The air felt colder than usual as Damian stood outside the camp, his sharp eyes fixed on the convoy that had just arrived. The high-ranking officer, General Ivankov, had finally made his appearance. The soldiers around him stiffened, their postures rigid with unease.
Damian had already heard the rumors. Ivankov's reputation was built on fear, not respect. He didn't just command—he controlled. He broke people down until they were nothing more than obedient machines.
And Damian hated him for it.
---
Inside the Camp…
The officers were gathered in the command tent, their hushed voices barely concealing the tension in the air. Damian stood guard outside, listening as Ivankov's harsh tone cut through the fabric of the tent.
"We're not here to pamper them," Ivankov's voice boomed. "These soldiers need to be ready. There's no time for weakness."
Damian clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. Weakness. That was Ivankov's favorite word. But to the general, weakness wasn't just cowardice or hesitation—it was humanity.
The sound of hesitant footsteps pulled Damian from his thoughts. A young soldier, barely eighteen, approached with his head bowed, his body language a quiet plea to be ignored.
"Sir… I—I don't know where the General's briefing tent is," the boy stammered.
Damian's gaze softened. The kid was nervous—too young for this war, but too old to be spared from it. Before he could answer, a dark shadow loomed over them.
"You," Ivankov snapped. His voice was sharp as a blade, his eyes filled with cold disdain. "You're lost? Pathetic."
The boy flinched, his body shrinking under Ivankov's stare.
"You'll never be ready," the general sneered, stepping closer, his presence suffocating. "Soldiers like you die first. You think the enemy will wait while you figure out where you belong?"
The boy's breath hitched. He said nothing.
Damian's anger boiled beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. He stepped forward before he could stop himself.
"General," his voice was steady, but his fists trembled at his sides, "the soldier was just asking for directions."
Ivankov turned slowly, his piercing gaze locking onto Damian's.
"What's the matter, Graves?" His voice dripped with amusement, like a predator toying with prey. "You think you can challenge me?"
Damian met his gaze, unflinching.
Ivankov smirked. "You'll learn soon enough—I don't tolerate weakness. You're all expendable."
The words weren't meant to intimidate Damian. They were meant to remind him of his place. But Ivankov didn't realize something.
Damian didn't fear him.
He hated him.
---
Later That Evening…
The mess hall was quiet, save for the distant murmurs of exhausted soldiers. Damian sat alone, his fingers drumming against the wooden table. His mind replayed the encounter, not with regret, but with cold, simmering anger.
Ivankov wasn't just cruel—he enjoyed it. He stripped men of their dignity, turned fear into a weapon, and convinced them that survival was a privilege he could revoke at any moment.
Damian's jaw tightened. He had fought beside men who bled for each other, who gave their lives for something greater than themselves. Ivankov didn't deserve their loyalty.
He deserved a bullet.
---
Outside the Camp…
Anya watched from the shadows, her sharp eyes tracing the movements of Ivankov's men. She had seen commanders like him before men who thrived on power, who believed control was absolute.
She knew how to handle men like Ivankov. But Damian Graves… he was different.
She had been watching him since she arrived. He was disciplined, sharp, but more importantly he thought. He didn't follow orders blindly like the others. And tonight, she had seen something else.
Hatred.
When Ivankov humiliated that boy, Damian had barely restrained himself. That kind of anger could be shaped, directed.
Used.
Anya smirked to herself. She hadn't expected him to be useful, but now…
She had found her weapon.