CHAPTER 349: TRAGEDY (3)

By dawn, the survivors had been tallied.

Of the ten thousand who had marched to this camp, fewer than four thousand remained. Half were wounded. Supplies enough for perhaps two weeks. No beasts of burden, no siege engines, no walls. Only earth and stone above them.

The numbers spread like a shadow. Whispers turned to sobs, sobs to silence. Some men broke down entirely, staring into nothing. Others clung to scraps of faith, muttering prayers.

And for the first time since the war began, the human camp had no banner raised.

—

That night, as torches burned low and men slept fitfully, Ydrien sat awake, her back against the cavern wall. Her silver eyes stared into the dark beyond the light.

There was something there.

Not in the tunnels, not yet. But in the land above, pressing down like a weight upon her chest. A rhythm. A heartbeat. The same pulse she had felt when the mutants attacked, stronger now, closer.

It was no mindless tide.

Something was guiding them.

Something wanted them here.

And without Lindarion—

No. She would not let that thought take root.

But as the hours passed and the weight pressed heavier, even she began to wonder if Faylen was right.

—

The tunnels breathed with damp air.

Every sound carried, boots scraping stone, the cough of the sick, the drip of water that seemed to fall endlessly. Torches hissed and sputtered in their sconces, choking on the thick smoke of too many flames burning in air too stale. The survivors of the once-mighty eastern encampment had become a people of shadows.

The first three days were the hardest.

Men accustomed to marching in open air now huddled shoulder to shoulder in cramped caverns. Armor rusted with the damp. Food dwindled faster than any quartermaster dared admit. And everywhere lingered the smell: sweat, blood, mold, smoke, unwashed flesh.

No one said it aloud, but the tunnels already felt like a tomb.

—

On the fourth day, the rations changed.

Where once each soldier received a full share, bread, salted meat, a measure of dried grain, now they were given half. Children and wounded were allowed a little more, but the difference was so slight it sparked more resentment than gratitude.

"Half a crust for a day’s watch?" muttered a soldier, staring at the ragged heel of bread in his palm. His companion tore his own in two, muttering back:

"Better than the dead get."

But his laugh was thin, brittle.

At the front of the line, quartermasters stood flanked by guards, as though the starving would rise up and strike them. In truth, they might.

Already, two fights had broken out on ration day. Both ended with steel drawn. Both left corpses on the cavern floor.

—

Lady Thariel of Deyros made her rounds among the wounded.

The sick lay on straw pallets, eyes glazed, skin waxy with fever. Mutant claws poisoned the blood, even shallow cuts rotting flesh with unnatural speed. Magisters burned mana to keep them alive, but their strength ran dry, their spells failing more often than not.

One boy, a soldier no older than sixteen, gripped her hand as she passed.

"Will we... go back above?" he whispered.

Thariel tightened her jaw. She had always spoken truth to her soldiers, even when it cut deep. "Not yet."

"But we can’t stay here. Can’t breathe down here."

She looked into his hollow eyes and said nothing. A cough wracked him, blood flecking his lips. He released her hand, staring at the cavern ceiling as though it were a sky he could no longer see.

She left him to die.

—

The leaders met in the great cavern, the only chamber wide enough to hold them all. Torches lined the walls, but the smoke curled thick overhead, making the air heavy.

Lord Commander Faylen spoke first, as always. His voice was smooth, precise, cutting like the edge of a dagger.

"This is untenable. We sit here in filth while the enemy scours the surface above. Our numbers dwindle by the hour. We bleed resources we cannot replace. We cannot remain."

General Corthen was dead. Magister Ydrien sat in his place, though her body seemed to shrink by the day, as though the damp ate her bones. Her silver eyes narrowed.

"And where would you go? March into the open fields, and let the mutants finish what they began? No walls, no fortifications, no allies near enough to hear our screams. Above ground, we die faster."

"Better to die fighting," Faylen hissed, "than rotting like vermin underground."

Lady Thariel’s voice broke through, sharp as her steel. "Enough. Our soldiers hear every word spoken here. Do you mean to break their spirit entirely?"

"They deserve the truth," Faylen snapped.

"They deserve leadership," Thariel shot back. "And all they hear is bickering."

The cavern fell to silence. But the rift in the council deepened with each passing night.

—

Among the soldiers, whispers spread.

"Lindarion will come back."

"No—he’s dead. If he lived, he’d be here."

"He went east. Maybe he fights the demons even now."

"He abandoned us."

The name passed through the tunnels like a ghost. Some clung to it like a lifeline. Others spat it like poison.

The truth was, no one knew. And the not-knowing gnawed worse than hunger.

—

On the sixth night, the storeroom was breached.

A guard found the lock forced, two sacks of grain missing. The alarm echoed through the tunnels, and the soldiers descended like wolves.

By torchlight, three men were dragged before the council. All half-starved, all desperate. The grain had been hidden beneath their bedding.

"They’ve doomed us all," spat one guard. "For a day’s meal, they’ve cut a week from the mouths of their brothers."

"Hang them," Faylen ordered coldly.

Thariel’s jaw tightened. "We are not executioners."

"They stole from the last of us," Faylen snapped. "What mercy do you have for the thousands who will starve because of them?"

Ydrien spoke at last, her voice like gravel. "Make it quick."

The three men were executed in silence, their bodies dragged into the side tunnels. No one spoke of them again, but no one forgot.

That night, fewer men slept. And many more began to think of theft.

—

On the ninth day, part of the northern tunnel gave way.

Stone and earth fell in a thunderous roar, burying dozens alive. The dust hung thick for hours, clogging lungs, coating tongues with grit.

When the digging ceased, only corpses were pulled from the rubble.

The tunnels narrowed further. Now the survivors were packed even tighter, the air fouler, the mood darker still. Mothers clutched children who coughed blood. Men sharpened blades though no enemy was in sight. The sense of doom pressed heavier with every hour.