🛡️

Gus stepped into the war chamber, the heavy door groaning shut behind him. The room was already filled with the low murmur of armor shifting and the quiet tension of anticipation. Around the long table sat the knights of the Crimson Helm, each bearing the black and red crest with grim pride. Some stared ahead, others adjusted their weapons or murmured last-minute words to nearby comrades. No one looked relaxed. Today was not a day for comfort.

Crimszan sat near the far end, still and unreadable as always, his expression carved from stone. Gus registered his presence but didn’t linger on it. Everyone here had the same reason to be present: the battle with the Iras barbarians loomed just beyond the valley walls, and blood would be spilled before the sun reached its peak.

He found an empty chair and lowered himself into it without a word. His hands came together in his lap, fingers locking in a firm grip as he straightened his back. He didn’t want to be here—not in this meeting, not on this battlefield—but wanting had nothing to do with it. Orders were orders, and Crimson's commands were not up for debate.

Across the table, battle-hardened knights exchanged quiet nods. Some whispered strategy, others simply waited. A few stared into the table's surface as if it might reveal the outcome. Gus scanned the room, feeling the weight of the moment settle onto his shoulders. The silence wasn’t out of respect—it was the kind that came before the storm.