The office of the military academy's upper brass was a room of pure authority—cold steel walls reinforced with armor plating, the academy's insignia displayed prominently behind a massive, polished obsidian desk.
The long rectangular table at the center, sleek and minimalist, reflected the dim lighting above. It was a room designed for business, for strategy, for the molding of warriors that would one day stand at the front lines against the Harbingers.
Seated around the table were five individuals, all of them dressed in the crisp, official attire befitting their roles.
At the head sat Commander Owen, the academy's headmaster. Broad-shouldered, aged like a war veteran should be—scarred, grizzled, but still exuding the raw power of a man who had seen battle and walked away victorious. Beside him, Vice Headmaster Commander Albright was an equally imposing figure, though where Owen was rough-hewn steel, Albright was polished brass—sharp, analytical, and unapologetically ruthless.
