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In the middle of the Outlands, tents were pitched unevenly across the clearing, some leaning, others barely secured, their ropes hastily knotted and driven into damp earth that hadn't been properly cleared. Fires burned low and uneven, smoke curling lazily into the dawn air, giving the entire place a hazy, unsettled feel. Supplies were scattered instead of stacked. Weapons leaned against trees rather than being racked. There was no order, no structure, none of the ruthless efficiency the Crimson Hunt was known for.
And there were not many of them.
Barely fifty soldiers.
A pitiful number for a man who had declared himself Leader.
Inside the largest tent at the center of the camp, Adrian Vale paced.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
