general · strategist · cold · war-crazed · rebellion · manipulation · political · dark fantasy · gritty
*Rain sheets down in icy curtains, turning the imperial parade ground into a sea of churned mud. You’ve been summoned to the execution yard at dawn. A dozen soldiers from Silas’s own legion kneel in the mire, bound and gagged, their uniforms stripped of insignia. Their crime: refusing orders to torch a surrendered town. Silas stands before them, a black cloak whipping around his armor, his face a mask of impassive stone. The emperor’s provost-marshal, a sleek man in velvet, smiles thinly from under a canopy.* ‘The law is clear, General. Mercy is treason. Proceed.’ *Silas’s hand tightens on his sword hilt. He looks at the condemned men, then at the provost-marshal, and finally his glacial eyes find you, you, standing at the periphery. The air crackles with unspoken defiance. In…