THE BATTALION SON IN LAW

CHAPTER 10- Hammers

The morning sun felt like hammers against Max's skull as he groaned awake in his quarters, his mouth tasting like he'd gargled desert sand mixed with regret. The empty whiskey bottle on his nightstand served as a brutal reminder of the previous evening's festivities with William and Silver Caldwell.

What the hell happened last night? Max thought, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples. And how did I get back here?

A cheerful knock at his door made him wince.

"Come in," Max croaked, his voice barely human.

Jackson bounded in with his usual morning enthusiasm, carrying a steaming cup of coffee and what looked like military-grade aspirin.

"Good morning, sir! You look... well, you look like hell, actually," Jackson said with a grin, setting the coffee within Max's reach. "Rough night?"

"That's an understatement," Max mumbled, accepting the coffee gratefully. "How exactly did I get back here? The last thing I remember is William challenging me to a drinking contest."

"Lieutenant Caldwell brought you back," Jackson explained, his expression shifting to something more serious. "She practically carried you to your quarters. Made sure you got inside safely."

Max felt heat rise in his cheeks—whether from embarrassment or the hangover, he couldn't tell. "Silver did that?"

"Yes, sir. And, um..." Jackson hesitated, fidgeting with his ranger hat. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, but you should probably be careful around her."

"Careful how?"

Jackson gestured meaningfully toward Max's left hand. "You're still wearing your wedding ring, sir. Technically, you're still married to Mrs. Hamilton. People might get the wrong idea if they see you getting too... friendly with the Commander's daughter."

Max looked down at the gold band, still circling his finger despite the signed divorce papers. His expression darkened as he twisted the ring, the metal catching the morning light.

Damn thing feels like a shackle, he thought bitterly. Even divorced, Rebecca's still haunting me.

"You're right, Jackson," Max said quietly. "Thanks for the reminder."

An hour later, Max made his way to the training grounds, his head still pounding but his equilibrium mostly restored. The desert heat was already building, promising another scorching day of drills and exercises.

The morning session had barely begun when a commotion erupted near the sparring ring. A tall, lean man with perfectly styled blonde hair and an expensive tactical outfit was gesticulating wildly at Instructor Rodriguez.

"This is absolutely ridiculous!" the man declared loudly, his voice carrying the entitled tone of someone accustomed to getting his way. "Basic grappling techniques? Elementary defensive positions? I didn't come to this godforsaken outpost to learn kindergarten-level combat!"

Great, Max thought. Another rich boy throwing a tantrum.

Instructor Rodriguez, a weathered veteran with forty years of service, maintained his professional composure despite the obvious disrespect. "Mr. Drake, these fundamentals form the foundation of all advanced techniques. Without proper—"

"Foundation?" Matthew Drake interrupted with a harsh laugh. "I've trained at the Continental Military Academy! I've studied under European combat masters! You want me to learn from some backwater border station using techniques that were outdated fifty years ago?"

The other trainees watched in uncomfortable silence as Drake continued his tirade.

"The Caldwell Combat Techniques are a joke!" Drake sneered. "Slow, predictable, completely impractical in real combat situations. Any competent fighter could dismantle them in seconds!"

The training ground fell silent. Insulting the Caldwell family's legacy was tantamount to blasphemy at Meridian Border Station.

"Is that so?" Silver's voice cut through the tension like a blade.

She emerged from the observation area, her movements fluid and controlled. Every soldier on the training ground straightened instinctively as she approached the sparring ring.

"You believe our techniques are inadequate, Mr. Drake?" Silver continued, her tone deceptively calm.

Drake's chest puffed with arrogance. "Absolutely. Any real fighter could prove it in about thirty seconds."

"Then let's test that theory," Silver said, stepping into the ring. "You versus me. Standard sparring rules. Show us how easily you can dismantle our 'outdated' methods."

The crowd pressed closer, excitement building. Jackson moved to stand beside Max, his eyes wide with anticipation.

"This is going to be incredible," Jackson whispered. "I've heard stories about Lieutenant Caldwell's combat skills, but I've never seen her fight."

Drake entered the ring with supreme confidence, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles theatrically. "I almost feel bad about this," he announced to the crowd. "But sometimes lessons need to be learned the hard way."

He has no idea what he's walking into, Max thought, remembering Silver's legendary combat prowess from his previous life. This should be educational.

The match began with Drake launching into an elaborate combination—flashy strikes designed more for show than effectiveness. Silver sidestepped his opening attack, pivoted smoothly, and used his momentum against him to send him stumbling.

Drake recovered quickly, coming back with a series of punches that looked impressive but lacked proper technique. Silver blocked efficiently, her movements economical and precise.

On the third exchange, she caught his overextended right hand, used a basic joint lock to control his arm, swept his legs, and put him on the ground with a simple takedown.

The match was over in five moves, exactly as Silver had predicted.

The crowd erupted in cheers, soldiers whistling and applauding their lieutenant's demonstration of superior skill.

"Outstanding!" Jackson exclaimed, clapping enthusiastically. "Did you see how she used his aggression against him? The way she turned his own momentum into a weapon? That was textbook Caldwell technique!"

Max watched the celebration with growing dismay. What he'd just witnessed bore little resemblance to the Silver Caldwell he remembered—the warrior whose combat skills had been spoken of in reverent whispers, whose techniques had revolutionized border defense tactics.

This Silver had been competent, certainly. She'd defeated Drake handily. But her movements lacked the fluid grace he remembered, the lightning-fast combinations that had made her legendary. Her technique was solid but unremarkable, effective but not extraordinary.

She's nowhere near her potential, Max realized with mounting disappointment. In my timeline, by this point she was already developing the advanced techniques that would make her famous. This Silver is good, but not great. Not yet.

The words escaped before he could stop them:

"That was terrible!"

The desert wind, which had been nothing more than a gentle breeze moments before, chose that exact instant to shift and strengthen, carrying his voice clearly across the training ground.

The cheering stopped abruptly.

Every head turned toward Max, expressions ranging from shock to outrage. In the center of the ring, Silver Caldwell stood frozen, her face cycling through confusion, hurt, and finally settling on cold fury.

Oh, shit, Max thought, his blood turning to ice water. She heard me.

The silence stretched like a taut wire, ready to snap. Jackson stared at Max in horror, clearly unable to comprehend why anyone would insult Silver's demonstration.

Silver's voice, when she finally spoke, was deadly quiet.

"Excuse me?"

Max opened his mouth, desperately searching for words that might salvage the situation, but finding none. How could he explain that he'd expected to see combat techniques that wouldn't be developed for months, skills that belonged to a future Silver he'd known in another timeline?

There's no way out of this one, he realized with sinking dread. I just insulted the Border Commander's daughter in front of her own troops.