Night had fallen, but the fever in the allied camp was far from breaking. Along the rutted road leading to the central command, a scarred man clad in snow-wolf fur strode with a predatory gait. Turak occasionally used his sheathed Caelid longsword to swat away the drunken demi-humans and Misbegotten blocking his path, spitting a stream of bile and cursing under his breath.
Yet, aside from those too drunk to tell east from west, no one dared to cross him. Everyone in the valley knew Turak. He was the third-in-command of the Northwind, a forr rcenary who had once walked the halls of Caelid as a free man. Even without his rank, the weight of the longsword he rarely drew was enough to make the bravest Mountain Demon reconsider their life choices.
Before he could reach the inner periter, a massive figure lood out of the moonlight. It was Soreto, his face a mask of barely contained fury.
"Turak. What news from the city?" Soreto asked, his voice low and urgent.
"I t with Clavell," Turak replied, his hand resting on his hilt. "The Dragon Prince is a dead end; he won't be moved. We take matters into our own hands. Tomorrow at noon. Clavell will lead Hectov's forces into Sunset Pass. He gives us thirty-five minutes to turn the valley red."
Soreto sneered. "Thirty-five minutes? As long as that Perfur does his part, I'll have Hectov's head in fifteen."
"Of course." Turak tapped the scabbard against his palm, a cold smirk crossing his scarred face. "We know Hectov. He's a peacock who bought his way into a command. In a fair fight, I'd be shocked if he lasted ten moves against ."
Turak's eyes drifted toward the chaotic, howling camp behind them. "But the win isn't the problem, is it? Have you spoken to the old man?"
Soreto's face went ash-gray. "He's still playing the sa tune. 'The big picture. The grand strategy.' He doesn't see the filth we're standing in. He thinks these animals understand diplomacy."
Turak's expression shifted, uncertain for a heartbeat. "I'll go with you. We'll try one last ti."
Ten minutes later, the two were practically thrown from the central tent. A hail of miscellaneous items—cups, scrolls, inkwells—flew through the air after them. Their attempt to persuade Kruger to sack Caelid had failed spectacularly. The old priest had been so consud by rage that he had vomited blood twice during the shouting match.
"I told you it was useless!" Soreto sat on a jagged rock outside the tent, his spirit broken. "The old man is possessed. He won't let us touch the city. Not even the farms. I want to see his face when Clavell breaks the contract and leaves us to starve."
"We won't live to see that day," Turak said, his voice dropping to a glacial chill.
Soreto blinked. "What do you an?"
"When I returned, I walked past the fires of the other tribes. Frostfang and Barbarianblade are already divvying up the city's districts. Their chieftains almost killed each other over who gets the granaries."
"Why didn't you tell this before we went in?" Soreto roared, jumping to his feet. "Three thousand starving bastards are waiting for a signal! If the leaders are already fighting, the whole coalition will mutiny before dawn! I have to go back to the front—"
Turak's hand shot out, grabbing Soreto's shoulder. Despite Soreto's superior size, the rcenary's grip was like an iron shackle, pulling the general back down.
"You're the one who doesn't see the reality, you idiot!" Turak hissed. "I heard them because they didn't care if I heard! Frostfang, the Brutes—none of them have cared about Kruger's 'no-infighting' rule for months. What was the point of telling you five minutes ago if I couldn't convince Kruger to change the plan?"
Turak leaned in until his scarred face was inches from Soreto's. "Look at it. That is Caelid. The only human city for a hundred miles. The scraps they throw into their sewers would feed a tribe for three years. Now, we have an inside man. We have the Dragons distracting Hectov. And we have three thousand warriors who lost their children to hailstorms and plague this sumr. They aren't here for a 'big picture,' Soreto. They're here because they're dying."
"And us?" Turak pounded his chest. "We are vermin. We are the flies that buzz around the rot. We are wild dogs biting each other's throats for a piece of rancid at!"
"Strategy? The overall situation?" Turak shoved Soreto away, a mocking laugh escaping his throat. "An old Misbegotten who spent his life hiding from human armies thinks he's a scholar because he read a few books. He thinks he's in control, but he can't even control the Northwind, let alone you or . Do you think our own n don't want to burn Caelid? They're screaming for it! They only stay quiet because of Kruger's pathetic imitation of human 'discipline!'"
Soreto's face flushed a deep, wounded red. "But Kruger is right about the Dynasty. If we sack the city under the nose of a Dragon Demigod, Leyndell will co. Where do we run?"
"I told you, we won't last that long anyway," Turak countered. "This 'alliance' is three thousand rabid dogs. We are just the three strongest among them. We can hold the leash tonight, but once Hectov is dead tomorrow, anyone who stands between these dogs and a full stomach will be torn to shreds."
"When the Dynasty cos, we run. I'll take whoever is left across the sea if I have to. But the alternative?" Turak's face twisted into a stiff, terrifying smile. "It is better to die running with a full stomach than to die in a ditch outside Caelid because your own n stabbed you in the back."
Soreto paced, his hands clasped tightly behind him. "But Kruger... he will never agree."
Turak was silent for a long ti. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, his thumb tracing the guard. "He is old. He is dying. A few days early... does it truly matter?"
Soreto spun around, his hands flying to Turak's throat. "What did you say?"
"You heard ," the rcenary said, unblinking as the general's grip tightened. "He dies tonight, or we all die together tomorrow. And rember, Soreto—I don't need you to be the next High Priest. I can find another Misbegotten who is smart enough to see the truth. My blade is sharp enough for both of you."
The silence stretched, thick with the sll of woodsmoke and blood. Slowly, Soreto's hands fell away. He turned his back to Turak, his voice a hoarse rasp.
"I understand."
High above, beyond the reach of mortal ears and eyes, a handso figure hovered in the cold night air. Aegis's gray-white dragon wings beat slowly, keeping him aloft as he watched the tragedy unfold in the darkness below. He saw the greed, the betrayal, and the desperate struggle for survival.
After a long ti, the dragon let out a soft, mourning sigh.
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