Morning in Ashring began before the sun. It wasn't the typical market noise or Bitterstack's voice marshaling kitchen volunteers. It was quiet—the kind of quiet that follows a storm or foreshadows one. I conducted my rounds before breakfast, just to ensure everything was in order. Rations: stacked. Fences: holding. Relay: already up and busy with the east relay node, mumbling about "static" and "possible cross-talk with the north post, unless it's just rats again."
Quicktongue called everyone into the command hut before the steam had even left the morning tea. "We need a real plan," she said, her voice tight. "Not the usual let's-hope-and-see." The hut filled quickly—Splitjaw, Bitterstack, Stonealign, Stonebite, Tinker, the Gen-2s, even Cinders with a flour-streaked apron and Flick trailing at her heels.
