The days blurred into one another as the small camp in the eastern forest slowly took shape. Where once there had only been a single rough hut, now stood a sturdier shelter, a proper workbench, and even a crude storage shed where tools and gathered resources were stacked neatly. The air smelled faintly of cut wood, dried resin, and the smoke of evening fires.
Keir's influence was everywhere. Though only an apprentice, his guidance had turned trial-and-error into actual craft. Their walls were straighter, beams better fitted, and every strike of axe or chisel carried more purpose. Hert often joked that their little camp was starting to look less like a survivor's den and more like a budding village.
But progress rarely came without its burdens.
One morning, heavy rain battered the forest. The skies darkened, and water pelted their roofs with relentless force. The storage shed, hastily reinforced, groaned under the weight of the storm.
Inside, Qen noticed the roof sagging slightly where the beams met. "Keir, Hert—look at that corner!"
Keir scrambled with a hammer, panic flashing in his young eyes. "The join's too weak—it'll collapse if we don't brace it!"
Without hesitation, Qen braced the wall with his shoulder as Hert dashed to fetch extra timber. Water streamed down their faces, turning the soil beneath their boots into mud. Freon barked sharply, circling the structure as if he, too, understood the danger.
Together, with raw muscle and hurried carpentry, they reinforced the failing wall. The shed held. But when the storm finally passed, they all stared at the cracks in their work.
"We rushed it," Keir muttered, frustrated with himself. "I told you the roof needed a crossbeam. I should've been firmer."
Qen laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Mistakes don't kill you if you learn from them. Next time, we build stronger."
As if nature herself wanted to test them, their next challenge came not from storms but from scavengers. Two nights later, scratching noises echoed from the shed. When they opened it, several sacks of dried roots and berries were torn open, the contents scattered. Small clawed tracks dotted the dirt.
"Forest scavengers," Hert growled, holding up one shredded sack. "They smell food from a mile away."
Keir frowned, running his fingers along the tracks. "Not goblins. Too small. More like tree-rats or ground crawlers."
Qen sighed, rubbing his temple. "We'll need to fortify the shed. Raised floor, tighter seals. Otherwise we're just feeding the forest."
It took them another day's labor—planks lifted higher on stone, cracks sealed with resin and mud, and simple latches carved for the door. By evening, sweat streaked their faces, but their supplies were safe again.
"Now it looks less like a pile of wood and more like a real storehouse," Hert said proudly.
That night, around the fire, Keir looked into the flames, quieter than usual.
"You both… you trust me too much," he admitted. "I've only ever made stools and fence posts. But here, you're asking me to make homes, sheds, defenses. What if I fail again? What if it costs us?"
Qen studied him for a moment, then spoke evenly. "You will fail again, Keir. That's the truth. But so will I, and so will Hert. Survival isn't about never failing—it's about fixing what breaks, and not giving up when it happens."
Hert chuckled, poking the fire. "Besides, you're already better than us. If it were left to Qen, we'd still be living under a tarp of branches."
That earned a laugh from all three, even Keir. Freon lifted his head briefly, huffed, and went back to sleep.
But in their laughter, the weight lifted. The storm had tested their walls, pests had tested their food, and doubt had tested their resolve. And in each trial, they'd endured.
Their camp was no longer just a hut in the woods. It was becoming a home.