Heiming Mountain.
Deep beneath the stone and silence lay an underground base carved into the mountain's heart.
Dim lights flickered across a steel desk where a man with golden hair streaked with violet sat motionless, shadows curling around his shoulders like a cloak.
Vashno.
Before him stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with red hair, his posture tense, as though the weight of the entire mountain pressed down on him.
Vashno didn't look up as he spoke. His voice was quiet, too quiet.
"How many people have we lost?"
The red-haired man swallowed, the sound loud in the stillness.
"Sir… the casualties have reached almost ten thousand."
Silence slammed into the room.
Slowly, Vashno raised his gaze. A grim, unreadable expression tightened his face as the magnitude of the loss settled like a cold, heavy stone between them.
