The northern wind howled through the Deadwood Forest like something grieving.
For two days, Colin's army became part of that soundless wilderness.
They did not speak.They did not light fires.They barely moved.
They waited.
Like wolves buried beneath snow—breathing slow, claws hidden, hunger sharpening in silence.
Any ordinary force would have broken under such stillness. Not this one. These warriors had already been tempered in slaughter. Waiting did not weaken them—it refined them.
Their anger did not fade.
It thickened.
It hardened.
It became something colder than rage.
All eyes and ears belonged to Anna and her Forest Trace.
At night, they vanished.
Mud and charcoal smeared across their skin, their bodies dissolved into darkness. Their steps were weightless, their breathing nonexistent. They were not scouts anymore.
They were intrusions.
On the first night, Anna led two shadows to the walls of the mine.
The stench hit before the sight did.
Rot. Filth. Blood. Waste. Decay layered upon decay until the air itself felt diseased.
They pressed themselves into the base of the wall, unmoving.
Above them, guards passed lazily, boots knocking against wood. One spat over the edge.
The saliva landed inches from Anna's hand.
She did not flinch.
Her eyes remained open, absorbing everything.
Timing. Patterns. Weakness.
Where men grew careless. Where wood had begun to rot. Where routine dulled instinct.
She memorized it all.
When she reported back, the air around Colin turned heavier.
"Eight hundred elites in the East Camp. Four hundred overseers in the West," she said, voice low. "Routine patrols. Poor vigilance."
Then she paused.
"The problem is inside."
Six thousand slaves.
Broken. Starved. Watched.
"If they panic, they'll trample each other. If they hesitate, they'll die. If they resist without order… they'll become a liability."
Silence followed.
Colin's finger moved slowly across the map.
Then—
"We need a voice inside," he said.
Anna frowned. "Too dangerous. They're watched constantly. And despair…" she hesitated, "…despair makes people betray hope."
"Then we don't test them," Colin replied coldly. "We ignite them."
His eyes lifted.
"You will go yourself."
Even the air seemed to stiffen.
This was no longer reconnaissance.
This was walking into hell.
"I understand," Anna said.
No hesitation.
The second night was colder.
Anna went alone.
She slipped through a fracture in the wall—timed perfectly between patrol rotations—and dropped into the pit of human ruin.
This time, there was no distance.
The hell she had observed… now surrounded her.
The ground was wet. Not with water.
The smell was suffocating—so thick it clung to the throat. Every breath tasted like rot.
Bodies lay where they had fallen.
Some still.
Some not.
Shanties sagged under the weight of too many lives packed too tightly. From within them came coughing, whispering, the broken sounds of people who no longer expected to be heard.
She moved through it all.
Silent.
Careful.
Stepping only where the ground would not betray her.
A corpse lay at one doorway—already stiff, already forgotten.
In another shack, a mother hummed.
Her child did not move.
The lullaby trembled, cracked… continued anyway.
Anna's chest tightened.
Her eyes hardened.
There was no space here for pity.
She reached the center.
The largest shack.
Her target.
Then—
Dogs.
Barking.
Voices.
Torches.
Too close.
Too fast.
No escape.
For a single instant, death stood at her shoulder—
A hand seized her and dragged her into darkness.
"Don't move."
She almost killed him.
Almost.
Instead, she froze.
Through the cracks, torchlight swept past. Boots. Laughter. Curses.
Then silence returned.
"You shouldn't be here," an old voice rasped.
Anna exhaled slowly.
"I'm looking for your leader."
A pause.
"I am."
She turned.
An old Werewolf sat in the corner. Scarred. Half-blind. But not broken.
Not completely.
"You came from outside," he said.
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Enough."
A faint, humorless sound escaped him. "That's what all dying people say."
"Four hundred," Anna said.
He almost laughed.
"You came to die."
"No," she replied evenly. "We came to end this."
Silence.
Then—
"Our leader killed Alfred," she said. "Raymond's son. Wiped out his army."
The air died.
The old Werewolf's single eye widened.
"What…?"
"He's dead," Anna said. "Your chains are not unbreakable."
Hope flickered.
Fragile.
Dangerous.
"Why should I believe you?" he whispered.
Anna answered without words.
She drew the sword.
The crest on its hilt caught what little light there was.
Recognition hit like a blow.
The old Werewolf—Broken Tooth—shuddered.
That sword had destroyed his life.
Now it stood before him… in different hands.
Tears came.
Not from grief.
From something far more violent.
Hope.
Raw. Burning. Uncontainable.
"What do you want?" he asked, voice shaking.
"Control," Anna said. "When we strike, you don't run. You don't panic. You fight."
His breathing grew heavier.
"Yes."
"Chains?"
"Keys. Rotated. We'll find them."
"Fighters?"
"Three thousand," he said without hesitation. "Every one of us."
Even half-dead… they were still wolves.
"Weapons?" someone whispered.
Anna's voice turned sharp.
"Take them."
"Teeth. Claws. Tools. Whips. Anything."
"Kill the overseers first. West Camp. Break it open."
Something changed in the dark.
Not hope.
Something worse.
Resolve.
Broken Tooth lowered his head slightly.
"Tell your King," he said, voice low and steady, "we will drown that camp in blood."
Anna left as she came.
Unseen.
Untouched.
When she returned, dawn was already breaking.
She reported everything.
Every word.
Every detail.
Colin listened.
Silent.
The map beneath his hand was no longer just terrain.
It was anatomy.
East Camp — bone.West Camp — flesh.Walls — shell.Slaves — heart.
A heart buried under layers of suffering.
Now… awakened.
His gaze fixed on the center.
Not a camp anymore.
A pressure point.
A living thing on the edge of eruption.
Colin's lips curved slightly.
Cold.
Precise.
"The volcano is ready," he murmured.
His eyes gleamed.
"All it needs…"
"A spark."