The longhouse was filled with the infected.
Valen stood near the entrance, one hand pressed flat against the timber wall, and tried not to breathe too deeply.
The air was thick with the particular sourness of bodies that had been too long in the same space, too long without clean water or proper care. Children whimpered in corners. Adults lay on straw pallets, their skin mottled with the black-edged rash that had become the settlement's grim signature.
Marcus moved among them like a man walking through his own grave.
He stopped at each pallet, crouched beside the sick, touched foreheads, and murmured words Valen couldn't hear. His face was a mask of control, but his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking.
Cael stood near the doorway, his journal clutched against his chest like a shield. He had been rather quiet since entering the camp. His eyes moved from one body to the next, almost as if he were counting.
"How many?" Marcus asked finally, his voice hoarse.
