The air within the settlement felt heavier with each passing day. What had begun as a fragile union of survivors striving for a fresh start was now fracturing under the weight of frustration and grief. Whispers of discontent crept through the camp, and at their heart was Garran Valde, a former soldier who had lost everything to the Crown’s Wrath.

  Garran was a broad-shouldered man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw—a brutal reminder of the life he'd fought to preserve and the family he’d failed to save. Where Emmet sought cautious progress, Garran burned with a need for vengeance, a fire that consumed every waking thought.

  “We’ve spent months hiding, rebuilding,” Garran declared one evening, his voice booming across the gathered survivors. “And for what? To wait for the Crown’s Wrath to find us again? We should be the ones hunting them, making them pay for every life they’ve stolen!”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, growing louder with each impassioned word.

  Emmet stood near the edge of the assembly, his arms crossed, face set in a stern frown. Tabitha was beside him, her cold, calculating gaze fixed on Garran. Doramm loomed silently in the shadows, his glowing eyes watching for any sign of threat.

  “You think you can beat them by rushing in blind?” Emmet’s voice cut through the clamor, silencing the murmurs. He stepped forward, spear in hand, the authority in his tone commanding attention. “They outnumber us, outmatch us. The only way we win is by being smart. And this?” He gestured toward Garran with his spear. “This is suicide.”

  Garran’s eyes narrowed, his scar pulling taut. “You’d have us cower like rats while they thrive on our pain?”

  “No,” Emmet said firmly. “I’d have us survive. If you can’t see the difference, then you’re not fit to lead anyone.”

  The crowd shifted uneasily, caught between Emmet’s logic and Garran’s fervor.

  Over the following days, Garran’s influence spread like a shadow over the camp. His speeches, filled with fiery rhetoric and promises of swift justice, struck a chord with those who had suffered most. Survivors who had once trusted Emmet’s leadership began questioning his cautious approach.

  “He’s too afraid to act,” Garran told his growing circle of followers one evening around a crackling fire. “We can’t wait for him to find his courage. The Crown’s Wrath won’t stop—they’ll come for us again, and when they do, it’ll be too late to fight back.”

  Tabitha observed the brewing rebellion from a distance, her lips pressed into a thin line. She found Emmet in his tent later that night, poring over a map of the surrounding region.

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  “They’re getting bolder,” she said, crossing her arms. “If you don’t act soon, Garran will take half the camp with him.”

  Emmet didn’t look up. “Let him bark. If we try to stop him now, it’ll only confirm what he’s been saying about me.”

  “You think ignoring this will make it go away?”

  “No,” Emmet admitted. “But I also know that if I act too soon, I’ll lose whatever trust the others still have in me.”

  Tabitha sighed, her sharp features softening. “I don’t like this, Emmet. He’s dangerous. Desperation makes men reckless.”

  “I know,” Emmet said, finally meeting her eyes. “But I’m not about to fight my own people. Not yet.”

  Garran’s recklessness soon began to endanger the entire settlement. He led small groups on raids against wandering monsters and even skirmishes with lesser factions near their borders. While he returned with supplies and the occasional victory, the cost was always high.

  “He’s thinning our numbers,” Tabitha said one evening after healing a wounded survivor from Garran’s latest raid. “It’s only a matter of time before he gets someone killed—or worse, brings the Crown’s Wrath right to our doorstep.”

  Emmet rubbed his temples, exhaustion lining his face. “I’ve tried talking to him, Tabitha. He won’t listen. He’s too consumed by hatred.”

  “Then make him listen,” she said sharply. “You’re the leader here, Emmet. Act like it.”

  Emmet’s response was cut short as Garran stormed into the tent, his face flushed with anger.

  “Enough of this cowardice!” Garran shouted. “Every day we wait, they grow stronger! Every day we sit here, more people die out there! If you won’t act, I will.”

  “You’re not acting,” Emmet said coldly. “You’re flailing. And you’re putting everyone here in danger.”

  Garran sneered. “The only danger here is your weakness. You’re so scared of failing that you won’t even try to fight.”

  Emmet rose slowly, his spear gleaming in the firelight. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost people? You think you’re the only one who wants revenge? I’ve lost more than you can imagine, Garran. But I won’t throw away what little we have left just to soothe my own pain.”

  The tension in the tent was suffocating. For a moment, it seemed Garran might lash out, but instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out.

  In the days that followed, Garran’s raids became bolder, his rhetoric more incendiary. Tabitha kept a close eye on him, her suspicions growing.

  “He’s planning something,” she told Emmet one evening as they walked the perimeter of the camp. “Something big.”

  Emmet nodded grimly. “I know. But if we confront him now, it’ll only push him over the edge.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  Emmet didn’t answer.

  The rival leader’s ambitions and hatred were spiraling toward disaster, but Emmet knew that forcing the issue too soon could cost him the trust of the survivors. For now, all he could do was watch and prepare, knowing that the coming storm would leave scars on them all.