When the sun finally crested the horizon, its pale light revealed the truth of what the night had wrought.

  The camp still stood.

  Barely.

  What had once been a sturdy wooden wall—brown, reinforced, and smelling of sap and fresh-cut timber—was now charred black from top to bottom. The ten-meter-high fortification remained upright, but it looked more like the skeleton of a burned beast than a wall meant to protect human lives. Splintered wood jutted outward like broken ribs, and faint smoke still curled lazily into the air as if the wall itself was exhaling its last breath.

  Before it stretched the moat.

  Or rather, what remained of it.

  Roughly a meter and a half deep, the trench was no longer filled with water or mud. It was filled with ash. Thick, gray-black ash that still smoldered in places, glowing faintly beneath the surface. Every so often, a pocket of heat would flare up, releasing a puff of acrid smoke into the air.

  The smell was indescribable.

  Burned flesh.

  Burned hair.

  Burned waste.

  It clawed its way into the lungs, coated the tongue, and refused to leave. The stench seeped into clothes, hair, bedding—into people themselves. Because the moat completely encircled the camp, there was no escaping it. The smell lingered everywhere, an invisible prison that punished the survivors with every breath they took.

  In contrast, the goblins had retreated.

  They had pulled back to roughly a kilometer from the walls, forming a loose ring around the camp. Notably, the northern side—where the wind carried the foul odor directly toward them—was almost completely empty.

  Even goblins had limits.

  The humans had always assumed goblins didn’t care about filth, that they lived in it and reveled in it. That assumption proved wrong. Whatever goblins were willing to endure, this was not it. They avoided the downwind side entirely, leaving it eerily clear.

  Arin woke with a groan.

  His sleep had been short and shallow, and when he opened his eyes, the first thing he became aware of was the smell. It slammed into him like a physical force, making his stomach churn.

  “Holy hell…” he thought groggily.

  His eyes burned, dark circles heavy beneath them—he looked like a panda that had lost a fight. He rolled onto his side and buried his face into his sleeping bag, only to realize that the fabric had absorbed the stench too.

  Great. Now even my bedding smells like death.

  “If the commander ever pulls a stunt like that again,” Arin muttered under his breath, “I’m throwing myself into the fire just so I don’t have to smell this.”

  He sat up slowly, joints stiff and muscles sore, and crawled out of the sleeping bag he had tossed and turned in for most of the night. The ground beneath the tent had been unforgiving—no matter how much he shifted or tried to dig out stones, there was always one sharp edge waiting to stab into his back just as he got comfortable.

  Still, the ground had not been the worst part.

  The smell had been.

  He dressed quickly, pulling on his clothes and cape, then secured his quiver. Outside, he could already hear activity—voices, clanking armor, the distant shouts of officers trying to impose order on exhausted troops.

  Because Arin’s family belonged to a special civilian unit, they were allowed private tents instead of the massive fifty-person army tents. The space was ridiculously small, but Arin was endlessly grateful for the privacy.

  Stepping outside, he made his way toward the caravan where breakfast was being distributed.

  “Morning,” he said to his parents. “Did you sleep at all, or did the smell keep you awake too?”

  Teun snorted softly. “We didn’t sleep. Judging by your tone, neither did you.”

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  “I did,” Arin replied. “About three hours. Then my nose remembered the smell and woke me up again.”

  Teun handed him a portion of dried beef and bread. “The goblins pulled back. North side’s nearly clear.”

  Arin raised an eyebrow. “Clear enough to escape?”

  Teun shook his head. “Technically, yes. Practically? No. Escaping that way would only take us deeper into goblin-controlled territory.”

  “For the army, sure,” Arin said slowly. “But for us… we could slip away.”

  His eyes drifted toward Tilly, who was sitting near the smoldering remains of a campfire. She pinched her nose shut with one hand as she chewed, clearly determined not to let the smell ruin her breakfast.

  “If the numbers are really that high,” Arin continued, “getting back wouldn’t be easy. But for Tilly… maybe it’s worth considering.”

  “No,” Karl said sharply, appearing behind them without warning.

  Both Arin and Teun jumped slightly—Karl had a talent for sneaking up on people, something that normally earned loud complaints.

  “No,” Karl repeated. “We wouldn’t survive out there. The bridges are likely blocked, and even if they aren’t, we’d starve before finding a safe route.”

  Teun clenched his jaw. He didn’t respond immediately.

  “Do you know if they finished building the gates on this side of the river?” Teun asked quietly.

  Karl sighed. “Arin, stop giving your father false hope.”

  Arin winced. “Sorry, Dad. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Enough,” Karl said, softer now. “Command’s orders came down this morning. If we’re going to die in four days anyway, we’re to use every scrap of wood and supply we have to make arrows. Fire everything we can before the end.”

  He drew his dagger and began shaving down a piece of wood, working it into a straight shaft.

  “The other side of the camp is swamp and quicksand,” Karl added. “Almost like the terrain itself didn’t want fortifications there. But they built them anyway.”

  One by one, the others joined him. They were all experienced in making their own arrows—it was cheaper, and sometimes the only option.

  Inside the commander’s tent, the atmosphere was heavy.

  The tent itself sat within a fortified inner structure meant as a final fallback if the outer defenses collapsed. Eloi had never intended to use it so soon.

  Or at all.

  But reality didn’t care about intentions.

  “Eloi,” Selvijs said as he entered. “The goblins have gotten used to the smell. They’ve started attacking again.”

  Eloi didn’t look up. He sat at his desk, hands clenched, face twisted in barely contained rage.

  “I ordered everyone who knows how to make arrows to start immediately,” Selvijs continued. “Here’s the casualty report.”

  Eloi took the parchment slowly.

  “We didn’t include the lightly injured,” Selvijs added. “It doesn’t matter at this point.”

  Eloi’s eyes scanned the page.

  “Ten thousand seriously injured,” Selvijs said quietly. “Most by goblins carrying weapons. They’re helping with logistics where they can.”

  Eloi’s grip tightened.

  “Twenty thousand dead,” Selvijs went on. “And yes—it’s the armed goblins. They go for the neck instinctively. Too many of our people relied on chainmail, assuming it would protect them.”

  “It didn’t,” Eloi murmured.

  “No. Daggers go straight through. Morale’s taking a hit.”

  Eloi rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You warned the troops.”

  “Yes.”

  Eloi stood.

  “Let’s see what they’ve prepared for us today.”

  He walked toward the wall.

  And the sounds of battle greeted him once more.