The orders flew, brief and precise, in the organized murmur that had replaced the camp's noises. Everyone knew what they had to do; every gesture was a stone added to their fragile rampart.

Zirel, that squad leader with sharpened senses, set to work with unusual concentration. He didn't trace visible lines in the dust. Instead, he moved silently around the expanded camp's perimeter, his fingers brushing certain rocks, drawing ephemeral symbols in the air that only those sensitive to these currents could perceive. He placed tiny shards of anima gems at precise locations, creating a faint energetic hum. It was a decoy, a scrambling of essence flows meant to make their position blurry, indistinct, for anyone or anything trying to locate them by unconventional means. A camouflage that didn't fool the eye, but could fool the mind.

Meanwhile, Tonar was everywhere. His massive frame seemed multiplied, moving from one group to another to supervise the light fortification work. It wasn't about building a castle, but sculpting the terrain to gain the best defensive advantage. Men, under his orders, dug shallow trenches with their daggers and armor plates, just deep enough to offer cover for a kneeling man. They reinforced the angles of collapsed walls with rubble, creating natural loopholes. Tonar then designated the high ground – the summits of two ruined towers and a steep scree slope. Three observers climbed up, blending into the stone, their gaze tirelessly sweeping the desert of ruins and the wooded border beyond, from where any threat, human or otherwise, could emerge.

At the center of this anthill, Maggie was a point of calm and intense calculation. She had spread a rough map on a flat rock, but her eyes barely consulted it. She paced the perimeter, stopping, measuring distances with counted steps, evaluating sightlines and dead zones with manic precision. Her finger traced invisible lines in the air, connecting Zirel's posts, Tonar's trenches, the observation points. She constantly recalculated the retreat distance to the rally point, the space needed to maneuver, the depth of their disposition.

"No, move this point one meter east," she ordered a soldier setting up a javelin reserve. "Here, you're exposed by the reflection of the sun on the grey stone at noon. An elite archer from Pilaf wouldn't need more."

Every detail was vital. An error of a few meters, a poorly assessed angle, a forgotten shadow, and their setup could prove to be a trap instead of a refuge.

What they were creating, in haste and silence, was the "anchor point." The precise location, chosen and prepared, where the vanguard of Martissant's army was to set, take root, and deploy its strength. It was the first hard point on the map, the nerve center from which everything else – reinforcements, logistics, counter-attacks – would be organized. Losing this point meant losing the bridgehead. Losing it meant perhaps losing everything.

Maggie looked up from her mental calculations, her gaze meeting Tonar's. Without a word, he nodded. It was ready. As ready as possible. The camp had become a defensive position. Their small group of twenty men was the fine tip of a nail that Count Martissant was about to drive into this cursed land. And they all knew they would be the first to bear the brunt of it.

The sun was rising now, casting a harsh light on their preparations. The air vibrated with a new tension. The anchor point was no longer a concept, but a tangible reality, a defensive organism breathing to the rhythm of their movements.

Under Tonar's direction, the soldiers had organized into distinct units, according to Martissant doctrine. At the rear, protected by the remains of an arc-shaped wall, the archers led by a veteran named Kale tested the tension of their bows. Their well-stocked quivers were planted in the ground within reach. Their eyes scanned the heights, checking their firing angles.

In front of them, forming the heart of the line, the pikemen and spearmen had established a discontinuous front. They weren't aligned as for an open-field battle, but positioned in groups of three or four, protected by vestiges of walls or the low trenches. Their long weapons, pointed forward, formed a bristling, deadly barrier. Their heavy, pavise-shaped shields were propped against the stone, ready to be grabbed to form an improvised testudo in case of an arrow volley.

On the flanks, the swordsmen and halberdiers, more mobile, acted as a rapid reserve and counter-attack force. Zirel, having finished his energy-scrambling work, had joined this group. His agility and two short blades would be a valuable asset for plugging a breach or leading a sortie.

Maggie, finally, had taken up a position near Tonar's command post. From there, she could see the entire setup. She had taken out a small signaling mirror, placing it beside her. A messenger, a young boy with a determined face, stood ready to run and carry her orders if voices were no longer enough in the cacophony of combat.

And then, there was Elisa.

She stood a little apart, in the most protected center of the disposition, where the wounded would eventually be gathered. She was the "girl" to be protected, the asset, the unknown. Her hands gripped the sleeves of her coat. She felt the weight of the glances that occasionally turned towards her. It wasn't fear she read in the soldiers' eyes, but an intense expectation. They were preparing their weapons, their positions, and she was there, seemingly useless. Yet, a dull vibration, distinct from the hum of Zirel's gems, ran down her spine. The scar of the monolith. It was silent, but it was there, like a closed eye watching them from the depths of the ruins.

Suddenly, a sharp, modulated whistle came from the north tower. One of the lookouts. He was pointing a finger towards the tree line to the east.

All heads turned. Silence fell, absolute.

At first, nothing was seen. Then, shapes emerged from the shadow of the trees. Not the creatures of stone and roots. Men. A tight column, advancing with methodical slowness. The sun glinted off helmets, off the tips of lances held high. A banner unfurled, floating limply in the still air. The colors were dull, but the shape was recognizable: a shredded falcon with its tail on fire.

The banner halted atop a gutted hillock, and behind it, the figures slowly deployed.

They weren't numerous—thirty at most—but every step, every movement betrayed a cohesion and confidence that paled the most hardened veterans in the camp.

This wasn't an ordinary troop.

It was a disciplined pack.

Tonar narrowed his eyes.

"Six Awakened," he breathed, more to himself than to the others.

Maggie followed his gaze. Yes, they were easily distinguished: six figures ahead of the group, detached from the rest like black stones in the light. Each of them wore around their neck or on their chest the glowing mark of their stigma—a spiritual scar deeper than flesh. Some shone with a warm glow, others pulsed with a dark, almost liquid light.

Full Awakened.

The kind of men and women capable of reducing an entire section to nothing if the situation demanded it.

Their leader, a tall man with onyx skin and grey eyes, advanced at the center. He wore a tattered cape, heavy with dust and dried blood, but his posture remained straight, imperial. His face, carved like a basalt sculpture, betrayed a quiet, almost haughty strength.

"Sergeant Tonar, Captain Maggie," he called out in a clear voice. "You've held the anchor point better than expected. The Count received your report. You can breathe easy. From here, we take over."

Tonar let out a short, humorless laugh. "Taking over? Looks more like you're taking root."

But the man didn't rise to it. He cast a glance around, assessing the defenses, the troop placement, the tacit discipline reigning in the camp. His expert eye recognized the preparation work.

"You've done good work," he said simply. "It'll save us time."

Maggie approached, studying him unblinkingly. "Name and unit?"

"Commander Rhelas, Sixth Awakened Squad. We're from the northern front, reassigned by direct order of Count Martissant. Our mission: establish the Southern Bastion. This anchor point becomes the base of expansion. From now on, everything that breathes in this forest falls under our jurisdiction."

He paused, then added, lower:

"And if what breathes is no longer quite alive... then we'll handle that too."

A murmur ran through Maggie's ranks.

The soldiers exchanged uncertain looks.

Six full Awakened—that was a colossal force. But the presence of such individuals in a border zone meant something else: the situation was far more serious than the Midnight Raven had let on.

Zirel, who was discreetly observing the newcomers, murmured to Maggie:

"I recognize two of them. One of them, over there, is Erick the Flayed. He commanded the garrison at Iskar before the northern flames swallowed it. They said he'd disappeared into the stigma mist. And now he's back... with a new spiritual heart, apparently."

"And the others?"

"Survivors. Or worse."

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