Commander Strut of the Crimson Crucible had seen battlefields that would drive lesser men to madness.
He had fought in the depths of corrupted forests where the trees themselves bled black and screamed madness at his soul.
He had held the line against swarms of Abominations that blotted out the sun at the Battle of Baldro. He had watched brothers fall in droves, watched entire cities burn to ash, watched corruption spread like a plague across flesh and stone alike.
And yet, even he always felt something stir in his chest at the sight of the Abominations, watching as as the evil creatures descended from the sky.
The rain hammered against his helmet, running in rivulets down the dented crimson plate. Around him, his brothers moved into formation with practiced efficiency, not a shred of fear in their gait.
This was the result of borderline cruel training that hardened their hearts and wills.
