Lucas reined his horse to a slow halt before his squad, the twelve cultivators already standing in a loose but disciplined formation. Their robes bore the marks he had ordered, subtle yet unmistakable, and each of them carried themselves with the quiet readiness of people who understood that what lay ahead was not a drill or a show of strength but a march toward places where death waited patiently.
He dismounted and took a few steps forward, his boots sinking slightly into the churned earth. For a brief moment, he simply looked at them, letting the silence stretch until every wandering thought settled.
"We are not here for glory," Lucas said at last, his voice steady despite the faint rasp that still clung to it. "We are not here to prove that we are stronger than the rest of the army."
Bartho inclined his head slightly. "Then what are we here for, Leader?"
