The morning after Gareth joined us, the camp didn't feel the same.
Not bad, not worse—just different. Like a familiar song played slightly off-key.
Sylvara still sharpened her arrows in the early light, Borgu still split wood with too much enthusiasm, and Lorian still pretended not to watch everyone's expressions. But the rhythm had shifted. Conversations were shorter. Glances sharper.
And Gareth, for all his charm, didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he noticed too much and laughed to hide it.
"Not a bad setup you've got here," he said as he strapped on his dented breastplate, his grin too easy for the silence around him. "Almost feels like a real outpost. If you squint hard enough and ignore the lack of walls."
Borgu didn't even look up from the log he was splitting. "Walls keep enemies out. Orc keeps enemies down."
Gareth chuckled. "A fine philosophy, though I'd prefer something that doesn't involve sleeping with one eye open."
Sylvara's tone cut like a knife. "Then perhaps you shouldn't sleep here."
The air went still. Even the birds above seemed to pause.
Gareth blinked, then smirked faintly. "Is that an invitation, or a warning?"
"Whichever keeps you awake," Sylvara replied, her bowstring humming softly as she checked the tension.
"Enough," I said, more sharply than I meant. "He's here under my word. That's enough."
Sylvara's gaze flicked toward me. Not defiant—just questioning. The kind of look that said she'd trust my decision, even if she didn't like it.
Borgu finally looked up, his axe resting on his shoulder. "Orc agree with elf. Stranger too smooth. Smells like soldier who run from fight, not toward it."
Gareth's easy smile faltered just slightly. "Running's still better than dying for nothing, isn't it?"
That earned him silence. The kind of silence that carried judgment even without words.
I exhaled, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Enough talk. There's still work to do. Sylvara—check the traps near the north ridge. Borgu, we'll move the lumber stack closer to the stream. Gareth, you're with me."
Borgu grunted. "You take him? Brave."
"Maybe I just miss conversation that doesn't involve grunting," I shot back.
The orc snorted, a deep belly sound that could've been laughter or insult. Hard to tell with Borgu.
We set out toward the stream in uneasy quiet. Gareth walked beside me, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes scanning the treeline.
"You've built quite a thing here," he said after a while. "Different folk, different blood, and somehow it works."
"Mostly," I replied.
He smirked. "Mostly."
The stream's water shimmered in the sunlight, a rare bit of peace in the middle of all this madness. We filled the barrels in silence until he spoke again—quieter this time.
"She doesn't trust me."
"Sylvara?"
He nodded. "I can't blame her. Elves have long memories, don't they? And humans like me have given them plenty of reasons not to forget."
I gave him a sidelong look. "You sound like a man who's seen both sides."
He laughed softly. "Aye. I've fought beside elves before. Good archers, better eyes, terrible drinking partners. They don't talk much about peace. They talk about duty."
"And you?"
"Used to talk about orders. Now I just talk to stay sane."
His grin faded slightly then, replaced by something quieter. "Truth is, I thought leaving the army would mean leaving the fear behind. But it sticks, doesn't it? Like smoke in your clothes."
I met his eyes. "It never leaves. You just learn to breathe through it."
He nodded slowly. "And you? Why'd you leave?"
I didn't answer right away. The water sloshed against the barrel as I lifted it, letting the sound fill the gap between us.
"I got tired of being told which lives mattered," I said finally. "And tired of watching the same mistakes repeated by men who never paid the price."
Gareth stared at me for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, "Then we're not so different."
When we returned, the tension hadn't eased.
Sylvara was standing near the firepit, bow half-drawn, while Borgu loomed at her side, both of them glaring toward the forest.
Lorian stood between them, wringing his hands nervously. "I—I told them it was probably nothing—"
"Probably nothing is how people die," Sylvara snapped.
"Orc smell metal," Borgu growled. "Rust and blood. Not animal."
I dropped the barrel and drew my sword. "Report."
Sylvara gestured toward the trees. "Movement. Too deliberate for a beast. Could be scouts. Or one of the cultists testing our perimeter again."
Gareth's hand instinctively went to his sword hilt. "How close?"
"Fifty paces," Sylvara said. "Then gone. Like smoke."
For a moment, the entire camp held its breath. Then Borgu hefted his axe. "Orc track. Smash if find."
"No," I said sharply. "If it's a cultist, we can't risk being led into a trap again. We hold position."
Borgu looked like he wanted to argue, but the tone in my voice froze him. He grunted, muttered something under his breath, and stalked back toward his half-built shelter.
Sylvara lingered, eyes narrowing at Gareth. "You went south to the stream?"
He nodded.
"See anything?"
"Nothing," he said simply. "Forest was quiet."
"Too quiet?" she pressed.
He hesitated. "Maybe. Hard to tell."
She turned away, muttering something in Elvish too soft for me to catch. But the look she gave me before she left said it all—I still don't trust him.
Night fell hard and early.
We took turns on watch, same as always, but the air felt heavier. Even the crackle of the fire sounded wrong. Gareth took second watch, after Borgu, and I found myself unable to sleep.
I rose quietly and joined him by the perimeter. He didn't look surprised to see me.
"Figured you'd be awake," he said. "You've got that face. The one that counts heartbeats when the night's too still."
"Old habit," I said.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I know the type."
The silence between us wasn't hostile this time. Just quiet. Wary. The way two men who'd both seen too much might sit without needing to speak.
Then he said something that made my stomach tighten.
"Your elf friend's right to watch me."
I looked at him.
"I lied about one thing," he said softly. "When I ran from the ambush… I didn't just run. I took something with me."
My hand tightened on my sword hilt. "What kind of something?"
He hesitated, then reached under his cloak. From a pouch, he drew a small object wrapped in cloth. He unrolled it just enough for me to glimpse it.
A medallion. Black iron, shaped like a spiral cross.
The same mark burned into the stones of the cult's altar.
He quickly wrapped it again, voice low and urgent. "Before you ask—no, I'm not one of them. I found it on a body. One of their lieutenants. Thought it might help me understand what they were doing. But… the thing hums at night. Like it's alive."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Because I didn't know if you'd throw me into the river before hearing me out."
I stared at him for a long time, my heartbeat loud in my ears. The medallion. The connection. The timing.
Sylvara's suspicion hadn't been wrong—but neither was Gareth's exhaustion.
He looked like a man caught between guilt and desperation.
"Keep it wrapped," I said finally. "And don't show the others. Not yet."
He nodded grimly. "Aye, Chief."
As I walked back toward my tent, the weight of command pressed down harder than ever.
In this small patch of peace we had built, the forest outside wasn't the only thing growing darker.