The morning after Kael’s vision, the rebel camp no longer hummed with relief. Victory against the convoy already felt like a memory swallowed by dread. The air hung heavy, and whispers of Brenmoor’s fate spread like wildfire, though no messenger had yet confirmed the boy’s dream.
Inside the main tent, a map was unrolled once again across the scarred wooden table. The edges curled upward, the parchment worn from too many hands tracing escape routes and defenses. Candlelight flickered across tense faces—Lucian, stern and unyielding; Erya, pale with sleepless eyes; and half a dozen rebel captains who looked more like farmers than soldiers.
Kael sat slightly apart, his hands clasped, lightning faintly flickering between his fingers. He didn’t notice it anymore. The storm answered his heartbe
