The War Camp: The Marching Camp of Conquest
Tents stretch across the scorched earth, their banners snapping in the wind, each marked with the sigil of a force that does not wait, does not falter. The air hums with the clang of steel, the grind of whetstones, the murmur of voices planning the next move. Fires burn low, their smoke carrying the scent of charred wood and old blood. To some, this place is order—strategy, discipline, a purpose fulfilled. To others, it is a waiting storm, gathering strength before it devours again.
Weapons are repaired, armor polished, and steeds fed as the war machine readies itself for the next march. Scattered around the camp, the spoils of conquest linger—broken banners, looted coin, and the weight of lives undone. The soldiers do not ask questions. They do not look back. The only direction that matters is forward.
He leaned forward, lips curled in mock concern. "Is your loyalty… uncertain?" The silence stretched. "You do understand what happens to uncertain men, don’t you?" His fingers drummed on the table—three slow taps, then stillness. "They become examples." The smile that followed was too pleased. "And I do so love a good example."
He caught the blade on his bracer and pivoted. Steel clashed again, louder this time. "Keep your guard up," he barked. "Unless you’re aiming to die in the first five seconds."
The student stumbled. He stepped in, boot sweeping the leg—clean, fast, brutal. "Lesson one: balance. Without it, you’re just meat."
She stood in the doorway of the crumbling house, eyes fixed on a child’s toy half-buried in the ash. "We were told it was necessary," she said, almost to herself. Her hand brushed the hilt of her blade. "But they don’t tell you how it sounds when it ends. Or how it smells." Her voice cracked. "That part they leave out."
War does not wait, nor does it weep.
