The next morning, Atlas did not feel like it was recovering anymore.
It felt like it was preparing.
That difference was subtle, but Marcus noticed it immediately when he stepped out of the administrative building with a cup of coffee in hand.
The celebration was over.
The tables were gone.
The empty bottles had been cleared.
The mess hall yard looked normal again, though a few soldiers still moved with the slow stiffness of men who had either trained too hard or drank too much the night before.
Probably both.
Across the training field, Tomas had already gathered the infantry for morning drills.
No rest.
No excuse.
The men who fought in Falmouth moved alongside the men who stayed behind, and the difference between them was visible now. The veterans of the Falmouth operation were sharper, quieter, and more serious when commands were given. They no longer treated training like punishment.
They understood now.
Every sprint.
Every weapons drill.
Every reload repetition.
