Night settled over the Inner Bastion like a heavy cloak, suffocating the usual sounds of a military encampment.
The fires burned lower than usual, not from a lack of fuel, but from a calculated restraint. Orders had been disseminated at sundown to reduce all visible light; the Liberation Cult was trying to vanish into the shadows of the very mountains they occupied.
Beyond the bastion walls, the horizon pulsed with emerald veins, resembling a sleeping predator whose heartbeat could be felt through the soles of one's boots.
Inside the central war chamber, a cold silence ruled.
Aegis stood at the head of the long stone table, both hands resting heavily on its surface.
The map before him was no longer just a representation of terrain; it was a living record of strategic retreats and the high cost of survival.
