The morning was sharp with cold, the kind that clung to skin and stiffened breath. Mist crept low along the ground, weaving between roots and boots alike as the resistance band assembled in the clearing. What had been ashes and grief the night before was now iron and silence. No one spoke much—each face set, each gaze hard. The fire of vengeance burned where hope had flickered.
Jamie adjusted the makeshift wrap around his ribs. The wound had scabbed over, raw and aching, but he forced his body upright. Pain was a companion he understood well; it sharpened him, kept him aware. Beside him, Elian was stringing his bow with shaky hands, determination written across the boy's face despite the faint tremor.
Kael stood at the center, his presence steady as a stone tower. "The raven's message wasn't just warning," he began, his deep voice carrying in the cold air. "The outpost at Eastbridge is more than a fort. It's a supply hub. Weapons. Grain. Communication lines. If we strike, we cut their arm before it reaches further into the forest."
"That's if we live long enough to reach it," Seren muttered, arms crossed, jaw set like granite.
Kael ignored him. His eyes swept the circle until they landed on Jamie. "You know the land. You've survived here longer than most. I need your eyes leading us through the forest paths. The outpost won't expect a strike so soon."
Jamie's instinct was to refuse—leadership was a burden that drew arrows faster than shields. But when his gaze slid to Elian, watching him with unshaken trust, something within him shifted. Survival was no longer just his own measure.
"I'll take you there," Jamie said.
The march began at midday. The forest swallowed them whole, its canopy dimming the light and muting their footsteps. Jamie took point, his movements fluid, reading the language of broken twigs, bent grass, and faint tracks in the mud. Derah moved near the rear, ensuring none lagged, while Kael's looming figure kept the group bound together.
Elian trailed close to Jamie, his questions low and urgent. "What if they've set traps? What if they're waiting?"
Jamie kept his voice even, calm as the still air. "Then we spring them before they spring us."
The boy frowned. "You sound like you've done this a hundred times."
Jamie's silence was answer enough.
Seren shadowed them with his usual simmering suspicion, always a half-step behind, always watching Jamie as though he expected betrayal with every breath. The tension was a knife, but Jamie let it cut and carried on.
By dusk, they reached the river. The Eastbridge ruins loomed faintly ahead, stone arches broken like jagged teeth against the horizon. Smoke curled in thin streams beyond—a sign of the regime's new outpost.
They crouched behind a tangle of brush, surveying. Lanterns bobbed around the perimeter, soldiers pacing in pairs. Crates were stacked by the remnants of the old stone walls, the symbol of the regime painted starkly in red.
Kael's eyes narrowed. "They're fortified but not yet finished. We strike tonight before they settle in."
"Reckless," Seren hissed. "We're bleeding, half-fed, and you want to charge a garrison?"
Kael turned to him, voice low but sharp. "It's not a garrison yet. It's a wound waiting to be cut deeper. If we wait, it festers. If we strike, we cripple their reach."
Jamie studied the grounds carefully. The soldiers were disciplined but distracted, still setting up rather than guarding fully. The crates—likely supplies—were stacked too close to the fire pits. A single spark in the right place could undo all of it.
"We don't need to storm them," Jamie said at last. "We bleed them from the inside. Fire their supplies, cut their lines, vanish before they can rally."
Kael gave a single nod. "A ghost strike."
Seren snorted. "And we trust the ghost to guide us."
Jamie ignored him. "We'll need diversion. Noise to pull them to one side while the fire does its work."
Derah spoke for the first time, his voice calm, almost soothing. "I'll take the diversion. They'll chase shadows all night if I lead them."
Elian's grip tightened on his bow. "And me?"
Jamie looked at him, then to the fire pits and crates. "You'll light it."
The boy swallowed, but his jaw set firm.
The plan moved under the cover of night. The forest pressed close, muffling every heartbeat as they split—Derah slipping into the darkness, Kael and Seren waiting with steel ready, Jamie and Elian inching toward the outpost's heart.
The guards shifted, muttered, followed sudden noises in the brush—the work of Derah, silent as mist. Jamie's pulse kept time with every step, every drawn breath. He guided Elian through shadows, their bodies pressed low against crumbled stone.
At the pile of crates, the boy pulled flint and steel from his pouch. His hands shook, but Jamie's steady grip anchored them. "Slow," Jamie whispered. "Strike, catch, breathe on it. Let the flame grow."
Elian nodded, sparks catching dry straw tucked between the crates. Fire licked, then spread, then roared hungrily as if born for this very moment.
A shout went up—soldiers rushing, confusion erupting. Kael and Seren burst from cover, steel flashing, cutting down those who turned too fast. Derah's phantom movements led others deeper into the woods.
The fire surged. Crates exploded with the pop of oil, the crack of timber, the hiss of grain catching alight. Lanterns shattered, smoke billowed.
Jamie grabbed Elian's arm. "Move!"
They sprinted back through chaos, dodging soldiers drawn to the blaze. Arrows whistled, one grazing Jamie's shoulder, another striking stone inches from Elian's head. The boy stumbled but didn't fall, breath ragged, eyes wide with the fire's reflection.
They regrouped at the riverbank, flames rising high behind them. Kael dragged two fighters back, bloodied but alive. Seren's blade dripped red, his grin edged with fury. Derah emerged last, ghostlike, unscathed.
The outpost burned. Its supplies gone, its soldiers scattered. The resistance had struck and vanished like smoke.
But Jamie's gaze lingered on the flames as they crossed the river. Fire devoured, but it also spread. And somewhere in the shadows of that inferno, he felt the eyes of something larger watching, waiting.
The war had only just begun.