The forest was restless that night.
The wind shivered through the leaves as though the trees themselves were whispering warnings no one wanted to hear. The campfire was a dim glow, ringed by tense silhouettes. No laughter. No idle chatter. Only suspicion, so thick it choked the air more than the smoke did.
Kael stood at the center, boots planted in the dirt, eyes blazing like a man who hadn't slept in weeks. His voice broke the silence like a blade:
"Enough hiding. Enough bleeding. One of you is feeding them, and I'll rip the truth out tonight."
His words carried a raw finality. Not an accusation — a sentence.
The fighters shifted uneasily. Some avoided his gaze. Others glanced at Jamie, as if hoping the young man who had once walked quietly among shadows might step in again.
But Kael didn't give them time. He seized Elian by the collar and dragged him forward, forcing him into the circle of firelight.
Elian stumbled, face pale, breath hitching in his throat. "W-what are you doing? I've done nothing wrong—"
"Nothing wrong?" Kael spat, his grip tightening. "Every ambush fails. Every move we make is countered. And you—always slipping away, always with your excuses. The rot stinks off you."
Elian shook his head frantically. "No! You don't understand—I've been scouting, trying to help. Ask Jamie! He knows!"
All eyes turned toward Jamie.
He sat apart, his injured leg stretched out, the wound wrapped but throbbing beneath the cloth. The firelight painted hard shadows across his face, hiding the doubt in his eyes. Elian's voice clawed at him, desperate, pleading — but Jamie couldn't ignore the unease that had followed Elian since the night of the convoy.
Still, Kael's fury burned hotter than truth. And Jamie knew what came next if he stayed silent.
"Stop this," Jamie said, his voice steady but firm.
Kael turned on him, a predator scenting defiance. "You defend him? Even now?"
"I defend reason," Jamie shot back. He pushed himself upright, wincing as his leg protested. He didn't falter. "Killing each other won't win this war. If Elian's guilty, prove it with facts. Not paranoia."
The camp went still. Fighters looked between them — Kael, their commander, towering with fury, and Jamie, the wounded stranger who had bled beside them yet never claimed authority.
Elian crumpled under Kael's grip, babbling. "I swear, I never spoke to them. I—I only asked where the supplies were to keep track, I wanted to help, I didn't mean—" His words tangled, a flood of excuses and half-truths. The more he spoke, the guiltier he sounded.
Kael raised his blade, pressing the edge against Elian's throat. "A liar's tongue always runs fastest before the cut."
Jamie stepped forward, heart hammering.
The fire popped, sparks rising as though the night itself recoiled from what was about to happen.
"Put the knife down," Jamie said.
Kael's jaw tightened. "Or what? You'll stop me? You think you know better than me, boy? I've bled for this cause since before you could lift a sword."
Jamie swallowed the flare of fear clawing at his gut. His father's voice whispered in memory: The first knife always comes from someone close.
Maybe Elian was that knife. Maybe not. But if Kael killed him without proof, the resistance would splinter beyond repair.
Jamie took another step, ignoring the pain screaming in his leg. His voice rose, not just for Kael but for every fighter watching.
"You lead us to strike at shadows. You call it survival, but it's become something else. Fear. Rage. You're turning it inward. If we kill our own, then the regime doesn't need to destroy us—we'll do it for them."
The words cracked like a whip through the camp.
Some of the fighters stirred, murmuring uneasily. Doubt flickered in their eyes — not just at Elian, but at Kael himself.
Kael's face twisted, a storm of fury and wounded pride. "You dare speak to me of leadership? You — who stumble behind, half-crippled, hiding secrets you've never told us? Who are you to stand against me?"
The tension snapped. Kael shoved Elian to the dirt and turned his blade toward Jamie.
Gasps rippled through the camp. The circle widened, as if the fire itself demanded space for the duel no one wanted but everyone had expected.
Jamie straightened, forcing himself to meet Kael's glare. His hands trembled, not from fear but from the raw ache of his wound and the weight of what was at stake.
"I'm someone who still remembers what we're fighting for," Jamie said. His voice didn't shake. "Not just survival. Not vengeance. Freedom."
The silence after stretched thin, every breath sharp.
Kael's chest heaved, his blade hovering between decision and restraint. He looked less like a leader now and more like a tyrant — cornered, snarling, unable to see the line he was about to cross.
Jamie's leg buckled suddenly. Pain shot through him, forcing him down to one knee. The weakness exposed him, but his eyes never left Kael's.
The others saw it. A wounded man, broken but unyielding. A commander, armed and whole, yet shaking with rage.
And in that moment, the balance shifted.
Several fighters stepped subtly closer to Jamie's side. Not a rebellion, not yet — but hesitation. Enough to show Kael he no longer held unquestioned loyalty.
Kael saw it too. His nostrils flared. He lowered the blade an inch but did not sheath it. His voice was a growl, stripped raw:
"You think you've won something here? You've only made yourself my rival. And rivals… don't last long."
He turned, storming away into the shadows, leaving Elian gasping in the dirt and Jamie kneeling before the fire.
The fighters remained frozen, their unity cracked like a shattered mirror.
Derah moved first, stepping toward Jamie. She helped him rise, her grip steady on his arm. Her eyes spoke what no words dared: You weren't wrong… but you may have just doomed yourself.
Jamie exhaled, his chest tight, his wound screaming. But beneath it all, his conviction burned brighter than the fire.
The resistance had reached its breaking point. And the night whispered a truth Jamie could no longer ignore: the enemy wasn't only outside the forest.
The enemy might already be leading them.