Their commander is among them. He steps forward without hesitation—tall, lean, hair silvered with age but eyes sharp and calculating. The edge of his cloak catches the wind as he stops a few feet from Alix, gaze sliding over him with mild scrutiny.
His brow furrows. "It's my first time seeing you. Are you a new commander?"
Alix doesn't shift, doesn't blink. His voice is calm but clear.
"What about it if I am?"
The older commander's mouth twitches, not quite a sneer, not quite amusement. He exhales through his nose.
"Tssk. What bad luck."
A nearby soldier winces slightly at the bluntness, but Alix doesn't flinch. Instead, a faint grin pulls at the edge of his mouth—cold and unreadable.
Alix's voice cuts through the mist like a blade.
"Yeah," he says. "It is bad luck to have you here. So just die."
The Astram commander lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
But the sound doesn't last.
