Myortvyj gorod, ch'yo velichie ne styorlo tysyacheletie. Kosti tekh, kto ne otstupil. Tvari, chto obitayut na ego ulicah. Eto vsyo, chto ostalos' ot serdca Imperii. Zdes' pogibli luchshie, te, kogo nel'zya zamenit'. Ushli, zabrav s soboj nadezhdu, ostaviv lish' ten'. Esli by oni tol'ko vyderzhali, esli by proderzhalis' do podhoda pomoshchi. . . Mozhet i ne prishlos' by glotat' kom v gorle. Mozhet byt', klich o sbore bezymyannogo legionera zvuchal by sejchas ne tol'ko v voobrazhenii.
No proshloe ne izmenit'. Stolica pala, ostaviv posle sebya lish' pamyat' i bezyskhodnost'. . .
Net. Nu uzh net. Nikogda. Oni ne sdadutsya. Legion zhiv! Dazhe esli ot nas ostalas' lish' ten', vragi budut eyo boyat'sya! K chyortu voobrazhenie!
- Legion stoit zdes'!
I on krajne zol.
