Roger Kane crouched by the dying fire and counted his Rangers asleep on the dirt. Five bodies. Five lives he had promised to keep breathing until Vrak's army broke against them. He pressed a hand to the beetle-shaped device clipped at his belt. He slept with it close every night now. One bad night out here, and none of them would wake up. The camp was a sad thing. Stretched tarps, stacked crates, a folding table he used to plan attacks they were not ready for. It was not shelter. It was a target. At first light, Roger climbed the ridge alone. He needed walls. He needed a roof. He scanned the valley and stopped. A stone tower stood against the cliffs, cracked but standing. A rusted staircase curled up its inside like a spine. Old arrow slits. One narrow door. From up there, a single Ranger could see Vrak's scouts coming for miles. Roger climbed back down and started kicking out the fire. "Pack the camp," he told his team. "We're moving. I found us a wall to put our backs against."