Ren stood over the map table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tracing the thin red line of the enemy's flank with his finger.
"If we want Durnholde's sacrifice to mean something," Ren said quietly, "we have to break through the Southern bastion. But we can't—not without help."
Noah looked up from the scattered reports. His gloves were still stained faintly with oil and ash. He hadn't slept in thirty-one hours.
"Help from who?" he asked.
Ren hesitated, then exhaled slowly. "The Iron Company. Mercenaries under Captain Arlen Creed. They're Central-born, but they've been fighting for coin, not crown. They can slip through Central lines. If we pay them enough, they'll open the gates for us."
May, standing nearby, slammed a fist on the table. "You want to trust Centrals with our lives?"
Ren didn't meet her eyes. "I want to win."
Noah's silence stretched thin as steel wire. The fire in the brazier hissed.
He thought of Wolf, laughing through the radio before the explosion.
