Dawn broke cold and grey over Grim Hollow, bringing with it no warmth, no promise, only the heavy dread of a fortress sealed shut from the inside. Soldiers moved like tightly wound gears in a failing machine—efficient, but strained. Orders barked across courtyards. Doors slammed. Patrol boots hammered the stone pathways.
The outpost was no longer breathing; it was holding its breath.
Bright Morgan arrived in the yard before his squad, having barely slept. Being an Initiate meant he no longer tired like a normal human, but it did nothing for the churn in his gut. His senses—sharper, keener, almost painfully alert—picked up every heartbeat of nervousness in the air. The smell of oil from the generators. The faint metallic sting of weapon crates opened for inspection. The clipped footsteps of officers marching with intent.
Grim Hollow was wounded, gutted from inside its own walls.
A whisper of movement to his left; his squad had gathered.
Lira, arms crossed, tapping her foot.
