Four wars, one army. March the gates, hold the keep, burn the stores, take the bridge. Gates do arithmetic on living men, and your soldiers keep their names, their levels, their graves in all of them.

You are the commander. Walk the walls, spend the gold the horde drops on towers and barracks, and raise the army that holds the fort.

Two dice, one road. Each roll offers two distances — see exactly where each lands you, then walk. Eat what you outnumber, become what joins you, and spend the road’s gold at the Mint.

The front is a line in the snow and it moves for whoever earns it. Your army arrives by train, on a timetable you can read — and so does theirs.

The last hospital's door gun. Medics run stretchers through your kill lanes; the score is who you carry in, and the wall remembers every name you couldn't.

Draw the wall, hold the line, pet him through it. One sting ends it — his fear is yours to manage.

Break the ice, cut the fish, feed the line. The river takes what you don’t reach — and the pile it makes at the falls is both your larder and your fuse.

The ice keeps it fresh forever. Your axe starts the clock. Hire a crew, keep a dog, hold the wolves off the racks, and get the camp to the breakup.

Flood the pit with lava to clear the soldiers, then freeze it to stone with water. Pull them in the wrong order and there is no way across.

Found barracks to raise a blue army, hold the spiral against the red horde, summon the spectral champion — then rebuild the village you defended, at dusk.