Chapter 6: The Knock
Sam stared at the strip of cloth on his sleeping mat until his eyes started to sting.
It was small, barely more than a torn ribbon, but he recognised the fabric immediately. Dark weave with a faint grid pattern. The kind he'd scavenged from an old work shirt and patched again and again until the cloth was more thread than material.
His cloth.
Not the whole shirt, obviously. Just the piece that had torn loose when he crawled under the fence.
He had felt it rip. He had cursed himself for being careless. He had told himself he would deal with it later, that he could go back and bury it under dirt or burn it in the basin when he had the chance.
Someone had found it before he could.
The tent flap shifted.
A shadow crossed the thin canvas, broad at the shoulders and close to the entrance. It did not pass by. It stopped and stayed there long enough that Sam could feel the intent through the silence. Whoever was outside wasn't simply walking the line. They were waiting to see how he reacted.
Sam forced his breathing to stay even and let his gaze drop to the ground. He didn't look at the cloth again. He didn't allow his face to change. If this was what he suspected, then the cloth was not only evidence, it was bait.
He let his shadow stretch toward the one at the flap, careful and light, the way you touched a hot surface with the back of your fingers to test if it would burn.
A question formed in his mind without sound.
Who?
The shadow answered in impressions rather than words. Two people. One carried impatience like heat, ready to grab and drag and break. The other carried a colder intent, the kind that wanted a confession written neatly into a report.
Sam swallowed once and stood slowly. If he moved too fast, he would look guilty. If he hesitated too long, he would look afraid. Both were dangerous.
A knock hit the flap, hard enough to make the frame tremble.
"Sam," a voice called. "Open."
It was not Kellan's voice.
Sam did not let himself feel relief. Relief made people careless.
He lifted the flap.
Two figures stood outside under a lantern fixed to a post. The light threw their shadows long behind them, clear and sharp against the dirt.
The first was Rusk. One of Kellan's enforcers. Earth-attuned, broad, with hands like blocks of stone and a face that looked bored until it found something to hurt.
The second was a woman Sam had seen around the central hall but never spoken to. Leaner, older than most of the raiders, with a calmness that didn't fit the camp's usual sharp edges. She wore a belt with a small notebook tucked into it and watched him as if she was reading a ledger in his posture.
Rusk spoke first, voice blunt.
"Step out."
Sam stepped out, keeping his hands visible.
The woman's gaze flicked over him with clinical precision. His sleeves. His collar. The rip in his shirt where he'd torn it and stitched it closed. Her eyes paused there for half a second longer than they needed to.
Then she spoke.
"Someone has been leaving the perimeter at night," she said. "We are checking everyone."
Sam kept his shoulders loose.
"Checking how?" he asked.
Rusk's mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"The easy way," Rusk said. "Or the hard way."
Sam looked at the woman instead.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Her expression didn't change.
"Edda," she said. "You can call me that."
Edda shifted her stance slightly so the lantern light fell differently across the ground. It looked casual, but Sam caught the purpose. She was adjusting angles, making sure shadows didn't leave blind pockets. She understood how people hid, even if she didn't understand bloodlines.
Rusk jerked his head toward the tent.
"Inside," he said.
Sam stepped aside and let them enter first. He didn't want to block the entrance or look protective of his space. People only acted protective when they had something to protect.
The moment Rusk and Edda passed through the flap, their shadows stretched across the mat and across the strip of cloth.
Rusk saw it instantly.
He snatched it up between two fingers and held it like a trophy.
"Well," he said. "Look what we found."
Sam kept his expression blank.
Edda watched him closely, not for the words he might say, but for the involuntary flickers around the eyes, the micro-reactions people couldn't control.
"This was found near the fence line," she said. "Near disturbed soil. It matches the fabric of your shirt."
Sam forced himself to look down at his shirt as if he was noticing the tear properly for the first time. He tilted his head slightly, thinking through the lie as if it was a simple explanation, not a life-saving strategy.
"I caught it on scrap metal two days ago," he said. "In the west lot. I stitched it. Everyone's clothes rip."
Rusk's eyes narrowed.
Edda's voice stayed steady.
"Two days ago," she repeated. "Where was the cloth between then and now?"
Sam lifted one shoulder.
"Maybe it fell out when I patched it," he said. "Maybe someone picked it up. Maybe someone wants to frame someone else."
Rusk stepped closer, looming.
"You think someone's framing you?" he said.
Sam met his eyes without flinching.
"No," Sam said. "I think you want someone to hang."
Rusk's jaw tightened and his shadow surged forward with him, aggressive and eager.
Edda raised a hand slightly, and Rusk stopped. The gesture wasn't dramatic, but it was effective. She had authority, and Rusk knew he needed her to justify whatever he wanted to do.
"Show me your hands," Edda said.
Sam held them out, palms up. Dirt clung to his knuckles, but it was the dirt of camp life. Rust and ash, not fresh soil from a fence line.
Edda inspected them and nodded once.
"Where did you sleep last night?" she asked.
"In my tent," Sam replied.
"Alone?"
Sam hesitated just long enough to look mildly confused at the question, then nodded.
Rusk snorted.
"Convenient."
Edda ignored him.
"What were you doing before you went to sleep?" she asked.
Sam answered without rushing. Rushing sounded rehearsed.
"Hauling scrap to the south pile," he said. "Then food line. Then I cleaned the hall floor like everyone else. Then I slept."
Edda's gaze tightened.
"Who saw you?" she asked.
Sam recognised the trap immediately. Names created targets. If he named someone, that person would be questioned. If that person stumbled, they would be punished. The purge was built to spread.
So he gave her something that could not become a rope.
"The food line," Sam said. "Everyone saw me."
Rusk spat on the ground.
"Not good enough."
Edda closed her notebook without writing. The motion was deliberate. She was not satisfied, but she was shifting tactics.
"Turn around," she said.
Sam turned.
Rusk grabbed his shoulder and shoved him forward so his back was toward the tent wall.
Edda stepped closer, her voice softer now, not kind, but quieter. The tone of someone trying to get what they needed without making a scene.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," she said. "Did you leave the perimeter last night?"
Sam forced his voice steady.
"No," he said.
Rusk slammed a fist into the tent post. The frame rattled.
"You were outside," Rusk growled. "We know someone was. We know someone led the wild close. You tell me it wasn't you, then you tell me who it was."
Sam felt the cold click of understanding settle in.
This wasn't just about someone leaving. It was about narrative. Kellan's story was already shifting from a failed raid into an internal enemy, because an internal enemy could be hunted. An internal enemy could be used.
Sam kept his face calm.
"If you already know," he said, "then why are you asking me?"
Edda answered instead of Rusk.
"Because lies reveal themselves," she said. "People who are guilty try to control the conversation. People who are innocent ask why they're being dragged out of bed."
Sam gave her a slow look.
"That's what you think," he said.
Edda's gaze sharpened slightly, and Sam could tell he had said something that interested her. Not because it was rude, but because it suggested he understood how interrogation worked.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice again.
"Tell me something true, Sam," she said. "Not about last night. About the camp."
Sam didn't answer immediately.
This wasn't a question meant to be answered. It was calibration. She wanted to see what kind of person he was, what he cared about, what he feared. The answer would tell her what angle to use next.
Sam let his shadow brush Edda's shadow for the briefest moment.
What do you want?
The reply came as an impression, crisp and revealing.
Order.
Not ideology. Not purity. Not some grand belief that humans should disappear. Edda wanted the camp stable and controllable. She wanted predictability, because predictability kept people alive.
Sam used that.
"Something true?" Sam said quietly. "This camp survives because people believe Kellan keeps them alive. If you make them believe the wild is inside the fence, they will tear each other apart before the forest needs to."
Rusk's face darkened.
Edda watched Sam for a long moment, then nodded slightly, almost against her will.
"You're not wrong," she said.
Rusk snapped.
"So he admits it," Rusk said. "He's saying it's inside the fence. He's warning you. He's mocking you."
Edda turned her head just enough to silence Rusk with a look, then asked Sam a different question.
"What do you think you are?" she said. "A believer? A survivor? A traitor?"
"A survivor," Sam said.
"And if survival requires blood?" Edda asked.
Sam held the silence for a moment, letting it sit between them. If he said no, he sounded naive. If he said yes, he sounded eager. Both could be used against him.
"Survival already required blood," he said finally. "The question is whose."
Rusk lunged forward again, and Edda stopped him with a sharper gesture.
"Enough," she said.
She stepped back and made a decision.
"Rusk, search the tent properly," she said. "Check under the mat. Check the seams. Check the storage. Then we leave."
Rusk grunted and started tearing through Sam's small pile of possessions with the enthusiasm of someone hoping to find an excuse.
A tin cup. A thin blanket. A spare shirt with holes. A small knife that every person here owned. Nothing unusual, nothing valuable enough to justify violence.
Rusk lifted the sleeping mat and ran his hand across the dirt beneath, looking for disturbed soil. Sam kept his breathing even. He kept his hands at his sides. If Rusk decided to dig, he could find nothing and still call it proof. People like him didn't need evidence. They needed permission.
Edda crouched near the entrance and watched Rusk's hands, then looked back at Sam.
"Your shirt," she said. "Take it off."
Sam's stomach tightened.
Not because he had anything hidden under it, but because humiliation was a tool. Once a camp decided it could strip people as part of procedure, it would become normal, and normal things happened more often.
Still, refusing would make him stand out.
Sam pulled the shirt over his head slowly, controlled. Cold air hit his skin.
Edda stepped closer and examined the torn seam and rough stitching. She didn't touch him. She didn't need to. She looked at the cloth strip in Rusk's hand and then back at the fibres of the tear.
Then she surprised Sam.
"Drop it," she said to Rusk.
Rusk blinked.
"What?"
"Drop it," Edda repeated, voice calm but edged.
Rusk's jaw tightened, but he obeyed. The cloth fell to the dirt.
Edda's gaze stayed on Sam.
"This tear is old," she said. "The fibres are worn. The thread is already fraying. If it happened last night, the rip would be fresh. Clean."
Rusk scoffed.
"You can't know that."
Edda's voice stayed flat.
"I can," she said. "Because I've stitched more people back together than you've threatened."
Sam's eyes narrowed slightly. Not in anger, but in recognition.
A medic.
Or something like one.
Edda straightened.
"Get dressed," she said.
Sam pulled the shirt back on without rushing.
Rusk stepped close again, frustration leaking out of him.
"This doesn't mean you're clean," Rusk said. "It means you're lucky."
Sam met his eyes.
"I don't believe in luck," he said.
Rusk's fist twitched.
Edda snapped, sharp now.
"Rusk. Out."
Rusk shoved past her and out of the tent.
Edda followed, but before she left, she paused at the flap and looked back at Sam. Her voice dropped, not soft, but private.
"Kellan is going to make this worse," she said.
Sam kept his face neutral.
"I know," he said.
Edda's eyes tightened.
"If you know," she said, "then don't give him a reason."
Sam did not answer. He couldn't. If he answered honestly, it would either sound like a threat or a lie.
Edda left.
Sam listened until their footsteps faded, then allowed himself one slow exhale. Not relief. Relief made people sloppy. This was calculation.
Edda had been the blade, clean and precise. Rusk had been the club, eager to swing. Kellan was the one choosing where to aim them.
Sam looked down at the cloth strip on the dirt.
He understood it for what it was. Someone had found his trail and wanted to measure his reaction. The strip was evidence, but it was also bait. If he panicked, they would know. If he hid it, they would know. The most dangerous part was the message underneath it: they were watching, and next time they would be less patient.
Sam crouched and picked it up.
For a moment, he considered taking it to the sanctum and destroying it, letting the fungus erase it the way it erased so many things. But if the cloth vanished, whoever brought it here would know he recognised it. That would tighten the net immediately.
Instead, he tore it into smaller pieces and worked them into the lining of his mat, where scraps already lived. It would look like any other patch cloth, swallowed by the mess of survival.
Then he sat back down and closed his eyes.
He opened Shadow Communication again, not to interrogate a single guard's shadow, but to listen to the settlement itself. To the overlapping impressions around the central hall where shadows pooled thickest and intent was strongest.
He caught fragments.
Headcount list.
Fence sweep.
Gate schedule.
And a name that surfaced repeatedly in different shadows, tied to the same sense of control.
Maren.
Not Kellan.
Sam's eyes opened.
That was leverage. The purge wasn't only run by fists and torches. It was run by supplies. By who ate and who didn't. By who held keys and who wrote numbers.
Sam stood, adjusted his shirt, and stepped out of the tent as if nothing had happened.
The camp around him was tightening into something sharper. Lanterns burned brighter. Patrols moved closer. Kellan's voice rose in the distance, issuing orders that sounded like righteousness.
Sam walked toward the south pile, toward work, toward visibility.
He became ordinary again.
But in his shadow, a plan was already forming. He would move essentials before the fence sweep sealed his route. He would find another way out. He would make sure the purge starved itself of certainty, because certainty was what gave Kellan power.
And if the camp truly wanted to fear what moved in the dark, Sam would give them a reason that didn't lead back to him.
[ STATUS ]
[ Name: Sam ]
[ Level: 2 ]
[ Primary Bloodline: Abyssal Shadow ]
[ Additional Bloodline Signatures: Detected ]
[ Bloodline Status: Access Restricted ]
[ Class: Unassigned ]
[ Soul Element: Unawakened ]
[ Strength: 1 ]
[ Agility: 1 ]
[ Endurance: 1 ]
[ Perception: 1 ]
[ Will: 3 ]
[ Stat Points: 0 ]
[ Abilities: Shadow Communication (Novice), Shadowbound Thrall (Novice), Umbral Veil (Novice) ]