They found him arguing.
Not shouting.
Not panicking.
Arguing.
"You're thinking too small," the man said, voice steady despite everything. "If we stay here, we die. If we scatter, we die faster."
"And if we follow you?" another soldier snapped. "What makes you different from him?" He jerked a thumb toward where the commander's body lay.
The man didn't hesitate.
"I know I'll get some of you killed."
Silence.
That wasn't the answer they expected.
The boy stepped closer.
For the first time, he saw him clearly.
Not young.
Not old.
Eyes sharp. Tired—but focused.
Not pretending.
"That's war," the man continued. "The difference is—I won't pretend it's anything else."
No one spoke.
"You want guarantees?" he went on. "Go home. If you want to survive this next attack, you need to move before they hit us again."
"…And you can do that?" someone asked.
The man shook his head slightly.
"No," he said. "But I can give you a better chance than doing nothing."
A pause.
Then—
"Name," the boy said.
The man looked at him.
"…Call me Hale."
Not his full name.
Didn't matter.
Another rumble echoed—closer now.
Time was running out.
Hale turned, already thinking.
"They hit us from range first. Then they pushed. That means they'll expect us to stay broken."
He looked at the terrain.
Then pointed.
"We move there."
A few soldiers frowned.
"There's barely any cover."
"Exactly," Hale said. "They won't expect us to reposition into something exposed. It puts us out of their prepared range and forces them to adjust."
"That's a risk."
"It's all risk," Hale replied. "Pick one."
The boy felt it again.
That shift.
Before, he would've hesitated.
Waited.
Followed.
Now—
"…We move," he said.
A few heads turned toward him.
Hale studied him briefly.
Then nodded.
"Good. Spread the word. Anyone who can still fight—moves now."
"What about the wounded?" someone asked.
Hale's expression didn't change.
"We take who can walk."
"And the rest?"
A pause.
Short.
Heavy.
"…We don't have time."
No one liked that answer.
But no one argued.
The boy turned away, jaw tight.
Krans would've said something.
Would've pushed back.
Would've made a joke to break the tension.
The silence now felt wrong without it.
"Move!" someone shouted.
The remaining soldiers began to gather, forming something that barely resembled a unit.
Not organized.
Not strong.
But moving.
The boy fell in step.
The ground shook again—closer now.
The second attack was coming.
Hale walked ahead, already issuing orders, already shaping chaos into something usable.
The boy watched him.
Not with trust.
Not yet.
But with something else.
Understanding.
This time—
When the battle came—
It wouldn't just be about surviving.
It would be about choosing who gets left behind.