The night air in the capital was tense, thick with the smell of oil and smoke drifting from the western quarter. The city guard had doubled their patrols, but Quinn could feel the unease in every alleyway they passed. The rebellion's whispers had grown into shouts, and even the cobblestones seemed to hum with anticipation.
Quinn kept his hood low, his eyes scanning the rooftops for movement. Cassian walked beside him, silent as ever, though the faint tap of his fingers on the hilt of his dagger betrayed his readiness for trouble. Behind them, Kiera and Joran moved in perfect sync, carrying packs heavy with supplies stolen from the last raid.
They weren't heading for the safehouse this time. This was something different—something bigger.
"North gate?" Joran murmured, his voice barely audible over the steady beat of their boots.
Quinn gave the slightest nod. "We move at first light. The caravans heading for the outer provinces won't expect us to be inside their ranks."
Kiera frowned. "And when they find out?"
Quinn's lips curled into a half-smile. "They'll be too late."
They turned into a narrow lane lit only by a single flickering lantern. A cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking their path.
"Late night for wanderers," the stranger said. His voice was low, smooth, but edged with suspicion.
Quinn didn't break stride. "And a dangerous one for those who ask too many questions."
The man's gaze flicked to Cassian, then to Kiera's pack. His smile was brief but knowing. "Word is, the governor's sent hunters after the ones who hit the armory last week. They'll be watching the gates."
Quinn stopped just long enough to meet the man's eyes. "Then we'll make sure they watch the wrong gates." He moved past without another word, and the others followed.
Once they were out of earshot, Cassian muttered, "You trust him?"
"No," Quinn replied. "But I trust his greed. He'll sell that warning to someone by morning, which means we'll know exactly where the hunters are waiting."
By the time they reached the old river docks, the moon was dipping low. Here, away from the guarded streets, the sound of rushing water drowned out the city's restless noise. Old barges rocked lazily in the current, and a pair of fishermen sat hunched over their nets, pretending not to notice the armed strangers slipping past.
Inside the abandoned warehouse at the water's edge, they finally stopped. Quinn spread a map on a battered crate, weighing the corners down with stones.
"The convoy leaves here." He pointed to a mark near the east barracks. "Three carts of supplies—grain, weapons, medicine. Officially, they're for the frontier outposts."
"Unofficially?" Kiera asked.
"They're meant to reinforce the loyalists in the north." Quinn's voice hardened. "If those weapons reach them, we lose the upper hand."
Joran leaned over the map. "We could hit them before they reach the outer roads, but it'll be bloody."
Cassian shook his head. "Too many soldiers. Better to shadow them, wait for the right terrain, then cut them off where they can't call for reinforcements."
Quinn traced a path along the river's edge. "Here. Narrow pass. We block the front and back, force them to abandon the wagons."
Kiera hesitated. "And if they fight to the last?"
Quinn met her gaze steadily. "Then we make sure the last comes quickly."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The warehouse was silent except for the creak of wood and the soft lapping of water outside.
Finally, Cassian broke the quiet. "We move at dawn. No banners, no names. Just shadows."
Quinn nodded, folding the map and tucking it away. "Shadows leave no witnesses."
Outside, the first faint glow of morning was already brushing the horizon. The silent march had begun.