Chapter 1 : Arrival at Camp
The gates of the IAS military training camp loomed like iron jaws, swallowing recruits as they stepped inside. A high wall lined with barbed wire ran around the perimeter, and beyond it, the sound of whistles, shouts, and boots striking the ground echoed like drums of war.
Dragging a scuffed suitcase in one hand and clutching a file of documents in the other, Aarohi Sharma stopped for a moment at the threshold. The August sun baked the ground, making heat shimmer in the air. Sweat prickled the back of her neck.
So this is it. My first step toward IAS.
Her heart fluttered with excitement, but the sight of exhausted trainees running laps while an officer screamed at them made her throat dry. This wasn’t the coaching centers back home, with polite instructors and tea breaks. This was war.
She took a deep breath and pushed forward.
Other recruits walked beside her — boys with cropped hair, girls with tied-back braids, everyone in track suits. Some looked frightened, some confident, some already regretting their decision. Aarohi adjusted her dupatta, her chin lifting stubbornly.
“No backing out, Aarohi,” she muttered to herself. “You’ve dreamed of this too long. If they shout, let them shout. If they make you run till your lungs burst—well, then you’ll run.”
At the registration tent, she filled her details, collected her trainee tag, and followed the rest toward the parade ground.
The vast ground stretched endlessly, marked with white chalk lines. The smell of damp soil and sweat hung heavy in the air. Recruits lined up nervously.
Beside her, a petite girl with large glasses and hair escaping from a tight braid whispered, “Do they all look like they want to kill us, or am I imagining things?”
Aarohi gave a crooked smile. “If they do, I hope they choke while trying.”
The girl snorted, quickly covering her mouth. The trainer at the front shot them a glare sharp enough to slice. Aarohi’s face heated, but her lips twitched. She couldn’t help it—sarcasm was her only weapon against nerves.
The whistle blew again.
And silence followed.
Boots thudded, steady, unhurried. The crowd stiffened, eyes snapping to the man striding across the ground.
Arjun Rathore.
Though Aarohi didn’t know his name yet, she felt his presence like a weight pressing down on the air. His uniform was immaculate, cap tilted just so, medals catching the light. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that looked carved in stone—he walked as though the ground belonged to him.
His eyes swept the recruits, sharp and merciless. Conversations died. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
When his gaze brushed across her, Aarohi’s stomach flipped. She quickly looked away. So he’s the boss around here. Fine. Doesn’t mean I’ll worship him like everyone else.
He stopped at the front, clasping his hands behind his back. His voice carried easily, low and firm.
“This camp will strip you of every weakness you brought with you. Some of you will break. Some of you will cry. If you think IAS can be achieved without discipline, leave now. Better to go home today than disgrace yourself tomorrow.”
His words hit like bullets, cold and precise. Aarohi stiffened. So dramatic. He’s enjoying this. Typical military robot.
She leaned slightly toward the girl with glasses and muttered, “Somebody oil his gears before he rusts.”
The girl choked on a laugh. Unfortunately, it carried.
Arjun’s head snapped toward them. His gaze locked on Aarohi, sharp as a blade.
“You,” he said. His tone wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the silence.
Aarohi froze. “Me?”
“Name.”
“Aarohi… Sharma.”
“Step forward.”
Her legs moved before her brain caught up. She stood at the front, heat crawling up her neck.
“Twenty push-ups. Now.”
“What? For what reason?” she blurted.
“For disrespect. When I speak, you do not.” His tone never shifted, calm as a storm cloud.
The recruits watched, some amused, some pitying. Aarohi’s pride burned hotter than the sun. She dropped to the ground and started, arms trembling by fifteen, but she pushed till twenty, teeth gritted.
When she stood, her face was flushed, hair sticking to her forehead.
“Better,” Arjun said evenly. “Back in line.”
Aarohi obeyed, glare sharp enough to pierce armor. Under her breath, she hissed, “Arrogant tyrant.”
For a fraction of a second, she thought she saw something flicker across his face—not anger, but the faintest ghost of a smile. Then it was gone.
The rest of the day blurred in a haze of shouting, drills, aching muscles, and sweat. By evening, Aarohi collapsed on her bunk, cursing the “uniformed robot” with every ounce of breath left in her.
And yet… when she closed her eyes, the image that lingered wasn’t his punishments.
It was the way his eyes had stayed on her—too long, too steady.
Far away, in his private quarters, Arjun stood at the window, arms folded, gaze fixed on the barracks. His face was unreadable, but his voice, low and hoarse, broke the silence.
“You’re finally here.”
