07:30. An hour after Rianor's orders were dispatched, the morning mist began to lift. But behind that veil of white, shadows were converging.
Inside his Wolf-Tusk tank, Leofric sat with his eyes locked onto the tactical display. Beside him, Gideon monitored the incoming stream of data. Numbers flickered across the crystal tablet, and a pattern began to emerge—the very one they had feared.
"Leofric," Gideon said. His voice was level, but weighted with pressure. "Look at this."
Leofric turned to the screen. From the north and south, two wings of the enemy force were moving. They weren't charging or attacking directly—they were cutting. Slowly, surely, they were closing the gap behind them. Like two giant arms beginning to fold inward.
Leofric remained silent, his eyes narrowing.
"We're being encircled," Gideon muttered.
