Think, think, think. Roof's mind raced, frantic for a solution.
There was no time to consult the others, no time to craft an elaborate plan.
The window was closing fast.
His hand trembled slightly as he roughly wiped the mud from his face with the sleeve of his robe.
Rising to his feet, he grabbed the sword the others had dug up before all of this, a sword planted by Aziz when he set up all the traps.
Pulling it free from its scabbard with a harsh scrape. He stared at the blade for a moment, its sharp edge gleaming faintly in the morning light.
The scabbard fell from his hand, forgotten, as he planted the tip of the sword into the ground, using it to steady himself as he limped forward.
What was he thinking? No—he didn't have time to ask that question.
Part of being a Schlieffen was making decisions in the heat of chaos, no matter how reckless they seemed.
Adapt to conquer.
