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"The clan doesn't deserve to face this because of me," I say, voicing the guilt that's been gnawing at my chest since consciousness returned. "I should leave, draw the pursuit away from innocent people."

"No." Rogar's voice carries absolute finality. "You're not responsible for their hatred or their need for vengeance. And you're certainly not leaving to face them alone."

"I won't watch good people die for my mistakes."

"They're not dying for your mistakes—they're fighting for principles that matter more than individual safety.

" He moves around the table to crouch beside my seat, his grey eyes intense with conviction.

"You represent something they fear: the possibility that their victims might refuse to stay victims. That's worth defending, even at terrible cost."

The declaration touches something raw and vulnerable in my chest. After years of seeing myself as a burden to be endured or a problem to be solved, hearing someone frame my existence as valuable feels revolutionary.

But revolution carries prices that extend beyond those who choose to participate.

"The alliance negotiations," I say, trying to focus on tactical realities instead of emotional upheaval. "How much does Vex's betrayal compromise those efforts?"

"Significantly. He had access to our negotiating positions, our assessment of other clan capabilities, even personal information about their leadership.

" Rogar's expression grows troubled. "The dark elves could use that intelligence to disrupt alliance discussions or target key figures for elimination. "

"Then we need to assume they know everything and plan accordingly."

"Agreed. But that limits our options severely. Conventional defensive strategies become suicide when the enemy knows every detail of your preparations."

I study the maps and intelligence documents, my mind racing through possibilities and implications.

Traditional warfare assumes information advantage or at least information parity.

Fighting enemies who know your every move requires different approaches—deception, misdirection, tactical flexibility that prevents opponents from exploiting predetermined patterns.

"Unconventional warfare," I murmur, remembering conversations with smugglers and refugees who'd survived impossible circumstances through creativity rather than strength. "Make them fight on terms they don't understand."

"Such as?"

"False intelligence. Let them think they know our plans while we execute completely different strategies. Use their overconfidence against them."

Rogar's eyes sharpen with interest. "Elaborate."

"Vex's communication protocols—do we know how he contacted his handlers?"

"Message drops at predetermined locations. We found the schedules hidden with the other documents."

"Then we use those protocols to feed the dark elves information that serves our purposes instead of theirs. Make them believe we're planning conventional defensive actions while we actually prepare asymmetric responses."

The strategy carries enormous risks alongside its potential benefits. Success requires perfect execution and careful timing. Failure would compound our disadvantages while eliminating our last hopes of surprise.

But looking at the tactical situation, I realize we've moved beyond the luxury of safe choices.

"It could work," Grimna says slowly. "If we can make them believe false intelligence while concealing our real preparations."

"We'd need to be convincing," I warn. "Dark elf intelligence officers are professionally paranoid. They'll scrutinize any information we provide for signs of deception."

"Then we give them what they expect to see," Rogar decides. "Information that confirms their assumptions about orc capabilities and limitations. Plans that look like desperate attempts at conventional defense."

"While actually preparing for guerrilla operations that exploit their overextension and supply vulnerabilities."

The strategy crystallizes as we discuss implementation details. Complex, risky, dependent on factors beyond our control—but it offers hope where conventional approaches promise only defeat.

More importantly, it transforms my greatest liability into a potential asset. The personal hatred driving King Kres's pursuit makes him predictable, susceptible to manipulation through carefully crafted intelligence about my supposed location and activities.

"There's one more thing," I say as the planning session winds down. "If this strategy fails, if they capture me despite our precautions, I need you to promise something."

"Zahra—"

"Promise me you won't try to rescue me. Don't sacrifice the clan for one person, no matter what they do to make me scream."

The words hang heavy in the smoky air, carrying weight that goes beyond tactical necessity. We're acknowledging the possibility of failure, the personal costs that might be demanded by desperate circumstances.

Rogar's jaw works as he struggles with the implications of what I'm asking. Finally, he nods with the reluctance of someone accepting impossible choices.

"I promise," he says. "But only if you promise to fight until your last breath, to make them pay for every inch of ground they take."

"Deal."

The pact feels like signing our own death warrants, but it also crystallizes our determination to make the coming battle count for something larger than individual survival.

The dark elves have superior numbers, magical capabilities, and detailed intelligence about our operations. But they don't have the desperate fury of people fighting for the right to exist free from oppression.

Sometimes, that's enough to tip the balance.

Sometimes.