Lance's arm was already extended when the rebel soldier grabbed it.
The man hauled—hard—boots digging into damp soil.
"Damn," he hissed through his teeth, "you're heavier than you look."
Lance didn't bother answering. He cleared the lip of the manhole and was dragged behind a fallen log as blaster fire snapped through branches overhead.
"Status?" Lance asked, voice low.
The officer beside him flicked on a holographic display, shielding the glow with his body. The forest floor appeared in miniature—rocks, trunks, shallow dips—each marked with icons.
"Enemy's dug in about forty-five meters out," the officer said, tapping two clusters. "They aren't pushing because our snipers keep clipping anyone who tries."
In the shadows behind them, two snipers lay motionless, scopes trained forward, breathing so slow it looked like sleep.
Lance forced his hands to stop shaking long enough to keep the datapad steady. "Fastest route out?"
The officer zoomed out. The map widened to include deeper forest, the edge of Yuonin City, and the narrow artery of trails that threaded between them.
"Follow this route south, then cut east. You'll meet Bravo Company near a creek line. Move like your ass is on fire." He paused, then flicked more overlays onto the display.
Red shapes began appearing on the forest grid—squads moving, tightening, circling.
"Command is already getting reports," the officer continued. "More troops inbound from both sides. In a few hours this whole stretch becomes a war zone."
He transferred the route to Lance's datapad with a sharp ping.
Lance took one breath, then pressed two fingers to his brow in a crisp salute. "You boys hold."
"For the Rebellion!" someone shouted.
"For the Rebellion!" the others answered, the chant rising in the trees like a dare.
It was answered immediately by fire.
Blaster bolts tore through leaves, sparked off rock, and chewed bark into splinters.
"Contact!" the officer barked. "Down! Return fire!"
Lance didn't wait for permission. He moved—low, fast—using trunks as stepping stones of cover. Bolts hissed past him and detonated in the earth, throwing up wet dirt and shreds of fern.
He risked a glance back.
Rebels were firing in short bursts from behind logs and roots. A grenadier leaned out, cooked a charge, and hurled it in a clean arc.
"Grenade!" a military soldier screamed.
Bodies scattered.
The blast hit with a flat concussion that thumped through Lance's chest even at distance. When the smoke cleared, one soldier lay sprawled in the grass, an arm missing, blood painting the ground in a widening fan.
The rebels surged forward on that opening, trying to compress the fight into close quarters where training and desperation mattered more than numbers.
The exchange turned into a brutal rhythm—peek, fire, duck—punctuated by screams and the occasional silence when someone didn't get back up.
Lance kept moving.
He didn't stop until the forest around him began to feel wrong.
Not the normal wrong of a battlefield—this was cleaner, quieter, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
Then the world tore open.
Deep in the forest, a portal bloomed between trees—light without heat, wind without weather. It exhaled a smell that didn't belong on this side of the war: fresh stone, distant pine, and the faint metallic tang of rune-forge.
Figures marched out in disciplined waves. Elves, dwarves—too many to count at a glance. Their steps weren't scattered like militia. They were measured. Trained.
They split into squads with practiced efficiency and melted into the green like the forest had always been theirs.
Dwinley arrived first with Lady Sylvas and a tight knot of officers. They held position near the portal, waiting.
The gate narrowed, bright edges drawing inward.
Then it flared once more as the last group emerged.
Zelon Virqaza stepped through.
Mordindor and Sirdaer at his sides. Behind him, more guards—Kael'thas, Galadriel, and robed figures who moved with the quiet composure of people used to power.
"Lord Zelon," Dwinley said.
Knees hit the ground around him in a ripple.
Zelon lifted a hand and the motion alone snapped them upright again.
"We celebrate later," he said. "Report. Now."
Mordindor approached and gestured for him to follow. They moved through hidden paths into the central information hub—an underground chamber alive with screens, rune-lit consoles, and the hum of a Hearthtree relay.
An elf activated the table display. A holographic map rose—forest, roads, city, and the perimeter of Zelon's concealed base.
"The initial firefight is here," Mordindor said, marking a point. "Six miles southwest. Roughly forty combatants, twenty per side. Rebels have the early advantage."
New icons appeared—eleven more clusters, moving fast.
"Our scouts confirm incoming reinforcements," Mordindor continued. "Three military squads are converging from the rear. Other military teams are closing the forest edges."
On the other side of the map, rebel squads began spilling out of Yuonin City like ink in water—two pushing northwest to cut routes, three heading straight for the active fight.
Zelon watched the board for several long seconds, expression unreadable.
Then he spoke.
"Seal the base. Full concealment. No leaks."
Mordindor nodded, already reaching for his comm.
"Next," Zelon said, "I want twenty squads of Wood Elf Archers in the forest. They dig in now. Silent. Invisible."
Mordindor paused to listen—then Zelon lifted a finger and stopped him mid-command.
"Better," Zelon said. "Add Night Elves. Have them move wide and lay mist across the engagement zone. Release it when reinforcements commit. I want both sides blind at the exact moment they think they're winning."
"As you wish, my lord."
Mordindor turned and began issuing orders in rapid bursts, each command bouncing through relays into waiting units.
In the underground barracks, three hundred Wood Elves assembled in rows. Dwarves moved down the line distributing gear with efficient, heavy-handed speed.
Equinox Light Armor, folded and sealed. Helmets. Belt rigs.
An E65B standard laser rifle with a long barrel and scope. A sidearm. Two grenades.
The soldiers checked straps and locks without speaking. The silence wasn't fear anymore—it was focus.
Aldrion and Bratol stepped to the front, similarly equipped, their visors up.
"We'll lead ten squads each," Aldrion said. A map lit up on the wall behind him, marked with forest positions like stitched wounds. "You will dig in at these locations and wait."
Bratol's voice was steady as stone. "When you arrive: spread out. Keep spacing. No chatter. No fires. No mistakes."
Aldrion swept his eyes across the line, daring someone to question the order.
No one did.
"Good," Aldrion said. "Move out."
Boots began to run.
And above them, in the forest where rebels and military were about to slam together again, the first thin threads of mist started to creep between the trunks—too smooth, too deliberate to be natural.