Night settled over the rebel camp like a held breath.
Fires burned low, fed just enough to keep the cold at bay without drawing too much attention from the dark beyond the hills. Shadows stretched long between tents, and the usual clatter of movement softened into careful steps and murmured exchanges.
Jacob stood near the infirmary, arms crossed, eyes scanning the perimeter out of habit more than necessity.
The camp hadn't slept properly since Vlad arrived.
Hope had a way of unsettling people.
Jacob could hear it in the whispers—half-spoken prayers, rumors stitched together from fragments of truth and desperation.
Heathfield lives.
The duke's son survived.
The empire failed.
Each version grew more dangerous than the last.
Jacob shifted his weight, boots crunching softly against the dirt. He'd ordered the guards to rotate quietly, to keep faces unfamiliar and mouths shut. Too many people already knew too much.
The dead didn't come back quietly.
