The night had deepened, yet the clamor within the rebel camp showed no signs of fading. Along the path to the central command, a man clad in snow-wolf pelt armor marched with a heavy, purposeful stride. He used his sheathed Kaiden sellsword blade to swat aside drunken Demi-humans and Misbegotten who dared block his path, punctuating each strike with a mouthful of spit and a volley of contemptuous curses.
Despite his arrogance, no one dared challenge him. Those with even a modicum of standing knew this scarred veteran from the northern peaks was the third-in-command of the Shivering Wind tribe. Even without his reputation, the massive curved blade strapped to his back was enough to make the boldest Troll hesitate.
Before he could clear the vanguard, Turak encountered a towering silhouette approaching from the opposite direction. It was Soreto, his face a mask of simmering fury in the cold moonlight.
"Turak. What news from the city?" Soreto asked, skipping all pleasantries.
"I've just come from Clavell. The Ancient Dragons are too sharp to be used as a hammer; we'll have to do the heavy lifting ourselves. The time is set for noon tomorrow. He'll lead Hektov's unit into Sunset Pass and claims he can give us a thirty-five-minute window to finish the job."
Soreto let out a harsh, barking laugh. "If Clavell holds his end, we won't need thirty-five minutes. We'll have Hektov's head in fifteen."
"Naturally." Turak gripped his hilt, tapping the scabbard against his palm with a predatory grin. "We know exactly what Hektov is made of. A noble who bought his rank with family gold. In a fair duel, I'd take his head in ten strikes or call myself a failure."
He glanced back at the rowdy, chaotic camp behind him, his smile fading into a grimace. "But the fight isn't the problem, is it? Have you spoken to the old man?"
"You know the answer," Soreto replied, his voice thick with resentment. "It's the same old song. He prattles on about 'the big picture' and 'geopolitics' while this so-called alliance rots from within. Thinking these bastards can understand politics is like expecting a dog to recite poetry."
Turak's expression shifted, his iron-grey eyes clouding with thought. "I'll go with you. We'll see him one last time."
Ten minutes later, the two leaders were chased out of the High Priest's tent. A barrage of scrolls and wooden trinkets followed them through the flap. Their final attempt to convince Krug to sack Karen City had failed utterly, and the effort had left the old priest coughing up streaks of blood in a fit of rage.
"I told you it was useless!" Soreto sat on a jagged rock once they were clear of the command post, his face dark with gloom. "The old man is possessed by the idea of sparing the city. He won't even let the boys touch the outlying farms. I want to see his face when Clavell betrays us and the grain never arrives."
"We won't live to see that day," Turak said coldly.
Soreto blinked, looking up. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"On my way back, I overheard the chieftains of the Frostfang and Savage-Blade clans. They were already dividing the city's districts. They nearly came to blows over who gets the granaries; both of them walked away with fresh cuts."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Soreto stood up, his voice rising in panic. "Three thousand warriors from dozens of tribes. If the leaders are fighting now, we're looking at a mutiny by dawn! Move, I need to—"
Turak grabbed Soreto's massive shoulder. Despite the difference in size, the mercenary's grip was like an iron vice. He yanked the giant back with a violent jerk.
"It's you who doesn't understand the situation, you idiot!" Turak hissed. "Why do you think I could overhear them so easily? Because they don't care about Krug's laws anymore! Telling you five minutes earlier wouldn't change the fact that the Frostfangs and the rest have already forgotten the old man exists."
He stepped closer, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Look at what's in front of us. It's Karen. The only human city south of Gelmir. The scraps they throw into their gutters every month could feed a Demi-human tribe for three years. Clavell is opening the door, the dragons have pulled the Governor's eyes away, and half the tribes in Gelmir are starving because of the hailstorms and the summer plague. A third of our people won't survive the winter. That is why they are here. That is why they will fight!"
"And us? What are we?" Turak slammed a fist against his own chest. "We are filth. Scum. Roaches living in the shadows of the Erdtree! We are flies buzzing toward the scent of a carcass. We are wild dogs ready to tear each other's throats out for a scrap of bloody meat!"
"The 'big picture'?" Turak let out a hollowing laugh. "An old Misbegotten who escaped a battlefield, read a few human books, and caught a glimpse of a Lord from ten miles away thinks he understands the world? He thinks he controls three thousand warriors? He doesn't even control you or me! Do you think there's a single man in our central guard who doesn't want to burn Karen to the ground? They all do! They only stay quiet because they've spent a decade pretending to follow Krug's 'military discipline' like performing monkeys!"
Soreto's face went pale. "But Krug is right about the Golden Order. If we sack Karen under the nose of a dragon demigod, the retribution will be total. Where would we run?"
"I told you, we won't wait for that," Turak said, his gaze turning glacial. "This army is three thousand starving hounds. You, me, and Krug are just the three strongest dogs in the pack. We can hold them back for one more night. But tomorrow, after Hektov falls, anyone who stands between those hounds and the city will be torn to pieces."
"When the Golden Order comes for blood, we run. We run as far as we can. Cross the sea back to Kaiden with me if you have to. As for the rest..." A mocking, jagged smile crossed his scarred face. "Better they die on the road with full bellies than slaughter each other at the gates because an old man told them to stay hungry, wouldn't you agree?"
Soreto paced back and forth, his brow furrowed in agony. "But Krug... he will never allow it."
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Turak placed a calloused hand on the hilt of his blade. "He is old. He is dying. Does a few days really matter?"
"What are you saying?" Soreto spun around, his hands flying to Turak's throat, his eyes wide with horror.
"You heard me. He dies tonight, or we all die tomorrow," the mercenary said, looking into the eyes of the trembling general. "And remember, Soreto, you aren't the only one who can lead. I can promise my blade is fast, and I can promise the next Misbegotten I find will be smart enough to listen."
The seconds ticked by like falling stones. Slowly, Soreto's hands lost their strength. He turned away, his voice a hollow rasp.
"I understand."
At that same moment, far above the reach of their senses, a handsome youth hovered in the cold night air. Silver-grey dragon wings beat slowly against the wind as Luthier looked down at the chaos, greed, and desperation unfolding in the valley below. He watched the threads of fate tighten around the old priest and the starving tribes.
After a long time, he let out a single, quiet sigh.