At sixteen, I joined the Border Guard. They gave me a spear that was too long and a shield that was too heavy. My first commander, a man named Hektor whose face was more scar tissue than skin, told me, "Veda, a spear is just a stick if you fear the man at the other end. But if you fear the man behind you more, it becomes a god."
I spent four years in the marshes, fighting bandits and creatures that crawled out of the mist. It was here I learned the first rule of command: Logistics is the true god of war. A hero can win a duel, but a general wins because his men have dry socks and full bellies. I spent my nights studying maps and my days studying the way men moved when they were exhausted. I noticed that when a man is truly tired, he stops pretending to be brave. That is when you see his true character.
I rose through the ranks not because I was the strongest, but because I was the last one standing. I had a gift for "reading the wind"—sensing when a formation was about to buckle seconds before it did. By twenty-five, I was a Captain. By thirty, I was the youngest Colonel in the history of the Southern Marches.