Trusting the Enemy
The camp is exactly what it sounds like: a camp. At first, I didn’t notice it. The overwhelming stench of magic filled the air. It was like staring at a mirage until everything started to come into focus. There were tents everywhere, people going about their chores, laughing, and sitting around campfires. By the time we arrived, the sun had already begun to set.
Alpha Bren would always tell us that the rebels are savages—nothing but bloodlust-driven werewolves hungry for war.
Except, the camp looks nothing like that. There are families here, elders. Everyone seems to have a role. A few people are cooking, others are setting up fallen tents. It seems innocent, even kind. As we walk through the camp, people stare at me. Some size me up, while others smile, like they
