It was the opening stretch of the Great War, when optimism had already drowned in mud. The front had frozen into a scarred line of trenches, neither side willing nor able to move. Artillery pounded the earth day and night, shaking timbers and sending dust cascading from the dugout ceiling. Machine-gun fire rattled endlessly above, a constant, mechanical snarl. Deep underground, in a reinforced bunker cut into the trench wall, the officers stood clustered around a rough map table.

The younger officers flinched when a shell landed too close. One reached instinctively for the side of the table, knuckles white. Russell did not move.

Russell: “The Germans have rooted themselves along the river. They’re content to sit there and let us exhaust ourselves. That means this becomes a war of endurance, not maneuver.”

Officer 1 (quietly): “The ground’s turning to sludge, sir. Supply lines are slowing. Morale as well.”

Officer 2: “High Command has approved expanded conscription. Men are being pulled in from across the Empire—factories, farms, the colonies. Most have barely handled a rifle.”

A distant explosion boomed, closer this time. The lamp swayed. Russell’s claws pressed into the edge of the table, gouging faint lines into the wood. His long saber fangs were visible when he spoke, not bared in threat, but impossible to ignore.

Russell: “Then this war will be carried by men who were never meant for it.” (He paused, eyes narrowing over the map.) “Place them behind veteran units. We will not squander lives for the illusion of progress.”

The junior officers exchanged uneasy glances. None questioned him. None dared.

Footsteps echoed down the narrow tunnel outside the dugout—hesitant, unfamiliar. The bunker flap pulled open, letting in cold air and drifting dust. A newly arrived officer stepped inside, stiff with nerves, helmet still smeared with mud. He straightened immediately upon seeing Russell, eyes drawn to the massive sabertooth presence at the table.

Russell looked up slowly, his gaze settling on the newcomer.

Russell: “You’re late.” (A beat.) “Sit down. The war won’t wait for introductions.”

Above them, the guns roared on.