quarters—I mean, barracks. Tonight. We need to discuss... scheduling."
"The barracks are public."
"After lights out then." She straightened. "Try not to die before then."
She walked away, leaving several recruits staring.
"Dude," Zek said, "your bodyguard is—"
"My military liaison," I corrected. "And completely professional."
"Right. Professional. That's why she looks at you like—"
"Like someone she's paid to keep alive."
"If you say so." Zek grinned. "But if my bodyguard looked like that, I'd—"
"You'd shut up and eat your mystery protein," I suggested.
He laughed. "Fair enough."
---
The barracks were exactly what you'd expect—twenty bunks crammed into a space meant for ten, one bathroom that would inevitably become a war zone, and walls thin enough to hear every snore, fart, and midnight confession.
I'd drawn a bottom bunk between Chen—young, idealistic, probably eighteen—and across from Zek. Rodriguez, an ex-mercenary with dead eyes and prison tattoos, had claimed a corner bunk where he could watch all entrances.
"Is it true you killed forty ships in five minutes?" Chen asked as we settled in for the night.
"Forty-one," I corrected, checking my gear for tomorrow.
"Bullshit," Rodriguez called out. "No one's that good."
"He is," Zek said. "I've raced him. Dude's got weird luck."
"Not luck. Pattern recognition."
"Everything has patterns?" Rodriguez sounded skeptical.
"Everything."
Chen sat up. "Even people?"
"Especially people." I looked around the barracks. "Want an example? Chen, you're left-handed but were forced to learn right-handed writing. You still reach with your left first. Rodriguez, you've got a knife under your pillow and another in your left boot. Zek snores, but only when he's actually relaxed, which isn't often."
"How the fuck—" Rodriguez started.
"Pattern recognition," I repeated. "Useful skill when hunting pirates in the Outer Rim."
That got everyone's attention.
"Pirates?" Chen asked.
"That's the plan. Build a unit, hunt pirates, make the Outer Rim slightly less of a shithole."
"Sounds like suicide," Rodriguez observed.
"Sounds like fun," Zek countered.
Before the conversation could continue, the lights flickered.
"Lights out in five!" Krueger's voice echoed through the building.
Everyone scrambled for their bunks. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, when Meus's voice whispered from somewhere in the darkness.
"Your father's testing you."
I didn't jump. Much.
"How did you—"
"I know his methods. This won't be the last test."
"Any advice?"
"Don't trust anyone. Not even me."
"Meus—"
"In here, I'm just another soldier. Remember that."
The lights went out.
For about thirty seconds, there was peace. Then every screen in the barracks lit up simultaneously.
But it wasn't my father's face—it was Krueger's.
"Surprise training exercise, maggots! Command wants to test the Crown Prince's leadership under pressure. You have one hour to restrain him. Success means commendations and weekend passes. Failure means extra duty. BEGIN!"
The screens went dark.
But I knew better. This had my father's fingerprints all over it. Testing if I could handle betrayal from allies.
I heard weapons being drawn in the darkness. Standard training batons, from the sound.
Twenty recruits in a dark barracks. Most would go for direct assault. But I knew the layout—two exits, one window, ventilation shaft in the corner that someone my size could never fit through.
"Zek?" I called out.
"Sorry, man. Orders are orders."
"Fair enough." I rolled off my bunk silently. "But you know I memorized everyone's bunk positions, right?"
Nervous shuffling in the dark.
"And I know Chen's afraid of the dark, Rodriguez sleeps with a knife, and Zek, you snore. Loudly. Makes you easy to locate."
"Shit," someone whispered.
"Here's what's going to happen," I said, moving carefully in the darkness. "You're going to try to catch me. You're going to fail. And in the morning, we're all going to pretend this was a good effort. Because if any of you actually manage to restrain me, I'll remember it. And I hold grudges."
"Big talk," Rodriguez's voice came from the corner. "Twenty against one."
"Want to make it interesting?" I asked. "Anyone who actually touches me gets to be in my unit. Guaranteed slot."
Silence. Then the sound of feet shifting, bodies moving.
"That's a promise?" Chen asked.
"Crown Prince's word."
---