Byron gathered everyone the next day.
He stood on top of a crate near the center of the camp, broad shoulders squared, his deep voice carrying well enough that even the ones hanging back near the outer fires could hear him.
"We've waited long enough," he said. "From today, in one week, we move against the tower. All of us."
The words dropped hard into the camp.
A boy near one of the shelters let out a breath like he had been holding it for days. "Finally. We've already waited a whole week for this."
Someone else answered from farther back, his voice rougher. "And what exactly changes in one more week? The black-haired girl still hasn't said what's inside."
That opened the floodgate.
Voices rose at once.
"We can't just keep rotting here."
"And if we go in blind, we die."
"What's the difference? Stay longer and we die here."
A few nodded, others looked away. A few had already started regretting that Byron had called everyone together at all.
