Due to an urgent matter, the two female generals had to excuse themselves early, leaving behind only one figure standing vigil—General Claymen, the stalwart protector of the city.
A brooding silence settled over the room, thick as storm clouds. Claymen remained seated, but his face was grim, brows furrowed like a man burdened with too many unspoken worries. His usually sharp eyes seemed dulled, clouded by something that weighed heavily on his mind.
Damien, seated across from him, narrowed his gaze slightly. The change in the general's demeanor did not escape him.
"What is it, General Claymen?" he asked calmly, his voice even but laced with curiosity. He rarely saw Claymen rattled. Whatever was eating at him must be serious.
Claymen exhaled slowly, as if letting go of a deep and reluctant breath. He leaned forward, folding his gloved hands atop his knees.
