The next few days came like a sigh after a long scream.
No raids. No whispers. No cursed trinkets humming in the dark.
Just work.
And for the first time in weeks, that was exactly what we needed.
The camp was quiet except for the sounds of hammers, laughter, and the occasional swearing when Borgu dropped something heavy on his own foot.
It wasn't peace — not really — but it was the closest thing we'd had since this all started.
Borgu and Lorian took charge of rebuilding the perimeter fence. It wasn't just wood and spikes this time; Borgu was determined to "orcify" it. That meant thicker stakes, slanted inward, and tied together with rope made from braided vines and something he called boar gut.
When I asked where he got it, he just grinned and said, "Trade secret."
By noon, the fence looked like a medieval porcupine.
Sylvara called it "overkill." Borgu called it "art."
Lorian, unfortunately, was caught in the middle — literally, because Borgu kept using him as a measuring pole.
At one point, I heard him shout, "I'm not a stake, Borgu!"
"Small human same height as one," Borgu replied cheerfully.
The laughter that followed was real this time, not forced. The kind of sound that let you know people were breathing again.
I spent most of that morning near the stream, sharpening tools and cleaning what was left of our supplies.
Gareth joined me quietly, sitting on the opposite side of the log. He didn't say anything for a while, and I didn't press. Sometimes silence was its own language.
Eventually, he spoke. "They're still watching me."
"They'll stop when they're ready," I said.
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not. Trust takes longer to rebuild than walls."
He nodded at that, running a whetstone along his dagger. "I'm used to being the stranger. Just… didn't think I'd feel it again."
I looked up from the water. "You served somewhere before, didn't you?"
His hand paused. "Yeah. A long time ago. Before I learned that loyalty doesn't always point to the right banner."
I didn't push further. His tone told me that door was locked tight.
Instead, I said, "Then maybe this time, make sure you choose your own banner."
That got a faint smile out of him. "And what would that be? Yours?"
I smirked. "If you're looking for a proper army, you'll be disappointed. We've got one orc, one elf, one half-mage who burns soup, and me — a tired man who forgot how to retire properly."
He chuckled. "Sounds like every warband I've ever served in."
Later that day, Sylvara returned from hunting. She came back with three rabbits, a handful of herbs, and that usual air of effortless calm that made everyone else look clumsy by comparison.
Borgu met her at the gate and immediately ruined it.
He pointed at her catch and said, "Small meat. Need bigger. Orc stomach sad."
Sylvara didn't even glance at him. "Then perhaps the orc should do the hunting."
"Orc tried. Found only squirrels. Squirrels too fast."
"Then perhaps the squirrels are smarter," she said dryly.
Borgu blinked, frowned, then muttered something about "elf magic cheating."
Even Lorian laughed at that.
The tension that had hung like fog after the medallion incident was finally thinning. Bit by bit, the group began finding its rhythm again — not perfect, but steady.
In the afternoon, I called them together to discuss the next week's plans.
Sylvara leaned against a post, arms folded. Borgu sat cross-legged on the ground, chewing on dried meat. Lorian had a notebook, eager to write down anything useful. Gareth stood behind him, quietly listening.
"Alright," I said, scanning them. "We're low on good lumber and nearly out of salt. The stream's clean, but I don't trust how the water's been flowing lately — we'll need to check upstream soon."
Lorian raised his hand like a student. "I can handle drying new herbs and preserving food."
"Good," I said. "Sylvara, you'll lead a small hunt north tomorrow. Stay within sight of the cliffs. Borgu, go with her."
The orc perked up. "Orc hunt? Good! Maybe find bear this time!"
Sylvara's eyes narrowed. "If we find a bear, we're running."
"Orc not run," Borgu said proudly.
"Then you'll be the bait."
He froze. "…Orc reconsider."
The camp broke into laughter again. Even Gareth cracked a smile.
For a few minutes, it almost felt like the war and the demons and the cultists were nothing more than stories told around the fire.
Evening came with a soft golden glow bleeding through the trees.
I sat on the half-built bench outside my hut, watching the smoke curl lazily into the sky. My hands were sore, my back ached, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt more content.
Sylvara joined me after a while, sitting on the other end of the bench. She handed me a cup of warm tea — bitter and herbal, but strangely comforting.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I'm tired," I admitted.
"From work?"
"From thinking," I said. "It's easier to swing a hammer than to lead."
She smiled faintly. "You could always stop leading."
"Tempting," I said. "But then Borgu would be chief, and we'd all die by lunchtime."
She snorted, trying — and failing — to hide her amusement. "True."
For a while, we sat like that — quiet, watching the sun dip low behind the treeline.
After a long pause, Sylvara spoke softly. "You were right, you know. About trusting him."
I looked at her. "Gareth?"
She nodded. "He's rough, but… I don't sense any malice. Just someone who's tired of running."
"That makes two of us."
She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. "You always try to fix broken people, Kael. Why?"
I took a slow sip of the tea before answering. "Because no one ever tried to fix me."
Her eyes softened. "Then maybe we'll fix each other."
For once, I didn't have a reply. Just a small, quiet smile that said enough.
Night came gentle.
Lorian's cooking was passable, Borgu's singing was unbearable, and Gareth's watchful silence balanced them both out.
I stayed by the fire long after the others retired, tracing the rim of my cup with my thumb.
The flames danced, casting long shadows across the camp — our little refuge carved out from a world gone mad.
We weren't heroes.
We weren't even a proper village yet.
But as I watched the lights flicker against the huts we'd built together, I realized something important:
It wasn't about escaping the war.
It was about building something worth living for after it.
The fire crackled. The stars blinked awake overhead.
And for the first time in a long, long while — I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we'd earned this quiet.