Chapter 10 — Before Anyone Calls It Home
The first death did not come from Graymarch.
That, more than anything, unsettled Mikkel.
It happened just before dawn, when the camp was at its quietest—when even the restless had surrendered to shallow sleep and the fires had burned down to dull embers.
A shout tore through the eastern edge.
Mikkel was on his feet before he was fully awake, spear in hand, heart already pounding. He reached the commotion to find a small crowd gathered near one of the old irrigation trenches.
A body lay twisted at the bottom.
A man in his thirties, clothing caked with mud, neck bent at a wrong angle. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.
Someone whispered a name.
"He slipped," another murmured. "The ground gave way."
Freja knelt beside the body, fingers pressed lightly to the man's throat even though they all knew it was pointless. Her shoulders sagged just slightly before she straightened.
"He's gone," she said quietly.
Silence followed.
This was not a raid. Not a battle. Not a sacrifice chosen by strategy.
It was an accident.
And accidents were harder to justify.
The man's wife arrived moments later, breathless, hair loose, panic already breaking into grief as she saw the body. She collapsed beside him with a wail that cut through the camp like a blade.
Mikkel stood frozen for half a heartbeat.
Then he moved.
He knelt opposite Freja, steadying the woman as gently as he could while others helped lift the body from the trench. No one spoke. No one looked away.
This was the cost of being here.
When the body was carried away, Mikkel stood and turned to the gathered crowd.
"This didn't happen because of Graymarch," he said. His voice carried, not raised, but firm. "It happened because we're living on broken ground."
No one argued.
"That means we either make this place safer," he continued, "or more people die like this."
A murmur rippled—fear, agreement, resignation.
Torben stepped forward. "You're saying this is on us?"
"I'm saying responsibility doesn't care whose fault it is," Mikkel replied. "Only who fixes it."
The words settled.
By midmorning, the camp was buzzing—not with panic, but with movement.
Mikkel had called everyone together again.
"This ends today," he said. "Not the danger. The guessing."
He gestured toward the basin around them. "We are not wandering anymore."
Some faces lit with relief.
Others tightened with fear.
"We need structure," Mikkel continued. "Not titles. Tasks."
He began assigning roles—not arbitrarily, but deliberately.
"Freja," he said. "Medical. You decide where care happens and who assists."
She nodded without hesitation.
"Signe," he continued. "Security. You set patrols, watches, training."
Signe grinned slightly. "Finally."
"Torben," Mikkel said, turning to the scarred soldier. "Logistics."
Torben blinked. "Me?"
"You complain about supplies because you notice them," Mikkel replied. "That's useful."
A reluctant nod.
"Elna," Mikkel said. "Civil coordination. Food distribution. Shelter assignments."
Elna lifted her chin. "You expect them to listen to me?"
"They already do," Mikkel said.
A hush fell.
Mikkel let it.
"These roles aren't power," he said. "They're accountability. If something fails, we fix it together."
No cheers followed.
But no objections either.
They broke ground before noon.
Trenches were widened and marked. Hazard zones were roped off. A central path was cleared, stones pulled aside, the dirt packed down deliberately.
Children were kept within sight at all times.
By evening, the camp felt different.
Not safer.
But intentional.
That night, rain came.
Not a storm—just a steady, soaking downpour that turned ash into sludge and revealed every weakness in their shelters.
Roofs leaked. Fires sputtered. The ground swallowed boots.
And still, people worked.
Mikkel moved constantly—helping reinforce a wall here, redirecting runoff there, carrying timbers until his arms shook. He did not delegate himself out of labor.
Freja found him at one point, soaked through, mud streaking his tunic.
"You don't have to do everything," she said.
"I know," he replied.
"Then stop trying."
He met her eyes. "If I stop now, it becomes 'their work.' Not ours."
She studied him, then nodded once. "Then rest when this passes."
"I will."
The rain eased by midnight.
The camp did not collapse.
When morning came, something had shifted.
People woke tired—but not broken.
They ate together. Worked without being told. Checked on one another.
Mikkel stood at the edge of camp as the sun rose, exhaustion pressing heavy on his shoulders.
Liv approached, silent as ever.
"They didn't move last night," she said. "Graymarch."
"Good."
"They're waiting for something worse than rain."
"Yes," Mikkel replied.
Liv tilted her head slightly. "You're not temporary anymore."
"No," Mikkel said. "We're vulnerable."
She considered that. "That's closer to real."
Later that day, a delegation from the garrison arrived.
Commander Rasmus did not come himself—he sent a lieutenant instead. A young man with polished armor and cautious eyes.
"This settlement," the lieutenant said carefully, looking around, "was not authorized."
"No," Mikkel agreed.
"And yet," the lieutenant continued, "you're organizing, fortifying, feeding people."
"Yes."
The lieutenant hesitated. "The commander wants to know your intentions."
Mikkel looked out over the camp—the trenches, the makeshift shelters, the people working without being told.
"To stay," he said.
The lieutenant swallowed. "And after that?"
Mikkel's voice was steady.
"To endure."
That night, Elna approached Mikkel as he sat near the fire, cleaning mud from his hands.
"You need a name," she said.
"For what?" he asked.
"For this," she replied, gesturing to the camp. "People need to say where they are."
Mikkel stared into the fire.
Names created permanence.
Expectation.
Target.
"What name?" he asked.
Elna smiled faintly. "You decide."
Mikkel thought of ash and effort. Of land no one wanted. Of people who stayed anyway.
"Not yet," he said again. "But soon."
As the fire crackled low, Signe sat nearby sharpening her blade.
"You realize," she said casually, "Graymarch will stop watching and start breaking."
"Yes."
"And when they do?"
Mikkel looked at the people sleeping around the fire. The children. The exhausted. The stubborn.
"Then this stops being a camp," he said. "And becomes a line."
Signe smiled, slow and fierce.
"Good," she said.
Beyond the hills, far from firelight, horns sounded again—closer than before.
Graymarch was done observing.
And the ground no one wanted was about to be tested.