Chapter #46: The Ice Does Not Wait
Olivier Mira Armstrong began her day before the sun even considered rising above the horizon. In Briggs, the cold never slept—and neither did she. At exactly five in the morning, while the fortress was still wrapped in bluish shadows and the wind cut like blades, Olivier was already on the stone floor of her quarters, counting silently.
Two hundred push-ups.
It was neither punishment nor a performance for anyone else. It was pure discipline. The body, like command itself, had to remain sharp. Each movement was precise and controlled, unhurried. The steam of her breath mixed with the frozen air, but her arms did not tremble. When she finished—not a second more, not a second less—she stood, stretched her shoulders, and allowed herself a brief moment to confirm that her pulse was still steady.
At six sharp, the day began for everyone else.
Olivier dressed swiftly, adjusted her immaculate uniform, and stepped into the corridor just as the clock marked two minutes to six. She walked with a firm stride, her boots echoing against the metal floor. She did not need to shout yet; the sound alone was enough to begin spreading panic.
"Up, rats," she growled in a clear, cutting voice. "Time to work."
Doors flew open. Muffled curses, clumsy movements, half-dressed soldiers scrambling to react. Olivier observed everything with clinical attention. Then she saw him: a recruit still fast asleep, wrapped in his blankets as if Briggs were a warm inn and not a fortress designed to break weak wills.
She entered without asking permission.
She stopped beside the bed and spoke with dangerous calm.
"Look, princess. This isn't a hotel. Get up."
The recruit muttered something unintelligible and turned over. Olivier raised an eyebrow. She grabbed a bucket of icy water that was already prepared—it always was—and dumped it over him without hesitation.
The scream echoed through the corridor.
"What the hell—?!"
"Get up right now," she said, without raising her voice.
The recruit, soaked and furious, jumped to his feet.
"I'm not taking orders from a woman!" he spat. "I only obey real soldiers, not women playing at being one."
A heavy silence fell. Some soldiers watching from the corridor held their breath. Olivier stared at him, assessing him like a defective weapon.
"Big mistake," she replied.
She said nothing more. She turned and left the room.
"Listen carefully, all of you," she announced loudly as she walked away. "If by six fifteen you are not all ready and formed up in the main courtyard, you'll be doing five hundred push-ups. All of you. No exceptions."
The effect was immediate. Chaos turned into frantic activity. Olivier reached the main courtyard with steady steps, never looking back. The air was brutally cold, but it only served to clear the mind.
General Grumman was already there, waiting.
"Good morning, Major Armstrong," he greeted politely.
Olivier returned the greeting with a curt nod. She immediately noticed his gaze drifting where it shouldn't. She wasted no time.
"General, stop staring at my ass," she said bluntly. "The troops will be here any second."
Grumman coughed, visibly uncomfortable, and straightened himself.
"Well done, Major. Lead the troops to the training field."
Olivier nodded, then stepped forward.
"With your permission, General, I'll call roll first."
Grumman raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but gestured his approval.
Olivier pulled out the list and began calling names one by one. The responses were firm, sharp. When she reached the end, she closed the sheet slowly.
One was missing.
The same recruit.
Olivier raised her whistle, ready to give the signal that would condemn everyone to five hundred push-ups. Some soldiers were already cursing under their breath. Then, in the distance, desperate footsteps crunched through the snow.
The recruit appeared, running, soaked and gasping.
"Major Armstrong!" he shouted. "Ten seconds late! I'm sorry!"
Silence fell again.
Olivier looked at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, a barely perceptible smile crossed her face.
"Idiot," she said simply.
She lowered the whistle.
"Formation complete. Move."
The soldiers obeyed instantly. As they marched toward the training field, the message was clear: Briggs did not forgive weakness—but it did recognize those who learned quickly.
The training was brutal. Running through snow, hand-to-hand combat, endurance drills until muscles screamed for mercy. Olivier watched everything from the front, correcting stances, pointing out mistakes, demanding more than anyone thought possible.
She did not raise her voice without reason. She did not humiliate for pleasure. Every order had a purpose.
The recruit from that morning fell several times.
He got back up every single one.
When the training ended, no one questioned who was in command.
Because in Briggs, the cold does not wait.
And neither does Olivier Mira Armstrong.
(End of the chapter)