The tension in the tent had become palpable, a rope stretched to snapping point. Tonar's words, heavy with blunt realism, seemed to have drained the air of any easy hope. The gaunt-faced chief and the older woman lowered their eyes—not out of submission, but because the weight of the truth was too much to bear.

It was Zirel who first broke the taut silence. He stepped toward the map, his long, thin shadow dancing across the parchment.

"Hold fast, yes. But not by sitting still like targets." His voice was a rasping murmur, worn thin by sleepless watches. "Pilaf has set a trap. They expect us to panic, to split our forces searching for the missing or to run to Martissant."

He placed a finger on the marshy area to the south, where Tonar had drawn his line.

"They think us cornered, wounded, therefore predictable. Let's use that."

Tonar did not move, but his eyes—embers in the dark—fixed on Zirel with renewed intensity. He awaited the rest.

"I propose a harassment campaign," Zirel continued. "Small, mobile groups. We don't face them head-on; we wear them down. We strike their supply lines, ambush their scouts. We make them nervous. We make them understand that every step into so-called conquered ground will cost them dearly."

A slight shiver ran through Tonar's long ears. It was not a smile, but the expression of a mind turning the idea sharp.

"Make them nervous…" he repeated, as if tasting the phrase. "Yes. A nervous beast makes mistakes. And a mistake, we can exploit."

The gaunt-faced chief lifted his head, a forced glint of interest in his eyes. The strategy was risky, but it had the virtue of action; it did not condemn them to passive waiting.

"Our men are tired, wounded. Mobile groups… with whom?" he objected, though his tone was no longer as defeated.

"With those who can still hold a weapon and move without noise," Zirel cut in. "I'll lead one of them. We don't need numbers. We need guile and speed."

The woman team leader nodded slowly, her fist still clenched, but now more from concentration than anger.

"And the wounded? The camp?" she asked, her gaze moving from Tonar to Zirel. "If we disperse our mobile forces, who will protect them?"

All eyes instinctively turned to the tent's entrance, as if they could see beyond the canvas the campfires and the wounded figures trying to rest.

It was then that Tonar looked at Elisa. Not a passing look, but full, deliberate attention. He had seen her; he knew she was there—and now he included her in the circle.

"Elisa."

His voice made everyone start. The two team leaders turned, surprised to find her present, some with a hint of reproach.

"Approach."

She obeyed, heart hammering, slipping between the two men to stand by the central trunk. The smell of wet leather and sweat hit her stronger.

Tonar did not look at her. His eyes went back to the map.

"You carried Maggie. You held on when others would have let go." He did not ask—he stated. "The wounded, those who cannot fight, need someone to organize them, to keep spirits up, to make this camp more than a makeshift hospital. That is not a soldier's task. It is a leader's task."

He finally raised his eyes to her. His gaze was merciless, but fair.

"You want to understand what awaits us? Understand this: our strength lies not only in our blades, but in our willingness to support one another. I put that on you. You will answer directly to Zirel and to me. No one else."

The proposition was so unexpected, so immense, that Elisa felt the breath knocked out of her. She was only a survivor, an observer. And now she was being handed part of the burden.

She felt the two chiefs' skeptical looks. But she also saw something else in Zirel's eyes: a flicker of approval. He had seen the same thing Tonar had: a quiet strength.

She clenched her fists, feeling the trunk's rough bark against her back. She thought of Maggie, of all those who needed more than bandages and soup. They needed hope. A presence.

"I will do it," she said, and though her voice was softer, it did not tremble.

A different silence fell over the tent—no longer despairing but resolved. The meeting was over. Orders had been given.

Tonar turned away from the map; his movement signaled the discussion's end.

"Then we know what must be done. Zirel, form your groups. You," he pointed at the gaunt-faced chief, "secure the perimeter. Double the night watches. And you," his gaze encompassed the woman and Elisa, "give us a reason to fight. Now, go."

As they dispersed, Elisa stayed a moment, hand on the map, on the marks indicating north and the missing. Fear remained, a chill, but it was counterbalanced now by a new, strange determination: she had become part of the strategy. No longer a spectator.

She had become a pillar, fragile but necessary, who would help carry the weight of what was to come.

The tent flap cracked behind her as she stepped out, leaving the suffocating scent of sweat and leather for the damp night air. The campfires cast wavering halos on the trunks, barely lighting the shapes of the people curled under frayed blankets. Groans of pain, coughs, and sighs rose like a single, stubborn lament.

Elisa drew in a deep breath. Each inhale tasted of iron and ash. Her legs still trembled, but now it was not fatigue—it was vertigo at the responsibility suddenly placed upon her shoulders.

She clenched her fists, searching for a place to begin. Tonar's orders rang in her head: "This is not a warrior's task. It is a leader's task."

A crunch of leaves sounded behind her.

Zirel.

He had come up without a sound; his shadowed eyes gleamed in the gloom. He met her gaze, and for a moment Elisa felt as if he could read the chaos inside her.

"You doubt."

It was not a question.

She drew in a breath, jaw set, refusing to look away.

"I don't know how… how to hold all of this."

A barely mocking exhale escaped Zirel. Not cruel, but sharp.

"No one does. Even Tonar, with his statue-stance, improvises. The difference is he is not afraid to carry the weight. You have no such luxury."

Elisa swallowed the sharp retort that rose to her lips. Her eyes swept the campfires, the wounded sitting motionless, the living too tired to protest.

"They need more than orders," she murmured.

Zirel nodded slowly.

"Yes. They need something to make them believe they are not dying for nothing. You will give them that."

She looked at him with burning eyes.

"And if I fail?"

This time he truly smiled. A thin, brittle smile, but real.

"Then they will die quicker."

Elisa stared at him, stunned by the brutal truth of his words. Before she could answer, Zirel continued, more grave:

"But if you succeed, even a little… Pilaf will face more than a band of survivors. They'll face a pack that refuses to lie down."

A silence fell between them, broken only by the crackle of a campfire and the distant rasping breaths.

Elisa took a steadying, trembling breath. She knew what she had to do. It was not a role she had chosen. But one does not choose the moment to become a pillar.

She placed a hand over her heart, where the fatigue and fear still threatened to drown her. Then she stepped toward the circle of fires, ready to speak to the survivors.

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