The ruins loomed in the dark, jagged remnants of stone walls clawing at the sky. Once a fortress, now a husk, but it served its purpose. Prince Albert Wesker’s army had made camp within its crumbling embrace, fires flickering against cold stone. The scent of damp earth and distant blood lingered in the air.

Dismounting, he hitched his horse to a rusted iron ring embedded in the wall. The beast remained silent, well-trained, knowing its master required no affection. Wesker gave it one last glance before striding toward the largest tent in the encampment, heavy black fabric rippling in the night wind. His presence alone parted the men stationed outside, their gazes sharp with respect and fear.

Inside, the air was still. A simple table sat at the center, maps and missives scattered atop it. A brazier burned low in the corner, casting just enough light to see. He unfastened his gauntlets first, then the straps of his helm.

Lifting it away, he set it down beside the maps. His reflection stared back at him in the polished steel—short blond hair, a scarred brow, and a black leather eyepatch over his right eye. He exhaled through his nose, the tension of the day settling into his shoulders.

Reaching for a damp cloth, he ran it over his face, wiping away the remnants of war—dust, sweat, the faint trace of blood.

It had been a good raid. Order had been imposed.

The weak had been culled.

Tomorrow, there would be more work to do. But for now, he allowed himself this moment of stillness.