Chapter 178: Weavers of Chaos
At dawn, the base resembled a furious hive. The rising sun cast gaunt, hunched silhouettes, their eyes swollen with dark circles and ash. The captain stood on an improvised platform—a battered wooden crate—barking orders like hammer blows.
"The convoy leaves the day after tomorrow at first light! Wood, supplies, metal! And the rest of you, keep these walls standing, or I’ll bury you beneath them!"
The words struck Dylan like a disguised note of hope. Two days. He had two days to prepare his infiltration. The escort would be minimal—three soldiers, an officer, maybe a cart driver. A thin guard, easy to lose in the chaos of a rushed departure.
He eyed the cart meant for the convoy: a heavy, tarp-covered wagon already loaded with sacks of grain, crates of scrap metal, and a barrel of pitch ready to be sealed. The wheels, worn, creaked faintly. Perfect. A noisy, overloaded convoy was a godsend for hiding in plain sight.
For now, he had to remain invisible. Dylan threw himself into the work like the others: hauling sacks of dirt, helping to raise a half-rotten section of palisade, even offering a word of encouragement to a worker on the verge of collapse. Behind this mask of feigned solidarity, he calculated: Who was exhausted enough to miss a guard shift? Who would collapse before the two days were up? Every weakness in this anthill was another opportunity.
By evening, he discreetly moved closer to the men assigned to the convoy. Three soldiers, all young—two with patchy, poorly shaved beards, the third thinner, casting nervous glances around like a cornered rabbit. The last one would be easy to replace. A hand slipped into the chaos, a well-orchestrated "accident," and no one would notice his absence.
That night, as the worksite quieted in waves, Dylan passed by Braham. The man was speaking to two other soldiers, his voice trembling but stubborn:
"If the northern ravine is a target, we have to warn the escort!"
"And you think the captain will listen?" one replied wearily.
"We can’t just stand here doing nothing..."
Dylan turned away without a word. Perfect. The rumor he’d planted was becoming an undercurrent. With any luck, a useless patrol would be sent north, further thinning the convoy’s guard.
The next night, tensions reached their peak. Shouts erupted, arguments between soldiers, hammers thrown to the ground. The captain, gnawed by anxiety, sent a messenger to the marshal, demanding more men and supplies. Dylan watched the messenger leave on another foam-flecked, exhausted horse and knew he’d sown enough confusion to make everything exploitable.