No Mercy

We march at first light. Sharpen your blades and quiet your minds — glory does not wait for the fearful.

A quiet camp tonight. No banners, no fires. Only the sound of steel being sharpened and the wind through the pines.

Forty nights at the forge. This blade has drunk more fire than most men see in a lifetime. It is ready.

Victory is not loud. It is the silence after the storm, when the field is still yours to stand on.

The old fortress stands again. Rebuilt stone by stone by hands that refused to forget who we are.

Every scar has a story. Every blade remembers its first battle. Carry both with pride.