The morning after our council felt heavier than most. The forest didn't sing. Birds were quieter, the breeze sluggish, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.
We didn't speak much either. Borgu sharpened his axe with unnecessary aggression, each rasp of stone against steel loud enough to rattle my teeth. Sylvara prepared arrows with movements so precise it looked more like ritual than habit. Lorian sat apart, staring into the embers of the firepit as if they held the secrets of life and death.
I tried to focus on simple tasks—splitting logs, checking the perimeter, pretending that everything was fine. That old soldier's trick of making your hands work so your mind doesn't spiral. But beneath it all, the council's decision weighed like armor left on too long.
Then the forest broke the silence.
Not with cultist chants, not with the whisper of shades. With footsteps.
Real footsteps. Uneven, dragging. And a voice.
"—hah… water… anyone?"
All three of them froze. My hand went straight to my sword. Borgu was already standing, axe in hand, eyes alight. Sylvara raised her bow, arrow half-drawn. Lorian scrambled up, startled but tense.
Through the trees came a figure. Human, or close enough at least. Broad-shouldered, taller than me by a head, though his gait was sloppy and his clothes ragged. He stumbled into view like a drunk after too many nights, but even through the mess, one detail stood out—
Armor. Rusted, battered, but unmistakably once fine. A breastplate marked with a crest nearly obscured by grime.
A soldier.
My heart clenched.
He squinted at us, blinked, and then gave a sloppy grin. "Ah! People. Thought the forest would eat me whole before I found a soul. Tell me—this isn't one of those shade-infested groves, is it?"
Borgu tensed, muscles twitching. "Human stranger. Smells weak. Could be spy."
Sylvara's arrowhead didn't waver. "Cults use rags and tricks. He could be one of them."
The man raised his hands, palms out. "Cultist? Hells no. I barely managed to avoid getting skewered by one of their rituals. You think I'd walk in here begging for water if I were one of them?"
"Exactly what a spy would say," Sylvara murmured.
He barked a laugh, hoarse but genuine. "Fair. You've got the eyes of someone who's seen liars before. Still—if you're going to put an arrow through me, could you at least do it after I've had a drink? My throat's drier than an old barracks floor."
I studied him. His clothes weren't the robes of the cultists. His armor bore the wear of travel and neglect, not ritual burns or blood. And that crest—obscured though it was—pulled at memory.
"Lower your weapons," I said.
Sylvara turned to me sharply. "Kael—"
"Do it." My voice carried the same tone I'd used a thousand times in the army, the tone that didn't invite argument. "If he wanted to kill us, he wouldn't have walked out coughing and begging."
Reluctantly, Sylvara eased her bowstring. Borgu grunted and lowered his axe, though not fully.
The stranger sighed in relief, swaying on his feet. "Ah. A reasonable man. Good to know the forest hasn't swallowed every ounce of sanity yet."
He half-collapsed onto a log by the fire, dragging off his dented helm. Sandy hair spilled out, sweat-soaked, and he rubbed at his face with filthy gloves. "Name's Gareth. Former soldier. Current… well, lost fool, I suppose."
I felt a strange twist in my chest. Another soldier. Another who walked away, perhaps.
"Kael," I said finally. "Chief of this… settlement."
His eyes flicked up, eyebrows rising. "Settlement? Out here?" He chuckled. "Either you're mad, or braver than most."
Borgu snorted. "Chief picked hiding place. Orc, elf, weakling—now stranger. Camp grows like fungus."
Sylvara sighed. "Don't compare us to fungus."
Gareth blinked, then grinned at the exchange. "Quite the company you've got here. Guess I'm not the strangest face at your fire after all."
Once he'd had water and a bite of stew, the man loosened up.
His story came in pieces. He had served in one of the border battalions, holding against skirmishes from raiders. When the cult's corruption began spreading, his unit was sent to patrol the fringes. But then—disaster. Ambushed, scattered. He fled into the woods, alone, avoiding both cultists and shades for days until he stumbled across our camp.
Sylvara listened intently, her suspicion never fully fading. "And why did you survive when your fellows didn't?"
He gave a helpless shrug. "Luck. Cowardice, maybe. I ran when the shades rose, didn't look back. Kept running until my legs wanted to fall off. Not very heroic, I know. But I'm alive."
Borgu barked a laugh. "At least human honest about being coward."
I studied him more closely. Beneath the grin, the casual tone, there was something else in his eyes. Weariness. Regret. The look of a man who had lost more than he admitted.
And yet—he was alive. And he had chosen to walk toward people rather than away. That counted for something.
"You're welcome to stay," I said.
Sylvara frowned. "Kael—"
"Temporary," I added. "He'll earn his keep. But a man who's fought knows things. Things we can use."
Gareth gave a lopsided smile, though his eyes softened with relief. "You've no idea how good it is to hear that. I thought I'd die alone under a tree out there."
"Still might," Borgu muttered.
Sylvara rolled her eyes. "Ignore him. He thinks threats count as hospitality."
Lorian, who had been quiet the whole time, finally spoke, voice thin but curious. "The crest on your armor… it's from the Western Division, isn't it?"
Gareth blinked, surprised. "Aye. You've got a sharp eye. You served?"
Lorian's lips tightened. "No. But… I studied. Once."
Something unspoken passed between them, but Lorian fell quiet again, as if afraid to unravel it.
That night, we sat together by the fire. The four of us had grown used to our own rhythm—the gruff jokes, the silent moments, the unspoken trust. Adding another voice felt strange, like a new string strummed on a familiar lute.
But Gareth fit himself into the spaces. He laughed at Borgu's bluster, teased Sylvara without malice, and listened earnestly when Lorian spoke, even if the words came halting.
And for the first time in many nights, the firelight didn't feel like it only held shadows.
Later, when the others had drifted to sleep, Gareth lingered by the flames. I found myself beside him, old soldier to old soldier.
"You meant what you said, didn't you?" I asked quietly. "That you ran."
He gave a bitter smile. "Aye. Not proud of it. But yes. I ran."
I nodded slowly. "There's no shame in surviving. The shame is only if you stop there."
He glanced at me, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "And you, Chief? You've the look of a man who's run too."
The words hit harder than I expected. I thought of the day I left my station, of the weight I carried since.
"I did," I admitted. "But I'm trying not to keep running."
For a moment, silence stretched between us. Then Gareth chuckled, low and weary. "Maybe I can learn a thing or two from you, then."
I wasn't sure if that was a comfort or another burden. But either way, our campfire had one more shadow in its light that night.