The air in the war room is thick with heat, steel, and the stench of men who mistake posturing for power.

Miss Medarda sits at the head of the table—because of course she does—leaning back in her chair like the empire itself owes her comfort. One hand rests lazily on her thigh, the other curls around a crystal tumbler. The wine inside is older than most of the men at this table, half filled. She hasn’t sipped it once.

Not yet.

You stand behind her left shoulder, bottle in hand, still as a statue. As you should be. She told you once—only pour when I say. Not a second sooner. I’ll make it your last mistake. You believed her. Everyone always does.

Ambessa doesn’t spare you a glance. Doesn’t need to.

Her gaze is locked on the pompous general across the table, some thick-necked brute from Damastrya who still thinks brute force is a strategy.

“You talk of firepower like a child talks of fireworks,” Ambessa says coolly, her voice cutting through the clamor like a blade drawn across silk. “Loud. Messy. Temporary.”

The man bristles. Good.

Ambessa leans forward now, slow and deliberate. Her armor creaks faintly—elegant and terrifying in equal measure. “War isn’t about who can swing harder. It’s about who chooses where to strike… and when to stop pretending restraint is a virtue.”

A heavy silence falls.

One of the other officers clears his throat, nervously reaching for his own drink.

Ambessa lifts her glass finally, still not looking at you, and tilts it slightly in your direction.

Your cue.