The march to Ember Line began under a low-hanging sky, the wind dry and still. Dust kicked up behind the Greenland column as they advanced through the narrow passes and shallow hills leading to the ancient ruins. Captain Otunba led the procession with grim confidence, his eyes always forward, never betraying the unease that flickered behind them.
Behind him, Gad kept pace, silent, his face a mask. He had stopped expecting anything. Durnhal fell. Ashen Fold crumbled. And Asa—his father—had made no move. Gad's hope had withered in his chest like a dying flame.
Beside him, Jimi walked with mechanical focus. He barely spoke now. After Ashen Fold, something had cracked. Gad saw it in the way Jimi moved, in the sharp, cold efficiency of his rifle. He didn't hesitate anymore. He shot without flinching. He killed like someone who no longer expected to be forgiven.
They reached Ember Line by dusk.
A crumbling fortress town nestled into the cliffside, it looked deserted. The structures were old, pockmarked by weather and past war. Nothing moved beyond the broken walls. No smoke. No voices. Just the howl of the wind through hollow stone.
"Same as Durnhal," someone muttered.
"Or Ashen Fold," someone else replied.
Captain Otunba raised a fist, signaling a halt. He sent scouts ahead. They returned with nothing. No sign of defense. No sign of resistance. Just emptiness.
The order came to enter.
The Greenland soldiers moved cautiously into the town. Gad's stomach twisted with every step. This can't be it, he thought. This place feels wrong. But there was no voice to confirm his fear—no whisper, no signal. Just silence.
Jimi moved through the ruins like a machine. He pulled the trigger when he needed to, cleared corners with cold precision. Gad watched him drop a figure emerging from a doorway—a man with no weapon, hands raised.
"Why'd you shoot him?" Gad asked, his voice hushed.
Jimi didn't look back. "He'd have shot me first if I didn't."
Gad swallowed his anger. There was no room for arguments now. The trap hadn't sprung—if there even was one.
Then the crowd came.
They appeared at the edge of the ruins—slowly at first. Dozens of people in drab clothes, tattered cloaks, with dirt on their faces and baskets on their backs. Farmers. Locals. Civilians.
Gad froze.
Something was wrong.
"Sir," he called, stepping toward Otunba. "This isn't right—"
He didn't finish. A gunshot rang out, sharp and close. A Greenland soldier fell with a hole through his neck.
Then another.
And another.
Suddenly, the "farmers" threw down their baskets. Beneath them—rifles, carbines, grenades. In a flash, they became warriors. Freedom fighters.
Forun.
Otunba barked, "Fall back! Fall back now!"
The soldiers scrambled to retreat. But it was too late. Another wave surged from behind—Forun fighters flanking the Greenland army from the rear. Sniper fire cracked from the cliffs. Soldiers dropped like leaves in a storm, and no one knew where the shots were coming from.
"We're trapped!" someone screamed.
"Into the side wall!" Otunba shouted. "Breaching charges—now!"
Gad moved instinctively, helping haul the charges into place. Explosions ripped through stone. Dust and fire erupted as a breach opened in the side wall. Through the smoke, Otunba led a desperate push. Bullets chased them. The screams of the wounded echoed off the walls.
Jimi was hit—a clean shot to the arm. He stumbled, nearly dropped his rifle. Gad grabbed him, dragged him forward as Otunba covered them with short bursts of fire.
By the time they broke free of Ember Line, only ten of them remained.
Ten out of nearly a hundred.
They didn't stop running until the ridge was far behind them, the snipers' range fading into silence.
Gad collapsed behind a rock, panting. Jimi sat beside him, clutching his wounded arm with blood-slicked fingers. Otunba looked around at the survivors—mud-caked, bloodied, broken.
"This wasn't a garrison," the captain muttered. "It was a f***ing theater. A damn performance."
Gad said nothing.
But inside, his chest swelled with something between relief and awe.
He did it.
His father had laid the trap. Waited. Durnhal and Ashen Fold weren't failures—they were sacrifices. Strategic illusions.
Ember Line had always been the stage. And Asa had pulled the curtain.
Gad hid his smile behind a grimy glove.
---
Within the ruins of Ember Line, night settled over the battlefield like a blanket of ash. The smell of smoke and blood lingered in the air. Inside one of the surviving buildings—an old command chamber turned to temporary shelter—Asa stood watching through a broken window.
His hands were clasped behind his back. His eyes, sharp and shadowed, followed the path of retreating Greenland soldiers down the distant road.
Behind him, Mora leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "You let them go."
Asa didn't respond at first.
"They'll return," she added. "With fire. With everything."
He nodded.
"I want them to," Asa said.
"Why?"
"So they tell Odo what they saw here. Tell him we're not broken. Not scattered. We're waiting." He turned, his expression cold and measured. "Let Odo come. And when he does, we'll show him what it means to fight for home."
Mora nodded once, quietly.
Outside, the fires of Ember Line burned low—but not out.
Not yet.