Morning came again in solemnity. Smoke still lingered over the camp, it was a daily ritual now, and the cries of newborns echoed faintly from the huts. The guards strutted proudly, their faces smeared with blood as if it were a badge of honor.

Ligon sat by the pit wall, tracing patterns in the dirt with his fingers. Each mark mirrored the layout of the camp: guard routes, gate posts, armory huts, traps positionings, the stables, the wagon sheds, the route out of the forest. He had memorized ...