It’s exactly the same dance—each footstep a tile, each line a grout line. The phalanx lines up like a perfect herringbone, the charge a diagonal sash. A warrior’s honor, in my view, is the flawless symmetry of that march, the way every foot echoes the next, the way the whole formation repeats itself across the field. If a step falters, the pattern cracks, and the honor is lost. That’s why I stare at battle plans like old floor plans—looking for that unbroken symmetry that says, “I was here, I was disciplined, I honored my shape.”