Smoke rose over the skeleton of Alborán, the last broken town between Teruel and Valencia.
What had once been a quiet railway hub was now a ruin, its buildings shattered, its roads split by shell fire.
Smoke seeped through broken windows.
It was silent except the breath of men who knew they would not live to see another sunrise.
Fewer than two hundred fighters remained.
No reserves.
No supplies.
No orders left.
Just dust, blood, and the reality that the Unified Column had bled all the way here and would not go further.
Moreau stood with one arm bound to his chest which is already darkening with seeped blood.
His coat was torn, and the only thing untouched was the white armband on his wrist worn for every soldier under his command who hadn't made it this far.
A map of Alborán was nailed to a makeshift board beside the remnants of the train station.
"We don't have days," he said, eyes sweeping the room. "Maybe not hours."
