The night air outside the command pavilion of the Orestes host was heavy with the scent of spent magnesium and charred wood, a bitter residue from the warehouse inferno that still glowed like a dying star on the horizon. The silence was absolute, a stark contrast to the cacophony of slaughter that had defined the day. Within the grand tent, the atmosphere was thick with the musk of expensive leather and the metallic tang of dry blood. Constantine walked through the flap, his obsidian armor unmarred by the chaos he had orchestrated, save for a light dusting of ash that clung to his broad shoulders. He did not look like a man who had just concluded a campaign; he looked like a predator entering his own lair.
At the center of the tent, slumped in a gilded chair that felt far too large for hi
