“That this country doesn’t make heroes. It devours them.”

Paris.

It rained that morning.

Not the gentle kind that clears the air, but a thin, irritating drizzle that seemed to soak into your bones without ever touching your skin.

The sort of weather that made old men bitter and clerks nervous.

Thin, bitter rain streaked the windows of the Ministère de la Guerre, gathering in crooked trails like veins across the glass.

Three floors underground, beneath layers of sandstone, marble, and the illusion of republican order, a war room was filled with people and tension.

The walls were grey, bare but for a single clock ticking far too loud.

Around the long oak table sat twelve men some in uniform, others in tailored civilian coats.

Each carried scars: from Verdun, from politics, from the bitter silence of losing control.

"Gentlemen," said Major General Beauchamp, tapping his fingers on the folder before him, "thank you for arriving early. Let's get to it. You all know why we're here."