The campfire crackled low, its light barely cutting the curtain of night. Around it, resistance fighters spoke in hushed tones, their voices blending with the groan of trees swaying in the wind. Smoke coiled upward into the branches, fragile as breath.
Jamie sat slightly apart, crossbow balanced across his knees, eyes half-hidden beneath lowered lids. From the outside, he looked at rest, but every muscle in his body remained taut, listening, measuring. He had learned long ago that silence revealed more than words.
Elian sat closer to the fire, his face glowing with youthful eagerness. He leaned forward as one of the fighters, a broad man with a scar splitting his lip, retold the ambush at the ridge with embellishments—how the wagon had almost tumbled into the chasm, how arrows had flown so thick they blackened the sky. Elian didn't correct him. His smile said he wanted the story to grow larger than truth, as though bravery could be forged in legend.
But not all the faces around the fire were friendly. Some looked at the boy with a kind of amused indulgence. Others glanced toward Jamie with thinly veiled suspicion. Strangers who killed guards and brought back supplies were useful, yes. Trustworthy? That was another matter.
Jamie felt their stares like arrows on his back.
Derah slid onto the log beside him, a mug of steaming broth in hand. His presence was quiet, grounding. "You've bought yourselves time," he said softly. "That's no small feat."
Jamie's gaze didn't shift from the fire. "Time for what?"
"To prove you're more than blades and quick hands." Derah sipped from the mug. "Some here already see you as kin. Others? They'll wait for a crack. A reason not to trust."
Jamie smirked faintly. "That won't take long."
Derah studied him. "You wear cynicism like armor. But armor weighs heavy if you never take it off."
Jamie said nothing. His eyes, though, flicked briefly to Elian, who was laughing at some joke from the scar-lipped man. The boy's grin was too bright for a world this broken. Too fragile.
Later, when most had drifted to their shelters, Jamie lingered at the edge of camp. The forest pressed close, shadows thick with secrets. He checked the string of his crossbow, adjusted the patched leather straps of his gear. Routine. Habit. Ritual that kept his mind steady.
He heard steps approach. Seren.
Her scar caught a sliver of moonlight as she stopped a few paces away. Her arms were folded, her posture sharp as ever.
"You're restless," she said.
"I'm cautious," Jamie corrected.
Her eyes narrowed. "Caution has saved you. I'll grant that. But tell me, are you cautious for yourself… or for him?" She nodded toward the camp, where Elian's small frame was curled by the dying fire.
Jamie's jaw tightened. "He's not my concern."
"And yet," Seren pressed, "your gaze never strays far from him."
Jamie turned his eyes back to the forest. "Survival is easier when those near you don't die."
She studied him in silence, then stepped closer, lowering her voice. "There are some here who think you will be trouble. That you fight for yourself, not for us. They're not wrong to wonder. But I see something different. You've lost much, haven't you?"
Jamie's lips pressed thin. "We've all lost."
Seren's scar tugged as she smirked. "Yes. But not all of us carry loss like a blade pressed to our throats."
Jamie didn't answer.
She let the silence stretch, then added, "The leader—Kael—he sees potential in you. But potential is a double-edged thing. Wield it wrong, and it cuts deeper than any sword. If you stay, you'll need to decide whether your fight is only for your own skin… or for something greater."
Before he could respond, she turned and walked back into the camp, leaving him alone with the night.
Morning came with unease. The resistance was stirring earlier than usual, tension woven into every movement. Kael, the gray-bearded leader, stood at the center of the camp, speaking with hushed urgency to his captains.
Jamie caught fragments as he passed—"patrols increasing… scouts missing… rumors of betrayal."
The word betrayal lodged in his chest like a splinter.
Derah approached him later, as Elian was practicing clumsy strikes with a wooden staff under the scar-lipped man's instruction. "There's been movement," Derah murmured. "The regime is tightening their grip. Patrols sweeping wider. Too close to us for comfort."
Jamie frowned. "They know where we are?"
Derah shook his head. "Not yet. But someone's been talking. Or so Kael fears."
Jamie's gut tightened. Informants. He'd heard Seren warn about them. His mind flicked back to Elian's wide eyes, his desperate eagerness. Innocence could betray as easily as malice—careless words, unguarded trust.
As though reading his thoughts, Derah added, "Don't let paranoia eat you. It will turn friend against friend faster than any blade."
Jamie's eyes swept the camp. "Or maybe paranoia keeps you alive."
By midday, the unease turned to alarm.
A scout stumbled back into camp, bloodied and pale, clutching at his side. "They're close," he gasped. "A patrol—twenty, maybe more. Half a league west."
Kael barked orders. Fighters scrambled to gather weapons, douse fires, scatter signs of their presence. The camp moved like a hive struck with a stick, urgent but controlled. They had done this before.
Jamie read the scene quickly. "Do we fight or flee?"
Derah tightened the strap on his bow. "Neither. We vanish. This isn't our ground to hold."
Seren strode past, snapping at two men to move the supply crates. Her eyes caught Jamie's briefly. "Now you'll see what survival looks like for all of us."
The evacuation was swift, but not clean. Jamie and Elian found themselves running alongside Derah and a cluster of fighters, weaving through the forest as the sound of distant horns echoed. The regime's signal. The hunters were closing in.
Elian stumbled, nearly dropping the pack he carried. Jamie caught his arm, yanking him forward. "Keep moving. Don't stop."
The boy's breath came ragged. "They're—closer—"
"I know." Jamie scanned the trees. Shadows moved between trunks—too disciplined for beasts, too many for chance.
Arrows hissed. One struck a tree inches from Jamie's head. He shoved Elian down as the fighters around them returned fire. Derah's bow thrummed, sharp and steady.
"East!" Derah shouted. "There's cover!"
They plunged toward thicker brush, branches clawing at their faces. The horns blared again, closer now. The regime did not tire. They pressed, relentless, a machine of flesh and iron.
Jamie felt the ground shift beneath his boots—roots, rocks, uneven soil. The forest itself seemed intent on slowing them. Elian stumbled again, nearly falling.
Jamie hauled him up with a growl. "Move, damn you!"
They burst into a small clearing where Kael and Seren were rallying a dozen fighters. Kael's voice boomed, calm amid chaos. "Hold them here. Delay long enough for the rest to scatter."
Seren's scar twisted as she looked at Jamie. "Here's your choice, survivor. Stay and fight… or keep running."
Jamie's chest heaved, crossbow gripped tight. Instinct screamed to flee—survival demanded it. But Elian's wide eyes were fixed on him, waiting. Trusting.
For the first time in years, Jamie felt the weight of another's life pressing against his own decision.
He raised his crossbow.
"Then we fight."
The clearing erupted in battle.
Arrows whistled. Steel clashed. Shouts tore the air. Jamie fired, reloaded, fired again, his movements sharp and precise. Elian fought clumsily at his side, but with a determination that surprised even Jamie.
The regime pressed hard, but the resistance held, every fighter a wall of defiance. Jamie's world narrowed to rhythm—bolt, reload, fire, duck. His body moved with grim efficiency, his mind silent but for the roar of survival.
Yet beneath it all, something unfamiliar stirred. Not just the will to live. Not just defiance. A thread of connection, fragile but real, binding him to the fighters at his side.
The battle raged. And in its chaos, Jamie realized survival no longer meant solitude.