[Red Legion Camp]
The war tent was silent except for the crackle of torchlight flickering against the crimson banners.
The flames danced along the fabric. Casting warped shadows across the maps laid out on the heavy wooden table.
The table itself was scarred. Its surface burned and stained with old blood.
Some of the parchment maps were torn at the edges. Others soaked through with dried ink and ash.
Commander Rodrick (Red Commander) stood alone in the tent, unmoving.
His fingers, covered in steel gauntlets, pressed down hard into the wood.
The grain creaked beneath the pressure, as if trying to breathe. But Rodrick didn't let up.
His red eyes stared ahead. Lifeless, hollow, like rusted metal left too long in the rain. They didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
Just stared.
"One thousand and forty-three years."
His voice was low. Barely a whisper. But in the stillness of the tent. It rang louder than any scream.
"Twenty-one days. Fifteen hours."
The exact time since it all began.
