At dawn, the base resembled a furious hive. The rising sun cast gaunt, hunched silhouettes, their eyes swollen with dark circles and ash. The captain stood on an improvised platform—a battered wooden crate—barking orders like hammer blows.
"The convoy leaves the day after tomorrow at first light! Wood, supplies, metal! And the rest of you, keep these walls standing, or I'll bury you beneath them!"
The words struck Dylan like a disguised note of hope. Two days. He had two days to prepare his infiltration. The escort would be minimal—three soldiers, an officer, maybe a cart driver. A thin guard, easy to lose in the chaos of a rushed departure.
He eyed the cart meant for the convoy: a heavy, tarp-covered wagon already loaded with sacks of grain, crates of scrap metal, and a barrel of pitch ready to be sealed. The wheels, worn, creaked faintly. Perfect. A noisy, overloaded convoy was a godsend for hiding in plain sight.
