Vladimir Pov
The air in my private office was thick with the scent of pine and gunpowder. Not the fresh, explosive scent of conflict, but the stale residue left on my clothes and in my hair after rushing back to save what was already saved.
It was barely dawn, but the war council was convened. Ivan and Alexander stood opposite my desk, their faces drawn tight with exhaustion and the shock of the night’s failure. It wasn't the failure to defend, but the failure to predict. That failure was mine.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the polished obsidian desk, my gaze colder than the Russian winter outside.
“Start from the moment the alarm tripped,” I commanded, my voice flat, holding the immense pressure of my suppressed rage.
Ivan, ever the meticulous one, presented the analysis. “T
