At dawn, their bodies were sore, but their minds remained as sharp as blades. None of them had truly slept, yet each had rehearsed their role over and over in their head until it became a mechanism of survival.
The camp looked like an improvised forge. Armin and Rony tied strips of oil-soaked cloth around stakes and branches to make torches. Élisa, her face blackened with soot, shaped compact pouches of powder that she slipped into small cloth bags, ready to be hurled against stone to weaken the vaults. The lead pellets clicked between her fingers like promises of thunder.
Inès was sharpening her bolts one by one with almost manic precision. Each signaling arrow was checked, readjusted, caressed as though it were an extension of her own hand. She muttered to herself, prayers or insults—none could tell.
