The morning fog was thick over Teruel.
The mountains eastward were veiled in smoke.
Major Moreau stood at the front of a hollowed-out chapel converted into a war room.
His cane tapped against cracked stone as he moved to the table.
A map of eastern Spain was spread before them, covered in grease-pencil marks, blood-stained corners, and worn folds.
Soldiers from every faction stood present.
Anarchists, POUM, socialists, communists, even the Free Militia.
Moreau looked across them, his voice steady though his side still ached with every breath.
"Let me tell you again my plan which I discussed yesterday," he said.
"We draw a line from Teruel to Valencia. Every inch beyond it... we fight only if it bleeds with us."
Murmurs passed through the room.
Ortega crossed his arms, glaring.
Clara Valera sat, arm in a sling, jaw clenched.
Moreau continued.
"This line isn't what we were supposed to do. It isn't theory. It's survival. It's the grave we choose to die in together."
