Strains of Command

Lena sat in the command center, the constant hum of the ship around her barely registering. Her eyes locked onto the holographic projection, flickering with data. Strategy reports, casualty lists, fleet status—it was all overwhelming. Her mind was a fog, burdened by the weight of the choices she had to make. Every decision felt heavy, too heavy. The life of every soldier, every civilian, weighed on her, and the haunting question never stopped echoing in her mind: Was she making the right decisions?

Tavon's voice broke through her thoughts, as he entered the dimly lit room. He seemed to have learned to read her moods better than anyone. "Lena," he said gently, "We need to talk."

She didn't look up. "About the war?"

"No," Tavon replied softly, taking a seat beside her. "About you."

Lena paused, her fingers stilling on the console. "I don't know how much longer I can do this, Tavon. Sometimes it feels like I'm losing myself in the mission. Each life lost, each decision—it feels like I'm becoming someone I don't recognize."

Tavon's voice softened, full of empathy. "You don't have to do this alone. The crew, the council—they all believe in you. But you have to believe in them, too. You can't carry all of this by yourself."

She gave a faint, strained smile. "I'm trying, but it's getting harder."

Tavon squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "You're stronger than you think, Lena."

She wanted to believe him. But deep down, doubt gnawed at her. Was she truly the leader they needed, or was she simply drowning under the weight of their expectations?