The briefing chamber hadn't changed since the last war.
But the world had changed.
And now, one man stood alone in the center of that room to remind them.
Major Étienne Moreau.
He wasn't unknown here.
Every man seated at that long table had seen his name before or interacted with him once or twice.
In memos.
In critiques.
In complaints.
In field reports full of phrases like "obsolete doctrine," "mechanized blindspot," and "German tempo outpacing French reaction time."
Or maybe the most rememberd moment when he gave speech to stop the republic from crumbling.
Moreau wasn't just familiar.
He was famous and not always in a way they liked.
General Maurice Gamelin, cold and composed, sat at the center of the table, arms folded.
To his left was Beauchamp, slightly more relaxed, though his expression gave little away.
Jean Fabry, the Minister of War, had a pen in hand but wasn't writing.
Flandin, Prime Minister, was at the far end, hands together, expression unreadable.
