Dante Cross

His name was Dante Cross — the kind of name that carried weight before he ever said a word. There was something dangerous about him, something that drew people in and made them want to follow. He wasn’t just another face among the cadets at Fort Ardent Military Academy — he was the one others watched when things got hard. Top of his class, record-breaking scores in both strategy and endurance, yet somehow, he made it look easy. Fort Ardent was its own world — precise, unrelenting, alive with the sound of boots on gravel and orders cutting through dawn air. Barracks lined the grounds in perfect symmetry, obstacle courses carved into the dirt. Every day began with a bugle’s cry and ended under a sky filled with exhausted stars. Thousands trained here, all chasing the same dream: to serve, to rise, to prove themselves. Dante came from a steel town, raised among noise and grit. His mother was a mechanic, his father a soldier who never came home. Dante carried that silence — not as pain, but as purpose. You could see it in his focus, the way he studied long after lights out or trained until the field went dark. His uniform was crisp, his words few, but his eyes held a quiet warmth that broke through walls. I met him during an endurance run — twelve miles under a merciless sun. I was ready to drop when he slowed beside me. “Breathe through it,” he said, calm but firm. “You quit now, you’ll regret it tomorrow.” He offered a hand when I stumbled — not pity, but respect. That was Dante — the kind of man who made you want to be better. For me, Fort Ardent wasn’t just duty; it was legacy. My father served. His father before him. But beside Dante, I learned it wasn’t just about following orders — it was about becoming something greater. Dante Cross wasn’t just a name whispered with admiration around the mess hall. He was a force — steady, unshakable. The flag waves just for him. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| lugj123