Doram lifted the tent flap, letting in a gust of even hotter wind.
Lieutenant Rom stood in the entrance, his backlit figure casting a long shadow into the tent.
He held a Dataslate in his hand, its surface reflecting a harsh white glare.
Doram noticed Rom's expression—a complicated mixture of exhaustion, anxiety, and something he could not quite name. Sweat slid down his temples, leaving dark patches around the collar of his mouse-gray uniform.
"Any news?" Doram asked, his voice unusually clear in the stifling air.
Rom did not answer immediately. He stepped into the tent and let the flap fall, shutting out some of the scorching heat.
The temperature inside barely dropped, but at least they were out of the direct sunlight.
Doram rose and walked toward the makeshift clothes rack in the corner, where his officer's uniform hung.
It was a well-tailored, mouse-gray uniform, its design steeped in Imperial aesthetics.
The jacket was double-breasted, its dark gray fabric carrying a subtle sheen in the dim light.
The collar was crisp, its gold tabs engraved with the emblem of the Colchis Auxiliary Army: an open holy scripture and crossed swords.
The silver stars marking his rank as Major sat in neat rows on his epaulettes, their edges glinting faintly in the shadows.
The belt was dark brown leather, its brass buckle polished to a shine.
The trousers were sharply pressed, their cuffs tucked into tall military boots. Though covered in sand and dust, the boots still showed their fine craftsmanship.
Doram began putting on his uniform.
First came the white cotton shirt, its fabric softened by repeated washing, clinging slightly to his sweat-damp skin.
Then came the trousers. He carefully tucked the legs into his boots, making sure there was not a single crease.
The jacket came last. He