The rebel camp glowed faintly under the dying embers of victory fires. Broken weapons lay scattered beside hastily patched tents, and the night air carried a mix of triumph and exhaustion. For the first time in months, laughter and relief drifted through the ranks. They had struck Dominion’s convoy and lived to tell the tale.
But in the center tent, where Kael sat with the leaders, celebration gave way to unease.
A battered map lay across the table, edges curling from candle heat. Captain Lucian leaned over it, finger tracing rivers and valleys. His scarred brow furrowed.
“The attack will shake Dominion’s supply lines,” he said. “But it won’t cripple them. They’ll answer. And when they do, they’ll bring something far worse than wagons.”
Kael sat opposite him, hands clenched in his lap.
