On every side of the camp, the night rang with screams.
The rebels, drunk on victory before the battle had truly begun, were now dying like flies in a lantern's flame. The trap had not simply been sprung—it had been perfectly timed, and the carnage it birthed was almost surgical in its efficiency.
At the left flank, Jarza's infantry had torn into them like a thunderclap. The rebels had been scrambling to get inside the camp, pushing and cursing at one another in the pitch-black as they vied to be first to loot the tents. They were out of formation when the silent march of disciplined boots struck them like a wall of iron. Javelins and arrow plunged through backs before men even knew which way to turn. Maces slammed into ribs, caving them in like broken baskets.
They had no time to fight. No line. No command. No chance.
