The first shells landed just before dawn, turning the craggy ridges into burning craters. Flames danced across stone and ice. Smoke bloomed upward like warning signals to the gods.
And yet, the rebels did not retreat.
Zeke crouched low behind a shattered boulder, rifle hot in his hands, muzzle flash illuminating his scarred face. His squad—only twelve now—moved like shadows across the battlefield, setting off trip mines, emptying magazines, shouting orders that echoed over the thunder of gunfire.
This was their stand. This was what they had chosen.
The main freedom fighter convoy had already slipped through the Kheran Ridge hours earlier, guided under cover of night by Mora's careful planning. Only the suicide squad remained behind.
Zeke gritted his teeth as a drone exploded midair from a well-placed shot. He turned to the last of his squad, ducking behind overturned crates and broken rock.
"Don't give them a single inch! We hold until we can't breathe!"
They cheered—a rough, broken sound—and kept firing.
The Greenland army came in waves: black-armored soldiers moving with precision, backed by machines, drones, artillery. But the chaos of Ember Line's terrain slowed them. Every step forward was paid in blood. The rebels fought like men already dead.
From the rear, Captain Tade Odo surveyed the battlefield with narrowed eyes.
"This isn't right," he muttered.
Commander Helda, standing beside him, tilted her head. "They're putting up heavy resistance. It looks like a last stand."
Tade's lips thinned. "Exactly. Too coordinated. Too focused. These aren't defenders—they're a distraction."
His eyes scanned the edge of the battlefield, then the faint, untouched shadows of the ridge line far to the east.
"They're not here," he growled. "The main force is gone."
Otunba approached, concern etched into his face. "What are your orders?"
Tade stepped forward. "Send a unit now. Move on the ridge. I want eyes everywhere."
---
It was already too late.
The last of the freedom fighters had vanished through the winding, narrow paths of Kheran Ridge. The snow and stone left no obvious trail. Mora had made sure of that. They moved silently, avoiding heat signatures and using the terrain to their advantage. By the time Greenland boots reached the edge of the pass, they found only cold silence and wind.
Back at Ember Line, the battle was dying.
Zeke crawled behind cover, half his squad dead around him. Blood coated his hands. His shoulder burned from a shot that had grazed him minutes ago. The sound of approaching tanks rattled the stone beneath him.
One of his last fighters—a boy no older than seventeen—looked at him with wide eyes.
"We held long enough," Zeke said quietly. "Get to the ridge. Now."
"What about you?"
"I said go."
The boy hesitated, then ran.
Zeke stayed behind, laying down one last barrage of cover fire. He wasn't trying to kill anymore—only to delay. One more second. One more breath. One more chance for someone else to live.
By the time the Greenland soldiers closed in, the boy was gone, and Zeke was nowhere to be seen.
---
Later that evening, inside the cold, steel interior of the Ember Line base now captured by Greenland, Captain Tade paced like a caged animal. A bloodied helmet sat on the table in front of him—rebel colors, cracked and burnt.
"They slipped past us," he growled. "A whole force. Right under our boots."
Otunba entered, saluting. "Sir, we captured five rebels alive. Low-rank. From the suicide team."
Tade turned to him, eyes burning. "Then bleed them. Slowly."
Otunba blinked. "Sir?"
Tade's voice dropped into something colder than death. "I want them to scream. I want every rebel in those hills to hear it. And if they don't—then at least I will."
Otunba gave a silent nod and turned to carry out the order.
As night fell over Ember Line, the ridge stood silent once again. The snow covered the tracks of those who had vanished, and the mountains whispered only to those willing to listen.
Zeke's stand had bought time. Time enough to change the course of a war.