The sun bled crimson over Ember Line, casting long shadows between broken walls and silent hills. The ruined town, once a trading hub nestled among the iron ridges, now served as the last breath of Forun resistance. Its cobbled streets were riddled with old bullet holes, and the air still carried the faint, bitter tang of ash. Yet within this scorched skeleton of a city, a pulse beat quietly—a rebellion waiting in the bones.
Deep beneath the surface, in a hollowed-out cellar lined with maps and flickering lanterns, the heart of the resistance stood gathered around a wooden table worn smooth by years of war.
Asa, leader of the freedom fighters, stood at the head like a shadow carved from flame. His face was steel—bearded, scarred, with eyes that had seen every betrayal, every sacrifice. The others watched him, waiting. Listening.
He traced a calloused finger across the old map of Forun, toward the capital.
"Greenland will take Durnhal," he said flatly. "And Ashen Fold. That much is certain."
Kael, lean and fierce, leaned forward with a frown. "You sound like you want them to."
"I do," Asa replied, unfazed. "Because after those victories, they'll believe the war is over. They'll grow bold. Proud. And that's when we bleed them."
He tapped a circle he'd drawn around Ember Line, marked in red ink.
"Here. We let them think this place is just another ruin. No defense. No soldiers. Only tired civilians waiting to be absorbed into their great machine."
Rhea crossed her arms and glanced toward the arched window slit behind them. Smoke from the forge district curled into the fading light.
"You want us to play dead," she said.
Asa nodded. "We'll dress the part. Let them see women sweeping ash from doorways, old men repairing shutters, hungry children. Let them see what they want to see. And when their boots are deep in the dirt, we close the gates and light the fuse."
Silence followed—heavy and tense.
Devon broke it with a snarl. He was broad-shouldered and always just shy of an argument.
"That's madness," he said. "We let them march through Durnhal? Ashen Fold? We let them kill more of our people? Why not strike at Durnhal—where they'll least expect us? Why wait until they've already butchered more of our kin?"
Kael gave a sharp nod, stepping beside Devon.
"He's right. We hit them where it hurts, at the height of their campaign. If we surprise them at Durnhal, we might stop the offensive altogether. Why gamble on their pride when we can cut their throat now?"
Asa didn't flinch. He let the fire in the lantern dance across his eyes.
"Because we don't know their strength," he said. "We don't know who commands them, how many they'll send, what weapons they carry. A reckless charge at Durnhal will be a bloodbath. We'll lose more than we save."
"People will die either way," Devon growled. "But at least we'll die on our feet, not pretending to be broken."
Mora, quiet until now, finally spoke. She stepped from the shadows, her long braid trailing like a black ribbon behind her.
"No one wants more death," she said, her voice calm but steely. "But Asa's right. We need to see the beast before we strike it. Let them expose themselves. Let their guard down. Then we hit."
Devon opened his mouth, but she lifted a hand. "I lost my sister in the last ambush. I'm not asking for more loss. I'm asking for a chance to win."
Rhea exhaled slowly, her gaze shifting to the map. Her voice came quieter than before.
"If we attack at Durnhal and fail, they'll come here with fire and fury. But if we let them win… if we let them think they've already won, then their eyes won't be open when they reach Ember Line. We strike once. We strike sure. And we end this."
Kael shook his head, lips thin, but said nothing.
Devon looked to Asa, fire still flickering behind his clenched jaw. "You'd better be right."
Asa only stared into the map. "I'm not trying to be right. I'm trying to finish this."
And with that, the plan was sealed.
The trap would be set at Ember Line.
In the days that followed, the town changed. Weapons were hidden in water barrels, behind broken pews, and beneath sacks of grain. Fighters learned to limp, to smile blankly, to speak like farmers. Children were taught how to scream on cue. The scent of smoke was replaced by cooking fires, and the clang of steel was buried beneath the hum of survival.
They waited. They watched.
And like the slow rise of smoke before the blaze, the fire began to gather in silence.
The soldiers were coming. And this time, Forun would not run.