The morning broke gray and muted, the forest wrapped in mist that clung low to the ground. The resistance camp stirred quietly, as though even the dawn was something they dared not greet too loudly. Fires smoldered, and the air was thick with the earthy smell of damp wood.
Jamie woke with his back against a log, crossbow laid across his lap even in sleep. He had not intended to rest, but exhaustion had forced him into uneasy dreams. His eyes opened at the faint sound of boots scuffing the soil.
Elian was already awake, sitting near the edge of the camp, watching the others move with wide-eyed fascination. His youth showed in the way his gaze darted from face to face, trying to memorize each person, each routine.
Derah approached, carrying two small bowls of thin porridge. He handed one to Jamie, who accepted it with a nod.
"You'll need your strength," Derah said.
"For what?" Jamie asked, his voice low, wary.
Derah's eyes flicked toward the center of the camp, where the scarred woman from the night before—Seren, Jamie had learned her name—spoke with the gray-bearded leader. Their voices were too quiet to catch, but their postures told enough. Serious. Decisive.
"For the trial," Derah said simply.
Jamie stilled. "Trial?"
"Every stranger must earn trust. Words are wind. Deeds are proof."
Elian's bowl froze halfway to his mouth. "Trial? What kind of trial?"
Derah did not answer directly. "Eat. Both of you. You'll know soon enough."
An hour later, the camp gathered in a rough circle. Seren stood in the center, arms folded, her scar catching the weak sunlight. The leader was beside her, his expression stern but measured.
Jamie and Elian were ushered forward. Dozens of eyes bore into them—some curious, some hostile, some merely tired. These were people who had lost too much to gamble with blind trust.
Seren spoke first, her voice cutting across the clearing like steel.
"Last night, two strangers walked into our hidden place. One carries the caution of a wolf, the other the eagerness of a pup. Both claim survival as their truth. But survival alone does not bind men to us. To stand among us, to share our fire and our cause, they must be tested."
She turned her gaze on Jamie. "You understand this?"
Jamie kept his face still, his voice calm. "I understand."
"And you?" She looked at Elian.
Elian swallowed hard but nodded. "Yes."
The gray-bearded leader stepped forward. His voice was lower than Seren's, but no less commanding. "This is not cruelty. It is necessity. Too many times we have welcomed the desperate, only to be betrayed. If you wish to remain, you will prove yourselves—not in words, but in action."
Jamie inclined his head slightly. "What action?"
Seren gestured. Two resistance fighters stepped forward, carrying a wooden chest. They set it on the ground and opened it. Inside were weapons, ropes, and a folded map. Seren picked up the map and held it aloft.
"There is a supply wagon moving along the eastern ridge. It carries food and powder for the regime's garrison in Velsham. If we can take it, we gain strength. If not, the regime grows stronger. We've tracked its path, but the ridge is dangerous—sheer drops, narrow paths, patrols ahead and behind. Too risky for a large group."
She folded the map and tucked it under her arm. "You will go. The two of you, guided by one of ours. Bring back what you can, or bring back nothing but the truth of your courage."
Elian paled. "Just us?"
Jamie's instincts flared. A test wrapped as a mission. Dangerous enough to kill them, but useful if they succeeded. He looked at Seren, reading her expression. She wanted to see if they would balk, if they would betray fear.
He forced his voice steady. "When do we leave?"
Seren's eyes narrowed. Then she gave a single, sharp nod. "Now."
They left the camp with a guide named Ryn—a lean, quiet man with a bow across his back and eyes that missed nothing. He spoke little as they traveled, moving swiftly through the underbrush, always listening.
Jamie walked behind him, Elian at his side. The boy's breathing grew heavier as the terrain steepened.
"You should've seen this coming," Jamie muttered under his breath.
Elian glanced at him, confused. "What?"
"Tests. Trials. Whatever you want to call them. People like this don't trust easy. And they shouldn't."
Elian frowned. "You don't think we can do it?"
Jamie didn't answer right away. He studied the ground ahead, the slope rising into sharp ridges. "I think survival depends on not underestimating the cost of failure."
Elian swallowed hard but said nothing more.
By midday they reached the ridge. The path narrowed into a ledge carved into the rock, with a steep drop vanishing into mist on one side. The sound of distant wheels and hooves drifted up from below.
Ryn crouched, motioning for silence. He pointed down. Through the thinning mist, Jamie saw the supply wagon. Two oxen pulled it, flanked by four armed guards—two walking beside, two riding horses at the rear.
"Four guards," Ryn whispered. "Maybe more we don't see. The path ahead bends. Ambush there."
Jamie studied the ground. The bend in the path was shielded by rocks—good cover for a strike. But the drop on the other side meant one mistake could be fatal.
Elian's voice was hushed, trembling. "We… we can take them?"
Jamie's eyes narrowed. "We don't have a choice."
The ambush was swift but brutal.
Jamie positioned himself above the bend, crossbow loaded. Ryn melted into the shadows with his bow. Elian crouched low, clutching a blade too big for his hands but refusing to back down.
The wagon creaked closer. Hooves clopped against stone. Guards muttered to each other in low voices.
Jamie waited, breath steady, finger tense against the trigger. When the wagon reached the bend, Ryn loosed an arrow. One of the walking guards crumpled silently.
Chaos erupted.
Jamie's bolt struck the second walking guard, dropping him before he could shout. Elian, heart pounding, leapt forward at the nearest rider, slashing wildly. The man swore, reeling as the boy's blade grazed his arm.
The second rider wheeled his horse toward Jamie, sword raised. Jamie rolled aside as the blade crashed into stone, then fired another bolt point-blank into the man's chest. The rider toppled, the horse rearing in panic.
Elian struggled, his strikes frantic, clumsy. The guard knocked him back, blade flashing. At the last moment, Jamie barreled into the man, driving him against the wagon. The guard's sword clattered, and Ryn's arrow finished him.
Silence followed, broken only by the oxen's nervous snorts.
Jamie's chest heaved. Blood smeared his sleeve, though not his own. He glanced at Elian, who sat trembling on the ground, blade still clutched in his white-knuckled grip.
"You're alive," Jamie said, voice rough. "That's enough for now."
Elian nodded shakily, eyes wide.
Ryn checked the wagon quickly. "Food. Powder. Cloth. Good haul. They'll accept this." He looked at Jamie with something that might have been respect. "You fight like one of us."
Jamie wiped his crossbow, reloading it. His voice was flat. "I fight to survive."
Ryn's gaze lingered on him. "Sometimes, that's all resistance is."
They returned to the camp at dusk. The sight of the wagon drew murmurs of surprise and approval. Seren stood waiting, arms crossed.
"You live," she said. Her gaze moved to the wagon, then back to Jamie. "And you bring more than scars."
Jamie said nothing, but Elian, still trembling, managed to whisper, "We… we did it."
The gray-bearded leader stepped forward, studying them with unreadable eyes. "Survival is proof enough. But courage under survival? That is the seed of loyalty."
He looked at Jamie. "You may stay. Both of you. The fire has space for new flames."
The crowd murmured agreement, though not all faces looked welcoming. Trust was not given easily, not yet. But it had begun.
Jamie glanced around at the camp, then down at Elian. The boy looked exhausted, terrified—and yet, there was a spark in his eyes.
For the first time in years, Jamie felt something stir deep within. Not just survival. Something more dangerous. Something like belonging.