The group crouched low in the shelter of a ridge. The earth was damp beneath their knees, rich with moss and pine needles, but all Rowan could smell was smoke and sweat drifting up from the valley below.
The raider caravan had made camp across the shallow basin. Dozens of fires burned, their smoke choking the stars, their glow crawling over a sprawl of wagons, tents, and restless beasts. The noise was constant: guttural laughter, the clang of steel on steel, the crack of whips. Every sound echoed, carried by the open land.
And then there were the cages.
Rowan counted them without meaning to. A dozen long wagons lined with iron bars. Others hammered straight into the ground, bolted to great wooden posts. Shapes slumped inside, shadows with no strength left to stand. Now and then a hand clutched the bars, skeletal fingers white in the firelight. A whip cracked, and a prisoner shrieked. A guard laughed and drove his spear-butt into the bars to make the others flinch.
The sound crawled into Rowan's bones. He forced himself to look, to remember. They weren't numbers. They were people.
"Four hundred," Ashwyn murmured, his voice low as stone dragged across stone. His pale eyes swept the camp, tracing every fire, every armed figure pacing the perimeter. "Perhaps more. The forest itself recoils at them."
Brennar spat into the dirt. "Four hundred bastards fattened on chains and cruelty. That's all I see."
Rowan's grip tightened on his harpoon until his knuckles ached. He had never seen so many enemies in one place. Raiders. Wolves. Men with blades and beasts on chains. More than his village had ever held. More than they could hope to kill.
Nyx shifted against a tree trunk, her cloak seeming to bleed into the shadows. Her eyes gleamed faintly, pale in the dusk. "Eight of us against five hundred?" Her tone was flat, cold. "Even with Soulkin at our sides, that's not bravery. That's suicide."
"Eight's enough if we fight like demons," Brennar shot back, his voice iron. He thumped the haft of his axe into his palm, jaw set. "I've seen fewer hold against worse."
"Hold," Nyx echoed, a hint of mockery in her voice. "Not win."
"That's not the point," Brennar growled, leaning forward. "We're not running."
The others looked between them — and then, slowly, their eyes turned toward Rowan. For once, Brennar wasn't the one with a plan. Ashwyn stayed silent, staff resting across his knees. Ari's bow lay across hers, but she didn't raise it. Even Nyx's smile thinned, as though she was waiting to see if he'd speak.
Rowan's chest tightened, but he didn't let it show. He raised his chin, eyes still on the camp below.
"We can't fight to win," he said, his voice steady. "Not against those numbers. But we can fight to break them apart. To free the captives."
A hush settled, even heavier than before.
Ari was the first to answer. "Go on," she said simply, her tone sharp and clear.
Rowan lifted his harpoon and pointed toward the camp. "Brennar, fell a tree behind their wagons. Pin them in once they settle. No one leaves to raise an alarm. Ashwyn, when we strike, you raise walls and roots. Hold their blades back, give us space. I'll take the river. Ice, water, anything I can use to slow them and spear anyone who presses close.
"Ari—you lead Lyra and Tamsin. Get those cages open. Arm anyone who can stand. Nyx—you're the shield in the shadows. Nothing touches them if you can help it."
He let the silence hang a moment before he added, "We set it at dusk. Shadows give Nyx cover, firelight blinds the sentries. While they scatter, we hit hard. We're not here to win a war. We're here to tear open those cages."
The words carried, heavy as iron.
Brennar grinned, teeth flashing. "Hells, boy, you sound like you've done this before."
Rowan shook his head, grip tightening on his harpoon. "No. But someone has to do it now."
---
"You'll need more than that."
The voice came from behind.
One of the men they had freed two nights before stepped into the fire's reflection. His face was gaunt, a scar running from brow to jaw, but his eyes burned steady now. A borrowed sword hung at his side.
"You gave us our lives back," he said. "Let us use them for something more. We'll fight with you."
The second, younger, stepped up beside him. His hands shook, but his jaw set firm. "And they have our families. We saw them taken—wives, brothers, children. Maybe they're in those cages. If we stand back now, we'll never see them again."
The last, broad-shouldered and quiet until now, added simply, "Three more swords. Not much against hundreds, but better than waiting while our kin suffer."
Brennar barked a laugh and clapped the nearest man on the back hard enough to stagger him. "Looks like you've got yourselves killed either way. Might as well die swinging with us."
Ari's bow hand paused mid-flex. She gave the smallest nod, sharp and approving.
Nyx tilted her head, lips curling faintly. "Three more bodies for the pyre… or three more blades to balance the odds. We'll see which."
Ashwyn leaned on his staff, gaze still on the cages below. "The strings of fate tighten. Perhaps this was always meant."
Rowan met the three men's eyes in turn. "Then you stand with us. For your families. For all of them. No one here fights alone."
---
They crouched lower, sketching rough lines into the dirt with sticks and blades. Brennar jabbed the spot where his tree would fall. Ari marked the cages, tracing a path for the healers. Rowan dragged his finger through the soil in a winding line, marking the river. Ashwyn added arcs for barriers, roots spreading outward like veins.
The plan was raw, jagged, nothing more than scratches in the dirt — but it was theirs.
For a moment, none spoke. The camp below filled the silence: the crack of a whip, the snarl of a wolf, the scream that followed. Firelight flickered across the ridge, dancing in their eyes.
Tamsin swallowed hard, voice soft but firm. "Then dusk it is."
Rowan raised his head. "At dusk."
A horn sounded faintly from the camp, followed by laughter that rang sharp as steel. The sound crawled up the ridge, reminding them of the numbers waiting below.
Still, no one backed away.
Rowan looked at them — Brennar with his axe, Ari with her bow, Nyx in her shadows, Ashwyn steady as stone, Lyra and Tamsin with quiet strength, Toren still untested but ready, three more survivors with fire in their eyes.
Not an army. Not enough to win.
But enough to strike.
And for the first time, Rowan knew — they were all waiting on him.