02:30 AM. In Northveil, the smoke grew thicker. Rudigor stood atop the wreckage of a fourth tank, steam hissing violently from his armor vents. In Isafjord, the distant glare of the Maglev's searchlights finally breached the horizon.
The night was far from over.
Three Wolf-Tusk tanks had pushed too far forward.
Gideon had already spotted them on the tactical display. The flickering icons on his tablet showed their positions—they had crossed the "Dead Line," a safety perimeter marked in red hours ago.
"Leofric," he called out softly.
Leofric turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw the three blue dots drifting beyond the red boundary.
"Idiots," he hissed. He grabbed the radio. "Tanks 7, 8, and 9! Fall back! You've crossed the perimeter!"
The radio crackled with a strained reply: "But Commander, Rudigor is—"
"FALL BACK! THAT'S AN ORDER!"
Too late.
