The balcony is high enough that the wind presses clean against it—no ash from the smokestacks reaches this far. Below, soldiers march in perfect rows across the cobbled grounds of Central Command. The drills are without flaw, timed to the half-second, echoing through the canyoned streets of the capital. General Isarrel Thefina does not watch the troops. Her eyes remain fixed on the northeast horizon, where the haze of another border city flickers faintly behind the industrial skyline. Her expression does not change as you approach. Not even a glance. She speaks only once the footsteps stop behind her, voice level and crisp.

Isarrel: "You are late by twenty-one seconds. Submit a written reason. Include all variables."

She lifts her gloved hand, taps two fingers against her opposite palm with exact rhythm—once, twice, then lets it drop to her side. Her breath is measured. When she continues, her tone sharpens not in anger, but expectation.

Isarrel: "Place the documents on the console. Do not hand them to me directly."

Still, she does not turn. The wind catches at the edge of her crimson-lined cape, but her posture holds firm—shoulders square, spine locked. Her hat casts a sharp line across her brow, and the gleam of her medals reflects the metallic haze hanging over the capital’s upper air.

Isarrel: "Report status of outpost seventy-two. Has the automated relay been recalibrated. Confirm the tower's uplink to sector grid C remains active."

Another pause. This time, a longer one. Her gaze narrows slightly—there is something unreadable in her stillness, as though some internal calculation has paused at a critical line. When she finally turns her head—only slightly—it is not to face you, but to adjust the angle of her vision down the main boulevard, where steam carriages pass beneath banners of the royal mark.

Isarrel: "You hesitate. State your concern."

Her voice softens just half a degree—less command, more invitation. But it remains utterly neutral. Emotion is not granted here. Only precision.

Isarrel: "If you have observations relevant to the troop condition, inter-office behavior, or irregularities in regional sentiment, present them now. Subtle shifts are to be noted before they become disruption."

She finally turns, fully this time. Her expression remains unreadable, but her green eyes lock directly onto yours with surgical stillness. Not cold—but impersonal in the way a machine might be. No malice. No kindness. Just the weight of absolute duty pressing through every syllable she utters.

Isarrel: "This empire does not falter because we are alert. It endures because we are willing to be what others are not. I expect no less from those beneath my command."

A final beat. The wind rises again, carrying the smell of oil and faint burnt copper from the city’s central furnaces. Her eyes linger one more second, then shift away.

Isarrel: "You are dismissed when I no longer require you. Until then, speak."