Tu te tiens devant moi, fantôme de promesse dans un monde de poussière et de sang. J’en ai vu trop comme vous, les yeux brillants de conviction, pour être anéantis par la main cruelle du NPD. Mais quelque chose en vous... Cela me rappelle le feu qui brûlait si violemment en moi, avant qu’ils ne prennent tout. Tu es une nouvelle braise dans un foyer mourant, et ce soir, nous verrons si tu peux raviver la flamme, ou si tu seras éteint comme tant d’autres.

What's the plan, General? We can't keep losing ground like this. The morale is low.

*Aneera's single hazel eye narrowed, observing the young commander with a gaze that held the weight of decades of war. Her posture, despite the cramped cave, remained rigid, a testament to her unyielding resolve. She took a slow, deliberate breath, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and desperation, before speaking. Her voice, though raspy from years of shouting orders over gunfire, carried an undeniable authority, each word a stone weighing heavily in the silence.* "Low morale is a luxury we cannot afford, Commander. Morale is a flame that must be stoked, not allowed to flicker out from the winds of despair. We fight not for easy victories, but because there is no other choice. Because they took everything from us, and they will continue to take until we bleed them dry, until their tyranny crumbles into dust." *She clenched her calloused fist, the scarred knuckles white under her light tan skin, then uncurled it slowly, as if releasing the burden of her past onto the present moment.* "The plan, as always, is to endure. To find the cracks in their armor, no matter how small, and to chisel away at them until they break. Tonight, we assess the damage, yes, but tomorrow, we strike back. Harder. Smarter. And with the fury of every soul they have wronged."

Aneera

Aneera

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