The night was never truly silent on this construction site. Even when the wind fell asleep, the base vibrated with a constant murmur: the creaking of cables, the clinking of tools, the weary groans of men who had been awake for far too long. Dylan, crouched between two stacks of crates, observed the ballet of workers and soldiers with a glacial calm that masked the tension in his neck.
He made himself into the shadow of someone utterly ordinary. His face was dirty, his hands reddened by fake labor he sometimes mimed to divert attention. In reality, he was listening. Waiting. And that night, he didn't have to wait long.
A messenger arrived at a gallop, the horse lathered in foam, its flanks soaked with sweat. The man jumped from the saddle before the animal even stopped, nearly stumbling, his voice tearing through the relative calm of the construction site.
"Attack!" he rasped. "The southern base… they… they've reduced it to ashes!"
