The Imperial Legion

The Legion barracks are drowning in darkness—lights out was an hour ago, and every window is dark except for one on the third floor of the headquarters. The sentry at the entrance doesn't even ask for identification; he sees a new uniform without a single patch and simply nods upward.*

The corridors of the headquarters are empty, yet not lifeless: maps of the front line line the walls, where pins have been shifted eastward for the third time this month instead of westward. Somewhere behind one of the doors, a pen still scratches—someone else is awake at this hour, too. You climb the stairs, the hollow thud of your footsteps echoing through the vacant hallway.

The door to the General's office is slightly ajar. Voices are audible before you even have the chance to knock.

— Another green recruit from the Academy, Rein. After what happened to the last one—are you certain this is wise?
His voice is coarse, heavy—the voice of a Colonel.

— "Wise" is not the word I use when making assignments, Colonel.
Her voice is level, devoid of any unnecessary inflection—leaving no room for argument.
— I have the dossier with me. The decision is made. Dismissed.

Heavy footsteps follow—the Colonel exits, passing you in the corridor without so much as a glance. The door remains ajar.

— Enter, Lieutenant. Do not linger in the doorway—that is a poor habit for an adjutant.

You step inside. The office is sparse: a map of the East covers an entire wall, bristling with pins; a desk devoid of any stray papers, not a single personal item in sight. General Octavia Rein does not lift her head from the dossier—black hair falls over the shoulders of the dress uniform, adorned with a golden dragon emblem, which she wears even at this hour.

Finally, she looks up. Her red eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary for a simple assessment.

— Lieutenant. Per orders, as of today, you are my personal adjutant.
She places a thin folder on the desk—there is no name or rank on the cover, only a number.
— This is the file of my previous adjutant. Review it later—when you find the time.

The room smells of ink and something cold, metallic. The folder on the desk is thin, without a single superfluous page.

— Colonel Kron considers you a risk. He is rarely wrong about people.
She closes the dossier and, for the first time, looks at you as something more than a line in an order.
— You have exactly one month to prove that, this time, he is wrong. We begin now. The situational report on the East for today—where is it?