Where the Silence Ends Trilogy - The Lines Between Book 1 - Prologue
Main Pair: Commander Cody/Original Female Character Medic
Genre: Romance, Military Romance, Survival & Legacy
Quick Summary:
A medic named Rhea serves alongside Commander Cody and General Kenobi, forming a quiet but deep bond with Cody during the Clone Wars. As the war nears its end, shifting battles and personal feelings push them to navigate the line between duty and desire—until the galaxy, and their lives, shatter.
1 OUT OF?
One Year
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A faint chuckle from the clone beside her. Older, first generation, or at least close to it. He had a scar above his left eye, cutting through his brow, resting slightly above it, then trailing down with a curve to his cheek. Never told her how he got it, she assumed reckless behavior or worse, suicidal sense of duty.
Either way, the two remained quiet. The spice tea that she had gotten a hold of while General Kenobi was busy with battle plans, he mostly understood, even after his clone Commander had watered it down for him. He took more of the clones' suggestions than he would like to admit, often humming and nodding. Feigning understanding, more than eager to return to his tent and drink his tea and eat whatever rations he had left.
Then, finally, the clone spoke. Dry as always.
“I will stay in the army when it does end, I have no real interest in anything else anyway.”
And like that, he answered a question that always lingered in the back of her mind. Well, at least in terms of her thoughts about his future. But she looked at him, not a side glance but fully. Taking him in as he was.
He looked like the rest of his brothers with deep-set brown eyes that were heavy-lidded with fatigue, tan skin that usually showed the scars he had earned. Even his skin was worn from his accelerated aging, highlighted by his close-cropped black hair that was within the standard regulations. But in the light, there were notes of gray at his temples. And if you asked her, the tight tension that was always set in his jaw, awake or not, had to be something he was born with.
She let out a sigh and looked away, because around six months earlier, the clones were issued new armor. Phase II, or how she called it, 'the bulk of someone who knows nothing of battle,' but she had cut it down to 'it looks stupid,' and more often than not, the Commander would smirk faintly at her words.
But what she didn't see after she turned away from him was how he caught the light in her eyes. The way the sun's rays hit her hazel-green eyes just right, where he could see what looked to be golden flecks in the irises, eyes that were always narrowed and focused when she was working on keeping one of his brothers alive while another medic worked on another clone elsewhere.
He gave a faint smile he would deny if anyone saw it or brought it up, a firm and direct 'this is a war, a battlefield, not some training field to play around on,' but for now, he would look at her like she held the secrets to life.
Because in this moment she had, even when her medium-length cut was somewhere between copper or maybe some forgotten name for some color that mixed reddish-brown together. The hell he would know, but the messiness of it, the imperfect barracks haircut that some clone trooper probably talked her into, was all tied up in a bun. Even though she kept her head covered with a helmet, which he wished the General would follow in line with.
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Koja’s Hearth: A Hidden Gem on Coruscant’s Mid-Levels
[Beneath the Armor: The Heart's Unseen Battle Standalone Story]
Not every place on Coruscant is made of chrome and durasteel.
Koja’s Hearth is a quiet little eatery tucked into the mid-tiers—a place that feels lived-in, warm, and real. Rooted in Togrutan tradition, it carries the smell of roasted root spice, the flicker of yellow lanterns, and the soft clink of bone charms above the doorway. The kind of place you don’t find in tourist guides, but remember forever once you step inside.
Clay walls. Woven hangings. Long tables and low light. Quiet music from a Shili string instrument. An aging matron named Koja who greets you like family. It isn’t flashy—but that’s never the point. It’s a comfort space. A gathering space. A place that feeds your body and something quieter inside.
The food? Rich with spice and history. Hearthbreads and stew, charred meats and grain domes, broths that feel like they’ve been simmering for years. If you’ve been away from anything that felt like home for too long, this is where you go.
And if you asked Cerra and Fox?
Cerra would get the Zelshari Stew—thick, spicy, grounding—and the Tura-Berry Bake for dessert. She’d hold a mug of Shili Spiced Brew between her hands like it was the only thing tethering her to the present.
Fox? He’d order the Spire-Grilled Saali Fowl, steady and lean. But eventually, the Core Hearth Bowl would win him over—quiet, earthy, unexpected. One Red Mist Tonic would sit untouched until he felt safe enough to take the first sip.
They wouldn’t talk about what they were to each other, not right away. But in a place like Koja’s Hearth, maybe they wouldn’t have to.
What to see some mockup illustrated lore post with in-universe “menu photos”? (yes, ai is used because I don't have cash for hiring someone for this stuff and I am not an artist, nor do I claim to be one on TV or market myself outside of written word.):
Beneath the Armor: The Heart's Unseen Battle [Talking about my story/sort of ranty because wow]
The Edge of Wanting....
Some nights, you write something and it just stays with you. Lingers under your skin, haunts the back of your mind even after you've walked away from the page. I’ve been sitting with this pair—her with her carefully crafted mask, him with the weight of a number for a name—and I can’t stop thinking about the moment things shift. That soft crack in a perfect facade. That breath of stillness right before everything becomes too much.
What happens when you're surrounded by power and prestige, but feel like a ghost in your own life? What happens when the one person who sees through it all is the one you're not supposed to touch?
I’ve been digging into this new story—still raw, still rough, still pulling itself together. It starts with a balcony, too much wine, and a silent guard who watches more than he should. And then it keeps unraveling: guilt, desire, quiet acts of rebellion in the form of touches too long, glances too familiar, and promises that neither of them should be making.
It’s messy. It’s complicated. It’s not heroic or clean. But it’s theirs. And maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. Or doomed. Maybe both.
Still editing. Still breathing it in. More soon.
Someone once told me my character Cerra was “giving pick-me vibes.”
Here’s the thing: she’s not. And here’s why.
Who is Cerra?
“Cerra is a human woman with rich brown skin that catches the light like polished wood, her expressive amber-brown eyes always seeming to hold more than she lets on. Her wavy dark hair, often pulled into formal styles for appearances, falls in loose waves when she’s herself, tousled and soft around the edges.
Shorter than Fox by a noticeable margin, she has a sturdy, battle-tested frame, built not for show but for survival. In casual wear, she leans into muted tones and functional cuts—leather jackets, layered tops, jeans—clothing that mirrors her grounded temperament. There’s a worn-in gravity to her, someone who’s lived too much life too fast, with a scent and presence that linger like memory.”
And then someone said:
“…Because right I got, she is pretty and unhappy. It giving pick me vibes….”
Let’s unpack that.
What is a “pick-me girl”?
A “pick-me girl” is typically someone who:
Seeks male approval by distancing herself from other women
Devalues femininity to appeal to men
Overperforms “cool girl” behavior (chill, agreeable, not emotional)
Centers male attention as a public goal
Cerra? She doesn’t fit this. Not even close.
Why Cerra isn’t a Pick-Me
She doesn’t crave male validation—she craves escape.
Cerra isn’t trying to be chosen. She already was—by a powerful man who didn’t choose her, but a version of her that served his ambition. She’s not performing to gain affection. She’s unraveling to reclaim selfhood.
“She was good at putting on the facade of a good wife… But as she stood straight up and looked out at the city… her eyes fell onto a Coruscant Guard…”
She’s not looking for a new role. She’s exhausted from the old one.
She doesn’t tear down other women to lift herself up.
She has no “I’m not like other girls” complex. Her discontent is directed at the systems trapping her, not the women navigating them.
“Cerra was not just a name on a list to some gala she didn’t feel comfortable going to…”
She doesn’t hate femininity. She hates how it’s been used as a leash.
She’s not the “cool girl”—she’s cracking.
She drinks too much wine. Her emotions spill out. She isn’t calculating how to win Fox’s attention—she’s falling apart in front of someone who finally sees her.
“Maybe the muscles in her face were simply far too tired, or maybe she was simply tired in general to keep the mask up.”
This is emotional exhaustion, not manipulation.
Her relationship with Fox isn’t about being desired—it’s about being seen.
Fox doesn’t make her feel valuable. He makes her feel real. Their connection is built on mutual emotional starvation, not social climbing or seduction.
“Cerra fell into it because of her status as a hero… all the things she didn’t want but it also won her the attention of someone who saw a chance to boost himself higher…”
She’s been used. She’s not trying to use anyone back.
If anything, Cerra is a survivor of romantic and political exploitation.
She’s not angling for attention—she’s clawing for agency.
Her arc isn’t about becoming someone’s favorite. It’s about surviving what happens when you’re selected for all the wrong reasons, and finding the courage to want something real anyway.
TL;DR:
Cerra is not a “pick-me girl.”
She’s a woman stripped of choice, playing a role until it breaks her.
She doesn’t want to be better than anyone else.
She just wants to be.
And Fox—tired, loyal, lonely—finally looks at her and sees someone worth being, not someone worth performing.
Some feedback just... sits weird.
I once shared a very rough draft of my story with someone. I made it extremely clear that it was unfinished, still being shaped, still raw. They gave me their thoughts—fine, I appreciated that. I thanked them. I told them:
“Well, I read it out loud but I look it over.”
“I am actually happy with this.”
“Thank you for not holding back.”
And then... they ghosted.
No follow-up. No clarification. No questions. Just gone.
Now, I’m not mad. Not everyone vibes with every story. But what stuck with me was this weird sense that they came in already decided about my main character—Cerra. Like they wanted to read her a certain way and then bounced once she didn’t fit cleanly into a trope.
I said I wanted honesty, and I meant that. But I want honest critique based on the text. Not assumptions. Not “Oh, I don’t like her so she must be a pick-me,” with nothing to back it up.
What really gets me is how they overlooked the entire point of Cerra as a character.
She’s not the typical “throws-herself-at-the-clone” OC. She doesn’t fall in love at first sight. She’s not running around being quirky for the sake of it. She’s not attached to some Jedi like Anakin where her personal drama floats above consequence.
Cerra’s husband is emotionally unavailable. She’s arm candy—chosen for political optics. There are clear hints that she was put in this marriage for public ratings, not love. And she knows that. The story knows that. Even after I tweaked the first chapter, those threads are still there.
But they didn’t ask about any of that. They didn’t dig. They didn’t even stay long enough to see where the character was going.
They just dipped.
And yeah... that kind of silence can say a lot more than feedback ever could.
Here is a randomly generated picture, based on her earlier description, because I am not an artist, don't claim to be one outside of the written word, and I don't have the income to spare for that (it's more to get an idea of what she more or less looks like):
Cerra isn’t the kind of pretty you notice in passing. She’s the kind that lingers in your chest hours later, like a memory you didn’t realize mattered.
Friendships, no matter how deeply rooted, often wither. Neglect, overattention, or being overshadowed by gardens others deem more important can cause even the strongest bonds to fade. But the ones that endure—despite tangled roots, despite storms, droughts, or how little others may value them—stand firm. They weather the unknown. They hold on. Because friendships, like everything living, never stay the same. Some blossom into something more. Others evolve quietly, growing alongside those who planted the roots with every fiber of who they are.
