The heavy crystal glassware on the table seemed to vibrate with the sheer awkwardness radiating from the head of the table. George Lane, a man whose spine was still as straight as the day he retired from the front lines, let out a long, weary breath that sounded like steam escaping an old engine. He could no longer abide the boastful nonsense coming from the young man sitting beside his daughter. To George, who had served the United Dominion with his own blood, the Four Guardian Warlords were not just high-ranking officers; they were the living icons of the nation’s spirit, the steel pillars of their collective faith.
"That’s enough. Let’s just eat," George commanded, his voice carrying the gravelly finality of a drill sergeant.
He didn't even look at Issac Monroe as he spoke. In his min
