Somewhere Beneath the Southern Range
The air was colder underground. Not because of temperature, but because of purpose.
The tunnel was alive with activity—soft footsteps, hushed commands, and the clanging of metal on stone. Soldiers in masks moved through the corridors like shadows, sorting crates, marking symbols on the walls, and working with sealed barrels of explosives.
And at the centre of it all stood Luther—Tobias.
He stood over a wide, worn map pinned to a metal table, its edges curling with damp and age. Several sections were marked in crimson ink. Others burned black at the corners, scorched by deliberate fire.
"We're ahead of schedule," Matthew said from across the chamber, his cloak still dusted with ash from the last tunnel clearing. "The northeastern passages are done. By next moon's turn, the network will stretch all the way to the palace wall."
Tobias didn't look up. "And the detonators?"
