It was 7 a.m.
The marshal stood in front of his men, eyes sharp, voice firm.
"Everyone ready?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Good. Our goal is simple—kill as many leader-level figures in the vampire camp as possible. Even if you die, don't back down. We succeed by any means necessary."
The soldiers straightened, fire burning in their eyes. Ezra and Sergei stood among them, clad in black armor that fit like a second skin. Ezra's looked clean, sharp, made for speed perfect for a swordsman. Sergei's was heavier, built for power.
The marshal raised his hand. "Remember this fear is for the enemy, not us. We strike fast, we strike hard, and we don't stop until the job is done."
A ripple of determination spread through the ranks. Weapons were drawn, blades glinting in the morning sun.
Ezra tightened his grip on his sword. Sergei smirked.
"Move out!" the marshal roared.
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