The next day.
A thick, suffocating silence blanketed the war room. Not the calm before the storm—no, that had passed. This was the hush of inevitability, the sound the world made when it knew its own ending had already begun.
Outside, soldiers trained with weapons that had been polished too clean—like mirrors daring to reflect the blood they would soon drink. Inside, the flickering torches cast shadows that moved like ghosts of men who hadn't died yet but already knew they would.
"There's movement," one of the generals said, voice taut, brow glistening with the sweat of unspoken fears. "Recon reports smoke along the ridge. Scouting birds haven't returned."
Another leaned over the map, fingers pressed to a red-marked border. "They're close. Hours away. Tomorrow at midnight—our armies reach the crossing."
He slammed his fist down.
But no one flinched.
Not anymore.
