The rebel camp sprawled across the valley like a wounded beast—alive, restless, and uncertain of its own strength. The smell of woodsmoke clung to the air, weaving with the metallic tang of sharpened steel. From every corner came the murmurs of hundreds who had abandoned their farms, trades, and homes to take up arms against a kingdom that had abandoned them first.
Tattered banners fluttered in the cold night wind. Men huddled around fires, sharpening rusted swords or clutching crude spears. Women stitched torn clothes, fed weary children, and tended to the wounded. Deserters from the royal army kept to themselves, their polished armor glinting faintly beneath layers of grime, while thieves and vagabonds moved through the shadows, already scheming what plunder might follow if victory came.
At the heart of it all stood the council tent. Its canvas walls, stained with soot and dirt, strained against the gusts, the lantern light within turning its surface into a pale beacon across the camp. Inside, the rebellion's fate was being debated, though no man or woman who entered seemed sure of what tomorrow might bring.
Kael sat at the head of the rough wooden table. His broad shoulders bent forward, hands clenched tight around the hilt of his dagger as if the steel were the only anchor to hold him steady. His dark eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, but beneath the weariness burned an ember—dangerous, unyielding. He had not asked for leadership, yet the rebellion clung to him all the same.
Around him, the captains bickered like ravens over carrion.
"Our supplies dwindle," growled Captain Morin, a grizzled veteran with scars crossing half his face. His voice was hoarse, like gravel being ground underfoot. "Two more weeks at best before hunger scatters the camp. If we do not strike soon, we will starve in our own tents."
Others nodded grimly. Some pounded fists on the table for emphasis. The sound echoed, sharp and impatient.
Across from Morin, Serenya leaned back in her chair, her posture almost languid despite the tension choking the air. Her long black hair fell like a veil around her sharp face, and her eyes—those obsidian pools that seemed to see straight through every soul—gleamed with quiet amusement.
"A hasty strike is exactly what our enemy wants," she countered, her voice smooth as silk yet edged with venom. "The king's armies sit fat and waiting, their blades polished for fools who would throw themselves against stone walls with empty stomachs."
"You call us fools?" Morin barked, half-rising from his seat.
Serenya's lips curled into the faintest smile. "If the word fits your impatience, Captain, wear it proudly."
The tent erupted in angry mutters. Some sided with Morin, driven by desperation and gnawing hunger. Others leaned toward Serenya's cold logic. The division was palpable, like a crack running through glass, threatening to shatter the fragile unity of the rebellion.
Kael raised his hand, silencing them with a single motion. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of command.
"We will not fracture," he said. "If we bicker, we hand victory to the crown before we even raise a blade. The question is not whether we fight. It is how."
A hush fell, but the tension remained.
From the corner of the tent, a cloaked figure shifted, the sound of leather scraping against stone. Until then, the stranger had remained silent, content to watch the storm brew. Now, his voice emerged—a low, measured tone that carried an unsettling certainty.
"The capital's walls are strong," he said, every syllable precise. "But stone is nothing without the heart that beats behind it. The king hides his rot beneath polished marble and iron gates. I can lead you inside. Past the guards. Past the gates. Into the veins of the city itself."
All eyes turned to him. Some glared with suspicion, others with hope.
Morin slammed his fist against the table. "A spy, more like. Who are you to claim such knowledge?"
The cloaked man did not flinch. He lowered his hood just enough for the lantern light to reveal pale, angular features and eyes like shards of ice. "Call me what you will. But I know paths the king's men have forgotten. Catacombs, tunnels, doors hidden in shadow. While you waste breath here, I can already see the palace halls in my mind."
The murmurs thickened. Possibility and paranoia tangled like thorned vines.
Serenya tilted her head, studying him with a gaze that stripped flesh from bone. "A convenient savior," she murmured. "Or the bait on a hook."
The stranger met her stare without flinching. "Believe me or not. But if you hesitate much longer, your rebellion will choke on its own hunger. Then you will have neither choice nor chance."
Kael leaned forward, his dagger's hilt creaking under the pressure of his grip. His gaze swept over the council—Morin's defiance, Serenya's sharp skepticism, the stranger's cold certainty. For a moment, the weight of their fates pressed heavy upon him. He saw in his mind the starving faces outside, the weary soldiers who had given up everything, the fire in their eyes demanding change.
At last, his decision cut through the silence like a blade.
"Then we move," Kael said, his tone cold, final. "At dawn, we prepare. The capital will not wait for us, so we will not wait for it."
The lantern light flickered, throwing his shadow long across the tent wall—broad, unyielding, monstrous in its reach. For the first time, the council saw not the weary man who had once been one of them, but the dangerous figure he was becoming: a leader who would burn the world to win.
The captains bowed their heads reluctantly. Even Morin, though scowling, did not argue further. Serenya's lips curved into the faintest smirk, her eyes glittering with something unreadable—admiration, suspicion, or perhaps both.
The cloaked stranger simply nodded, as though everything had unfolded exactly as he expected.
Outside, the restless army stirred. The sound of sharpening blades, the low hum of voices, the crackle of fire—it all seemed to quicken, as if the very air knew what tomorrow would bring.
In the darkness beyond the campfires, the night seemed to lean closer, listening.
History was about to turn.
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