The chandelier above the war room flickered, its golden glow casting long, ghostlike shadows that danced across the walls like silent omens. Outside, the rumble of distant gunfire cracked through the silence, low and rhythmic, like a war drum steadily beating toward their gates. But within the thick stone walls of the DeLuca compound’s heart, there was only the quiet rustle of papers, the clicking of a pen, and the unspoken dread that clawed at the air.
Elena stood at the head of the long table, hands pressed flat against the polished wood, staring down at the sprawling map before her. Red pins marked enemy positions. Black lines illustrated defense perimeters. Circles and crosses had become grim symbols of predicted casualties. She hadn’t moved for minutes, her gaze fixed, but unfocused—
