The tension in the camp was suffocating. The hunters that had survived Baxter's takeover sat scattered in the clearing, some sharpening weapons, others resting with tired, haunted eyes. But at the center of it all, around a worn wooden table, Liam, Ragnar, Dexter, and Elena stood in heated discussion.
"We don't have the numbers," Dexter said flatly, arms crossed. His crimson gaze was locked onto the map of the lair. "Even with all of us, we're barely twenty. That's not enough to take back the stronghold."
"We can't afford to wait for a miracle," Ragnar added, his golden eyes hard. "Baxter's forces will only get stronger the longer we sit here."
Elena, leaning over the table, tapped a worn-out map. "Then we stop thinking in terms of numbers. We need strategy. A direct assault is suicide, but if we can divide his forces, we—"
She was cut off by the sound of footsteps approaching.
