Far to the east, beyond the last railhead that carried Montenegrin markings, Commander Rex stood beneath a sky the colour of old iron and listened to nothing happening.
That, more than anything, told him the order had not yet come.
The forward command post sat on a low rise overlooking a churned stretch of Thracian earth, recently vacated by Ottoman units that had left the interior nearly undefended to act as reinforcements being sent north to stop the Russian Empires encroachment, and Balkan uprisings in the north.
The trenches were shallow, hurried things, dug by men who had not believed they would need to hold them for long.
Rex's engineers stood on standby ready to fill the trenches back in, in an instant the minute the order was given to move out.
Not wanting to leave behind anything his own men would not use, and the enemy instead could use against them.
Behind him, the Eastern Army waited.
Not camped, not at rest.
Held.
Columns of infantry stood in disciplined rows just beyond the ridge, rifles slung, packs secured, boots aligned with the precision of a parade ground rather than a battlefield.
Artillery batteries sat silent, muzzles capped, crews idle but alert.
Railcars loaded rations, and engineering equipment rested on freshly repaired track, steam venting softly into the cold air, boilers being kept alite, but not being fed mearly maintained.
Everything was ready.
Rex clasped his hands behind his back and stared eastward, toward a horizon that concealed Constantinople beyond days of marching he could already see in his mind as clearly as if he were walking it now.
They should be moving.
Every instinct drilled into him—from the earliest days of his summoning, more than a decade ago now—screamed that the moment was ripe.
Their forces were assembled and ready, the enemy had all but withdrawn from the area.
The corridor lay open.
Momentum they had built up, begged to be spent.
But Rex had not moved.
Because Rex like all the other summoned soliders knew one immutable fact, 'Good Soldiers Follow Orders'.
A junior officer approached, boots crunching softly on damp soil, and stopped a respectful distance away.
"Sir," the man said, saluting. "Scouts confirm no Ottoman formations within fifty kilometers. Rail sabotage minimal. Local villages are merely confused having no ideas why their local garrisons have march off north."
Rex inclined his head slightly. "Continue surveillance. Rotate patrols. No engagements unless fired upon."
"Yes, sir."
The officer hesitated, then spoke again. "Sir… may I ask—"
"No," Rex said calmly.
The officer swallowed, saluted again, and withdrew.
Rex exhaled through his nose.
The men felt it.
He knew they did.
Even the summoned units—engineered for obedience and discipline—were not immune to the tension of restraint.
They had been forged to fight, to advance, to apply overwhelming force with mechanical certainty.
Holding them at the edge of victory was like drawing a blade halfway from its sheath and refusing to finish the motion.
Rex closed his eyes for a moment.
He thought of Elias.
Not as a commander, but as a constant.
Elias was not a man who rushed.
He was not a man who hesitated, either.
When the order came, it would be absolute.
No qualifiers.
No contingencies.
Advance would mean advance until the objective was achieved or the world itself intervened.
Rex opened his eyes again.
A faint vibration brushed against his awareness—not sound, not sensation, but pressure. The subtle telltale hum of the system interface stirring to life, as if something immense were drawing breath.
His spine straightened instinctively.
Around him, a few of the summoned officers paused, heads tilting in unison.
They felt it too.
Rex did not move.
Seconds stretched.
Then the interface resolved.
The system that bound all the summoned units to their summoner.
Allowing a sort of hive mind to connect everyone together, allowing instantaneous transmission of information and orders.
All connected units received the new information from command at the same time.
Rex's jaw tightened.
The overall message was, that an operation was imminent and to stand by for final approval to proceed with the invasion.
Rex allowed himself a single, controlled breath.
He turned, raising his voice just enough to carry across the command ridge.
"All unit commanders," he said. "Stand by."
No cheers followed.
No murmurs.
Just the subtle tightening of posture, the almost inaudible click of hands adjusting grips, straps being checked one final time.
The army leaned forward as one.
Rex's gaze returned to the horizon.
The plan had been devised and now they only awaited the raised hand to drop down giving the signal to move out, to have the assembled thousands of men to resume the march.
He imagined the Bosporus—not as a line on a map, but as a living artery.
He imagined the city beyond it, vast and ancient, already starving without knowing why.
He imagined the moment when his columns would crest the final rise and see the domes and walls laid out before them, intact, unbroken, waiting.
Whether the ancient city surrendered or was besieged was more up to the inhabitants than it was to Rex, his men were up to the task, taking over the city peacefully or by aggression would be completed.
Rex's fingers curled once behind his back, then relaxed.
He thought, briefly, of the Ottomans.
Not with hatred.
Not with contempt.
They were simply on the wrong side of history's arithmetic.
They had committed their strength elsewhere, chasing a familiar enemy, blind to the knife already sliding between their ribs.
A runner approached at a trot, breath steaming in the cold air, but Rex waved him off before the man could speak.
This was not information to be delivered by mouth.
Then—
The pressure locked.
The system's presence snapped into clarity, sharp and unmistakable.
AUTHORIZATION GRANTED
ADVANCE
Rex did not smile.
He raised his hand, clenched fist held high.
Every man, every machine, every summoned construct in the Eastern Army froze, awaiting the final signal.
Rex brought his fist down.
"Advance," he said.
The word rippled outward, carried by officers, signals, horns, and code lights.
Columns began to move, boots striking earth in disciplined thunder.
Artillery crews sprang into motion, limbers rolling forward.
Rail engines screamed as throttles opened, hauling the machinery of conquest eastward.
The Commander has made his decision, the Eastern Army was moving out, the remainder of Thrace would be their commanders, and the crown jewel of Constantinople would be the crowning achievement to sit upon his brow, a trinket the legion was proud to present to their lord and master.