Morning arrived slowly over the ridge.
Cold mist clung to the mountain paths like drifting smoke while pale sunlight filtered weakly through the trees overhead. The camp below had already begun moving long before dawn fully broke—fires being rebuilt, water carried uphill, and damaged barricades reinforced with scavenged timber and rusted metal.
Survival had become a routine.
That realization frightened Alistair more than the raids ever had. He watched a group of refugees below sharing a single pot of thin broth, their faces blank and their movements mechanical. They had adapted to misery with a speed that felt unnatural.
At the upper clearing of the ridge, frost still covered the ground when Asarmose arrived.
The omega wore black again. It was a simple, severe outfit that seemed to absorb the weak morning light. His coat moved sharply in the mountain wind as he stepped into the center of the clearing without speaking. One by one, the leaders gathered around him.
