The command tent smelled of stale ale and old parchment, but underneath it, there was the sharp, metallic tang of fear.

  Captain Vane stood over the map table, her hands gripping the edges of the wood so hard her knuckles were white. Her lieutenants—a one-eyed archer named Jorell and a young, nervous spearman named Tamsin—looked at me with a mixture of skepticism and desperation.

  “Your perimeter is too wide,” I said, breaking the silence.

  I took the charcoal stick from Vane’s hand. I didn't ask permission.

  I drew a thick black line across the southern edge of the valley, cutting off a large section of the map marked ’Lower Fields’.

  “You’re trying to defend the farmland,” I stated, tapping the charcoal on the paper. “You have sentries posted every fifty yards along this ridge. That’s too thin. If a breach opens here”—I tapped the center of the ridge—“your line collapses in thirty seconds.”

  “If we lose the Lower Fields, we lose the potato crop,” Vane argued, though her voice lacked conviction. “We have three hundred refugees to feed, Commander. If we pull back, we starve.”

  “If you don't pull back, you die,” I said flatly. “Starvation takes weeks. Demons take seconds.”

  I looked at the lieutenants.

  “Pull the sentries back to the choke points. Here. And here.” I marked the two narrow passes leading into the inner camp. “Turn the valley into a funnel. Force them to come at you in a column, not a wave.”

  Vane stared at the map. She traced the new lines I had drawn.

  “It means abandoning a third of the camp,” she whispered.

  “It means saving the other two-thirds,” I replied.

  Liam stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the tent. He had been so quiet that Tamsin jumped, nearly dropping his spear.

  “The Commander is right about the lines,” Liam said smoothly, walking to the table. “But he’s missing the shadows.”

  The elf picked up a red marker. He circled three spots on the jagged cliffs overlooking the camp.

  “Here, here, and here,” Liam said. “You assume these cliffs are impassable because they are steep. But if I were an assassin—and I am very good at pretending to be one—I would come down right here.”

  He tapped the spot directly behind the Command Tent.

  “You have a blind spot the size of a dragon,” Liam noted. “One Void-Stalker drops down here at night, and your leadership is dead before you wake up.”

  Vane looked at the cliffs, then back at Liam. She looked horrified.

  “I… we didn't think anything could climb that,” she admitted.

  “Demons don't climb, Captain,” Liam said gently. “They crawl. Put traps there. Tripwires. Noise-makers. Broken glass. Anything to ruin their stealth.”

  Vane let out a long, heavy breath. She looked at her lieutenants.

  “Do it,” she ordered. “Pull the perimeter back. Rig the cliffs. Do exactly what they say.”

  She looked at me.

  “You know, for a ‘traveler’, you sound a lot like a General.”

  “Just a soldier, Captain,” I said. “Just a soldier who hates losing.”

  While I reorganized the defense, Faelar was waging a war on entropy.

  I walked past the camp’s forge—a meager setup consisting of a stone fire pit and a rusted anvil. The local smith, an older man with a bad leg, was trying to hammer a dent out of a breastplate. He looked exhausted.

  Faelar walked up to a weapon rack. He picked up a standard-issue longsword. He inspected the edge. He frowned. He grabbed the blade with his gauntleted hand and bent it.

  The metal groaned and stayed bent.

  “Cheese,” Faelar declared loudly. “Hardened cheese. That is what this is.”

  The old smith looked up, wiping soot from his forehead. “It’s the best iron we have, master dwarf. The mines are closed.”

  “The iron is fine,” Faelar grunted, tossing the bent sword onto a scrap pile. “The temper is trash. You’re quenching it too fast. You’re making it brittle.”

  Faelar walked into the forge. He didn't ask. He just took the hammer from the old man’s hand.

  “Sit down, lad,” Faelar said, clapping the smith on the shoulder. “Take a break. Drink some water. The professional is clocked in.”

  Faelar stripped off his tunic, revealing his broad, scarred chest and arms that looked like knotted oak roots. He tied his leather apron tight.

  “Stoke the fire!” Faelar bellowed to a passing boy. “I want it white-hot! I want it to taste like the sun!”

  Then, he began to work.

  He didn't have magical ore. He didn't have Mithril. But he had technique.

  CLANG.

  The sound of his hammer hitting the anvil wasn't a dull thud. It was a bell. A rhythmic, singing note that cut through the noise of the camp.

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  CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

  Faelar worked with a manic, joyous energy. He took rusted shields and re-rimmed them. He took dull spears and ground them until the tips could pierce a coin. He took the "cheese" swords and reheated them, folding the metal, hammering out the impurities, quenching them in oil with a hiss that smelled of victory.

  A crowd of soldiers gathered. They watched with open mouths as the dwarf transformed their junk into weapons.

  When Faelar handed a repaired sword back to a young recruit, the boy tested the edge. It sliced through the air with a hum.

  “Hold the line with that,” Faelar growled, wiping sweat from his beard. “Don't you dare dull it on a rock.”

  The recruit nodded, clutching the sword like it was Excalibur.

  On the far side of the camp, near the river, the mood was quieter, but the magic was stronger.

  The refugee camp was built around a few patches of farmland—rows of sad, wilted potatoes and gray, spindly vines. The Void corruption in the air had leeched the life out of the soil. People were hungry. I could see it in the hollow cheeks of the children watching the soldiers train.

  Willow walked through the rows of dying crops. Nugget followed her, pecking at the dry dirt.

  She knelt down in the mud. She took off her gloves.

  A few farmers watched her, leaning on their hoes.

  “It’s no good, lady,” one of them said. “The ground is sour. Nothing grows right since the sky turned gray.”

  Willow didn't answer. She placed her hands flat on the earth.

  She closed her eyes and began to sing.

  It wasn't a spell chant. It was the Song of Restoration. A melody she used to hum to the trees in the Veridian Refuge.

  Green light, soft and pulsing, flowed from her hands and into the ground.

  The farmers gasped.

  Where the light touched, the gray, cracked soil turned rich and dark. The smell of rot vanished, replaced by the scent of damp, fertile earth.

  Then, the growth started.

  It was like watching time speed up. Spindly vines thickened and turned a vibrant green. Leaves unfurled like flags. The ground swelled as tubers expanded beneath the surface. Small, green bulbs on the melon vines inflated, turning yellow and ripe in seconds.

  Willow stood up and walked to the next row, still singing.

  Behind her, she left a trail of abundance.

  “Food!” a child screamed.

  The refugees rushed forward. They didn't trample the crops; they fell to their knees, weeping. They pulled massive, golden river-melons from the vines. They dug up potatoes the size of helmets.

  Willow smiled, wiping dirt from her dress. She picked a ripe melon, cracked it open against her knee, and handed a chunk to Nugget.

  The chicken ate it happily.

  For a moment, in the middle of a war zone, there was no hunger.

  Near the medical tent, Elmsworth had commandeered a table.

  It was covered in glass vials, bubbling beakers, and piles of black dust. He was wearing his goggles, muttering to himself at a speed that would make an auctioneer dizzy.

  “Fascinating,” Elmsworth whispered. “Truly fascinating.”

  I walked up to him. “Report, Elmsworth. What are you doing with the demon ash?”

  “Science, Commander!” Elmsworth chirped, holding up a pinch of the black dust we had collected from the Void-Stalker. “I am analyzing the cellular stability of the Void entities.”

  “And?”

  “They are highly unstable,” Elmsworth said. “They exist in our reality by anchoring themselves to necrotic energy. But! Their membrane permeability is terrible.”

  He picked up a flask containing a white, powdery mixture.

  “Observe.”

  He dropped a pinch of the demon ash into the flask.

  POOF.

  A small, violent puff of purple smoke erupted from the flask, followed by a sizzling sound. The ash dissolved instantly.

  “What was that?” I asked, stepping back.

  “Crushed limestone and salt,” Elmsworth beamed. “Basic alkaline compounds. To us, it is seasoning. To them? It disrupts their magical cohesion. It’s like throwing acid on a snail.”

  He pointed to a barrel next to the table.

  “I have taken the liberty of preparing a slurry,” Elmsworth said proudly. “If the archers dip their arrows in this… well, it won't kill them instantly, but it will burn like the Hells.”

  “Budget holy water,” I muttered, impressed. “Good work, Elmsworth. Get it to the archers. Tell them to coat everything. Arrows, spear tips, caltrops.”

  “Already done!” Elmsworth saluted, nearly knocking over a beaker.

  Evening fell over the hidden valley.

  The atmosphere in the camp had shifted. It wasn't despair anymore. It was grit.

  The soldiers had sharp weapons. The refugees had full bellies. The archers were dipping their arrows in Elmsworth’s white paste. The perimeter was tight.

  We gathered near the command tent. Vane was eating a slice of Willow’s melon. She looked ten years younger than she had this morning.

  “You’ve done more in twelve hours than we’ve done in three months,” Vane said quietly. “Thank you.”

  “Don't thank us yet,” I said, looking at the darkening sky. “This is just preparation.”

  Faelar walked up, cleaning grease from his hands. “The lads are ready. Morale is high. They actually think they can win.”

  “They can,” Liam said, sharpening a dagger. “If Malacor sends another patrol, we’ll crush them.”

  Then, the sound cut through the air.

  HOOOOOOOOOOO-ooo-ooo.

  It was a horn blast. But it wasn't the deep, rhythmic tone of the Watch Change.

  It was high, frantic, and stuttering.

  The Alarm.

  “North Ridge!” Vane shouted, dropping her melon. “Sentry reported!”

  We ran.

  The camp erupted into controlled chaos. Soldiers grabbed their new weapons and rushed to the lines. Mothers pulled children into the inner tents.

  We reached the edge of the Command circle just as a horse galloped in.

  The horse was foaming at the mouth, its eyes wide with terror. The rider—a young scout named Kael—was slumped over the neck.

  He slid off the saddle before the horse stopped. He hit the dirt with a wet thud.

  We rushed to him.

  He was riddled with arrows. Not the gray-fletched arrows of the patrols. These were black, jagged shafts that pulsed with purple light.

  “Willow!” I yelled.

  Willow was already there. She fell to her knees, her hands glowing with healing light. She pressed them against the scout’s chest.

  “He’s fading,” she whispered, her voice tight. “Too much necrotic damage. It’s stopping his heart.”

  The scout’s eyes fluttered open. He grabbed Vane’s boot. His hand was stained with black blood.

  “Captain,” he rasped. Blood bubbled at his lips.

  “I’m here, Kael,” Vane said, kneeling. “What is it? Is it a patrol? A Stalker?”

  The scout laughed. A wet, gurgling sound.

  “No,” he whispered. “Not a patrol.”

  He looked up at the sky.

  “The horizon… it’s moving. Malacor emptied the Spire. He’s sent everything.”

  I felt a cold pit open in my stomach.

  “Numbers, soldier,” I demanded. “Give me numbers.”

  The scout looked at me. His eyes were glazing over.

  “Ten thousand,” he whispered. “Maybe more. And the Cultists… they’re chanting. They’re bringing the drumming.”

  His hand went limp. He stared up at the smoke-filled sky, seeing nothing.

  Willow pulled her hands back. The light faded. She shook her head.

  Silence fell over the circle.

  Ten thousand.

  We had three hundred soldiers. Maybe fifty archers.

  The Ward Stone in my pocket buzzed. It wasn't a gentle vibration. It was a violent, jarring spasm against my thigh.

  I pulled it out. The screen was flashing red, illuminating the terrified faces of the rebels around me.

  [EVENT TRIGGERED: THE RED TIDE.] [ENEMY FORCE: DEMONIC ENTITIES + CULTIST INFANTRY/SUMMONERS.] [ESTIMATED TIME TO CONTACT: 4 HOURS.] [ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 3%.] [GAME MASTER MESSAGE: GOOD LUCK.]

  I stared at the number. 3%.

  Vane stood up. She looked pale. She looked at her soldiers, who were watching her, waiting for orders. Waiting for hope.

  She looked at me.

  “What do we do?” she whispered.

  I put the Stone away. I tightened my grip on my spear.

  “Get everyone to the inner circle,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence. “Civilians in the caves. Soldiers on the wall.”

  I looked at the Misfits. Faelar was gripping his hammer. Liam had stopped smiling. Willow was wiping blood from her hands. Elmsworth was trembling.

  “We aren't sleeping tonight,” I said. “The tide is coming.”