Day 5: Calm but brittle
The fifth morning dawned pale and thin, as if even the light were exhausted.
People crept out of tents slowly, movements stiff, eyes swollen from days of crying or not sleeping at all. The shaking had eased, replaced by a deeper, heavier exhaustion that clung to bone and breath.
Talia rubbed a hand over her face as she stepped into the cool air. Her body felt strangely steady. The nightmares had been brutal… but shorter. Her thoughts clearer. When Dav caught her eye from across camp, he gave her a small nod.
She met her family near the fire pit. Grandma poured hot water into chipped bowls; Theo passed one to her before she asked.
"We should start readying tasks today," Talia murmured. "Nothing heavy. Just… give people purpose again."
"Agreed," Grandma said. "Purpose stabilises the mind."
Dad sighed. "And keeps them from spiralling."
Theo nodded, voice firm. "Then we start the census. We need to know who's here, who's missing, who's taken in kids—and we need to record skills and training. When we settle, we won't have time to figure it out then."
The decision settled over them like a shared breath.
Talia handed Theo and Grandma clipboards, scraps of paper, and stationery from her space stockpile. They moved from cluster to cluster. People bowed their heads slightly as the two approached. Some spoke clearly, some whispered, some could only nod while holding a sobbing child.
It was the first time many had said their family names out loud since Earth imploded.
A mother clung to her toddler so tightly the child squeaked, but she couldn't make herself let go. A teenage boy stared at the ground and whispered, "My parents didn't make it." A pair of siblings recited each other's names with shaking voices, as if afraid one might vanish if they stopped speaking.
Grandma wrote each name with slow, deliberate strokes. "We're here now, love," she murmured. "We're family now."
Across the camps, the Quiet Zones remained full—just quieter. Mixed groups sat together: some from Talia's family, some from other Lord camps. A shared blanket, a shared silence, a shared grief. Counsellors moved between camps, checking pulses, offering water, guiding breathing. Later, they gathered in the Trauma Tent to exchange notes and methods.
Early diplomacy, born from disaster instead of politics.
Talia walked the perimeter, scanning the meadow with habitual caution. The silence of the world still unnerved her. It was too clean, too vast. No streets. No background hum of civilisation. No life—other than their own.
Something shifted in the light.
Not a quick flicker of clouds, but something slower. Heavier.
Talia's gaze snapped upward on instinct.
A shadow slid across the meadow.
Gasps rippled through the camp as people followed her gaze.
High above the valley, blurred against the sun-hazed sky, an enormous shape glided through the blue. Not a bird. Not anything Earth had prepared them for.
Wings moved in long, unhurried sweeps, catching sunlight like metal dipped in gold.
A Roc.
Even at that height it dwarfed anything she'd ever imagined with feathers. Its silhouette was vast—wings like sails, body like a drifting hill—moving with the slow confidence of something that had never once considered itself prey.
It didn't dive.
Didn't circle.
Didn't even look down.
It simply passed over the valley, casting a shifting shadow large enough to dim half the meadow for a breath, then continued toward the distant treeline. With one lazy tilt of its wings, it rose higher, darkening into a smudge against the clouds before disappearing entirely.
Only then did the meadow exhale.
A woman began to sob quietly. Someone shielded their child's face, whispering, "Don't look." A man sank to his knees and pressed a hand to the dirt. "We're insects," he whispered. "We're insects here."
Talia stood frozen, pulse roaring in her ears—not from the creature itself, but from the crushing reminder of scale.
They were alive in a world that could erase them by accident.
She didn't speak.
Couldn't.
The weight of realisation pressed down harder than fear.
Because if something that size didn't even notice them…
What would the things that did notice them be like?
"Lord?" someone whispered at her side.
She didn't answer.
She turned away and walked until the thin line of trees at the meadow's edge stopped her. She sank with her back against a trunk, arms loose at her sides, letting fear and guilt and pressure knot together into something too heavy to carry upright.
Her breaths hitched. One hand rose to her mouth as if she could hold back every sound—sob, laugh, scream—through sheer force.
She didn't hear Dav approach. She just felt him sit beside her.
He said nothing for a long time. Then slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in, his voice low.
"You're allowed to break, Talia."
Her shoulders trembled. She kept her face turned away. "That thing… Dav, how am I supposed to protect anyone from that?"
"You can't," he said simply. "Not yet."
His tone stayed even. "So we get strong enough. Not with brute force—we'd never match it that way. Use what you're good at. Strategy. Structure. Preparation. You've always seen five steps ahead. Do that here."
She dragged in a ragged breath. "I feel like I'm already failing them."
"You're not," he said, firmer. "But if you keep carrying all of this alone? You will."
He pushed himself to his feet and offered her a hand. "Come on."
When they emerged from the trees, a small crowd had gathered. Dale was muttering about her injury. Theo watched with worried eyes. The rest of the family stood tense and quiet.
Dav stepped into a clear patch of grass and gestured.
Talia joined him. He started her on basic footwork—slow, then faster—letting her pour fear into movement. People stopped what they were doing to watch. She pivoted, dodged, struck at invisible targets, even with injuries and exhaustion tugging at every motion. Her body remembered the rhythm of battle even while her mind reeled.
By the time she slowed, chest heaving, the onlookers had multiplied.
"She's incredible," someone whispered.
"War Goddess," another murmured. "They weren't exaggerating…"
Dav gave a small, knowing smirk.
The crowd dispersed gradually, leaving behind a quieter, heavier respect.
After a rest, Talia returned to the "Lord's Tent," as the camp had started calling it.
Theo sat waiting beneath the half-repaired shade tarp, census lists stacked between them. Lantern light painted his face in tired gold.
"Dale just updated me," he said, tapping the papers. "In three days, most of the injured will be through treatment." He hesitated, then added, "We need leaders."
She stared at the list. "…Do I have to be Lord?"
"You already are."
"…Who decided?"
Theo snorted. "Everyone."
He set the charcoal down, then picked it up again, studying the names.
"We need structure," he said quietly. "A skeleton the camp can lean on before everyone collapses again."
Talia rolled her shoulders. "Alright," she murmured. "Start with the essentials."
He began with the calm certainty of someone who'd already been carrying half the load.
"Acting Lord," Theo said, with a faint smirk, eyes flicking toward her.
She gave him a look that said, Don't start.
He raised both hands. "You're the Lord. I'm the one gluing the pieces together when you're too busy. Logistics Commander falls to me until we're stable."
She snorted. "You just want a title that lets you nag everyone legally."
"I already nag you legally," he said. "This just makes it official."
He moved on.
"Grandma is Record Keeper," he said. "Her notes are terrifying, and she knows everyone's secrets. She'll also take Education Director, school or not."
He paused, thinking. "It won't overwhelm her. She'll gather information from others, and we'll send helpers as needed."
"Agreed," Talia said softly. "Kids will need stability once we have a base. Better to plan now."
Theo wrote another name. "Aunty Junia as Ceremony Leader and Community Liaison. She's already building the emotional infrastructure."
"She's perfect," Talia said. "Keeps everyone's feet on the ground."
They shared a brief, tired smile.
"Brielle handles Childcare and Events," Theo continued. "She's already adopted half the camp."
"Dale is Chief Medic," Talia added, rubbing her temple. "No one else has his skill set."
"Cael takes Base Security," Theo said. "When we have a base. He's already patrolling like we've got walls."
"And Dav?" she asked.
"External Threats Commander," Theo replied without hesitation. "He's the only one we can trust to hold the outer lines without losing his mind."
They both paused, listening to the faint sounds of camp outside.
"Mum will take Agriculture," Talia said, voice soft but sure. "She's already hoarding seeds and interrogating people about tools."
Theo jotted it down. "Dad and Grandpa for the Crafting Hall—wood, repairs, basic tools. They're in their element."
"And Grandpa Fin," she added. "Research. He's the steadiest of that bunch."
Theo hesitated. "You'd prefer The Professor," he said, glancing up. "I know."
"He's better at analysis and reporting," Talia admitted.
"He's also Dav's anchor," Theo said gently. "They need him more out there than we do in here right now. We move him when we have walls and beds—later, not now."
She nodded. Practicality always won.
Theo set the charcoal down and leaned back, studying their rough list.
"Strange, isn't it?" he murmured. "Assigning roles for a world that doesn't even know we exist."
Talia looked at the names—her family, her people, the ones who had chosen her.
"No," she said quietly. "It's necessary. For us."
Their eyes met over the lantern glow.
The first true blueprint of their future lay between them—handwritten, clumsy, but alive.
A community not yet built, but finally beginning to take shape.
When the last tent lantern guttered out, Talia and Theo walked toward the family shelters.
"They're almost ready to start moving again, right?" Talia asked.
Theo nodded. "We'll need to prepare… but yes. They've started moving forward."
She paused beside a low tent and tilted her head back.
The moons drifted apart slowly, casting overlapping shadows in the grass.
Something tugged at the edge of her awareness. Quiet, but unmistakable.
A faint pull she hadn't felt since leaving Earth.
Theo heard the change in her breathing. "Talia… what is it?"
She didn't look away from the sky.
"My foresight didn't die with Earth," she whispered. "It's coming back."
Theo went still.
"On the last day," she said, "it was like an unruly horse—running wild. Before that, it was just warnings. Urges to move, to run." Her voice dropped. "Now it's different. Softer. Like something's brushing the edge of my mind instead of slamming into it."
"Is it dangerous?" he asked.
"I don't know," she admitted. "There's no vision. Just… a feeling."
Her hand rose to her sternum, fingertips pressing there as if the sensation sat beneath her ribs.
"The ground feels tense," she said slowly. "Like the world inhaled and forgot to exhale."
Theo frowned. "So… danger?"
"Not tonight," she said. "Not yet."
A slow breath.
"Far ahead. Something—weather, season, something big—is shifting. I can feel the… rhythm of it."
The word rhythm was quiet, but it carried weight.
Not prophecy.
Not panic.
Just truth, settling into bone.
Theo touched her elbow. "We'll be ready."
Talia finally tore her gaze from the sky. The twin moons continued their slow drift, purposeful as they separated.
"This world isn't silent," she murmured. "And it's starting to speak to me."
A faint breeze stirred the meadow, curling around her ankles like acknowledgement.
Something was coming.
And for the first time since Earth's destruction, Talia felt the future shift again