The command tent was a fortress of canvas and steel.
Massive poles held up its high ceiling, draped in the dark crimson of Romanus banners stitched with gold thread.
Lanterns hung from iron hooks, casting a warm, steady glow over the maps, scrolls, and ledgers strewn across the war table.
Brass braziers hissed faintly, warding off the chill of northern winter.
As Julius stepped inside, all conversation ceased.
The assembled Legates and senior generals stood at attention, a few offering crisp salutes, others bowing with solemn respect.
Julius removed his helm slowly and placed it on the table.
His silver hair caught the firelight, and his eyes — sharp, pale, unreadable — swept over the gathered men.
Haddin, Gallius, Sabellus, Caetrax, and more — commanders from the old and new, veterans of Lunan, Roserun, and the Greecian conquest.
Each man had earned their place here through blood and brilliance.
"Speak,"
Julius said, his tone calm but firm.
