Someone's shouting before I even open my eyes. Not a nightmare, not this time. Real—close, desperate, boots thudding up the corridor, Bitterstack's voice barking orders with a kind of anger that only means one thing: the worst has started.
I lurch upright. The main hall is a mess—cots, ration crates, a half-eaten loaf, and over a dozen kobolds jammed together in various states of fear and half-dressed panic. Tinker is at the window with a broken relay unit, trying to get a signal. Bitterstack's at the door, counting heads, shoving a lantern at a trembling Gen-2 who nearly drops it. Around them, young and old, veteran and greenhorn, press together in a swirl of nerves and noise.
"Up, move, now!" she snaps. "Keep it tight, keep it quiet. Anyone runs, I'll string you up myself!"
