The camp stirred before the fires had burned to ash.
No bells, no horns. Only the scrape of boots on stone, the creak of worn leather, the hushed murmur of men and women preparing to walk into a death they could not name.
Lindarion stood before them, shadows still clinging faintly to his frame. His chest ached with every breath, the wound hidden but not forgotten, yet he let none of it show. He could not afford to. Not when their eyes followed him like moths chasing flame.
Harrow moved through the crowd, barking names, pointing men to the front, the wounded to the center, the women and children shielded by the strongest fighters they had left. Their torches burned low to save oil, each flame a fragile tether against the cavern's endless dark.
