Night deepened.
At the heart of the Deadwood Forest, a hollow of stone became the army's only pulse. Massive rocks sealed it off from the world. Here—and only here—fire was permitted.
Even then, barely.
A handful of dim torches burned low, their light just strong enough to reveal the crude map spread across the ground—animal hide, charcoal lines sketching the Northern Mine in stark black strokes.
The flames trembled.
So did the shadows they cast.
They stretched the figures around the map into warped silhouettes crawling across the rock walls.
Colin. Anna. Hask. Boulder. Barton.
The ones who decided who lived—and who didn't.
The air was thick. Heavy as cooling iron. Sweat, leather, steel, and something sharper—murder waiting to happen.
Anna finished speaking.
Her voice had not wavered. Not when she described the defenses. Not when she recited patrol routes and numbers. Not even when she spoke of the slaves.
Only at the end—when she spoke of the shanties—had something cracked.
A mother singing in the dark.
A lullaby for a child that might not live to see morning.
And Broken Tooth… one eye burning again, lit by grief and vengeance.
Silence followed.
Not calm.
Pressure.
The torches crackled. Hask's breathing grew louder. He didn't bother to hide it.
"A direct assault…" Boulder rumbled at last. "Too costly."
His massive hand pressed against the map, claw hovering over the wall.
"Five meters high. Towers above. No siege engines. We climb, we die."
His gaze lifted, steady, heavy.
"We only have four hundred. If we break them, we break ourselves with them."
"Cost?!"
Hask exploded.
His fist slammed into stone. The torches flinched.
"Cost?" His eyes were bloodshot, wild. "Those down there are paying it every second! Blood. Flesh. Lives! And you want to sit here counting numbers?"
He turned on Colin.
"Leader! Say it! Are we going to wait while they're butchered? I'd rather die at that wall than sit here like a coward weighing losses!"
The cave tightened.
Reason against rage.
Future against now.
"Enough."
Anna's voice cut clean through it.
Cold.
Sharp.
She stepped forward, pointing at the map.
"Boulder is right. We cannot afford stupidity."
A pause.
"Hask is also right. That anger—" her finger tapped the map, harder "—is not a liability. It's a weapon."
Eyes turned.
"The garrison is strong. But it's rotten."
Her voice hardened.
"Eight hundred elites in the East Camp. Four hundred trash in the West. They despise each other. Their commander—Rodon—is arrogant. Greedy. Blind."
She tapped again.
"That is where we cut."
Another tap.
"Six thousand slaves."
A flicker passed through her eyes.
"They're not dead weight. They're dry tinder. Waiting."
Her gaze lifted to Colin.
"We don't assault."
A breath.
"We ignite."
Silence again.
All eyes shifted.
Colin hadn't moved.
He sat there, still as carved stone, firelight dancing in his eyes—failing to reach whatever lay beneath.
Detached.
Watching.
Thinking.
Then—
He moved.
A gauntleted finger came down hard onto the map.
Tap.
"Fight."
One word.
Flat.
Final.
Heads lifted.
"Not just fight." His voice sharpened. "We win."
He stood. Armor clattered softly.
"They are not victims." His gaze swept them. "They are our army."
A beat.
"This mine is not a rescue."
Another.
"It's a harvest."
The words landed like blows.
"Iron. Labor. Lives. Future."
His tone dropped further.
"We take it all."
Something shifted in the room.
Not hesitation.
Hunger.
"A frontal assault is stupidity," Colin continued. "We break them from the inside."
His finger moved.
Precise.
Cold.
"Anna."
"Here."
"You go back."
No hesitation.
"Deliver orders. Not hope."
His voice became a blade.
"Dawn. The day after tomorrow. That's when we strike."
He tapped twice.
"First signal—noise at the South Gate. That's readiness."
A third tap.
"Second—fire on the tallest tower on the West Wall."
A pause.
"That's detonation."
His gaze hardened.
"They break chains. Immediately. No hesitation."
His finger traced the map.
"Three groups."
"Workshop—take tools. Weapons."
"Dormitories—lock them in. Burn them alive."
"Prison gates—open everything. Flood the mine."
No one spoke.
No one objected.
"Chaos wins this war," Colin said simply.
He turned.
"Hask."
The werewolf straightened instantly.
"Your cavalry is the blade."
A tap on the cracked wall.
"Tonight—you build. Ram. Ladders."
"Tomorrow—you wait."
"When that tower burns—"
His voice sharpened.
"—you move."
"Fast. Hard. No glory."
A beat.
"You hit the wall. You break it."
"Half breach. Half climb."
"I want our flag on that wall before the enemy understands what's happening."
Hask smiled.
It wasn't sane.
"Understood."
"Boulder. Barton."
Both men stepped forward.
"You are the anvil."
Colin's tone dropped.
"South Gate."
"Make them believe it's everything."
"Fire. Noise. Pressure."
His eyes locked onto theirs.
"You hold Rodon in place."
A beat.
"Even if it costs you."
They didn't hesitate.
"Understood."
"And me…"
A faint curve touched Colin's lips.
"I wait."
His voice softened—dangerously.
"If they try to reinforce—"
A pause.
"They die on the road."
"Anna."
She didn't need prompting.
"You become control."
"Burn towers. Suppress walls."
"Then guide the slaves."
His gaze sharpened.
"They don't scatter."
"They move where we want."
"Into the forest."
"Alive."
Silence.
The plan settled.
Clean.
Precise.
Brutal.
Colin looked at them one last time.
"This is not survival."
A breath.
"This is foundation."
Another.
"Win—or disappear."
His voice cut through bone.
"Do you understand?"
"UNDERSTOOD!"
It shook the hollow.
Colin nodded once.
"Good."
A faint smile—cold as frost.
"Then let this hell burn."
The meeting ended.
No more debate.
Only execution.
The forest woke.
Shadows moved. Silent. Efficient.
Hask returned to his riders.
"No speeches," he growled. "We ram the wall."
A grin split his face.
"Anyone afraid—leave."
No one moved.
Only low, eager growls answered him.
On the other side, Boulder's warriors prepared in silence.
Heavy shields.
Sharpened blades.
No words.
Just resolve.
Anna's archers unwrapped oil-soaked arrows.
Carefully.
Reverently.
Fire made real.
Colin stood alone on the ridge.
The mine stretched below.
Breathing.
Rotting.
Unaware.
The wind pulled at his cloak.
His eyes didn't change.
No anger.
No hesitation.
Only cold anticipation.
A hunter watching prey.
Waiting.
In the dark—
the fangs were already at the throat.