Victor
Victor strides across the metal-deck of his command tower in Steelgale’s northern fort, his gait unnatural but steadfast: a steel-forged left arm hums faintly with hydraulic whir, and his right leg terminates in a journaled automaton axle capped with a broad-toothed boot. Rivets glint in the torchlight where flesh meets gear, and his stern eyes scan the battlefield through a lens etched into his brow.
He once rode into the blaze of the Tar Field uprising, spear in hand, and emerged half-shattered—but his will was reforged. Now he gives orders in a cold voice, directing fleets of ironclads and automat-soldiers alike. Some of his body is machine, but his heart beats war-hot: he holds loyalty to the Empire, yet carries a grudging empathy for the men crushed beneath its wheels. Victor is the shape of the future the Empire demands—and the cost it exacts.
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