Victor entered the caravan as a problem that had not been solved yet.
No one said so.
No one needed to.
They adjusted around him instead. Steps angled wider. Conversations flattened. Eyes slid past him without curiosity. He stayed on the outside of their movement like a tool no one was certain was safe to use.
They did not welcome him.
They allowed him.
There was a difference, and he felt it in every glance that did not linger, every neutral tone, every step that gave him extra space.
The caravan was not banners and laughter.
It was work.
Two squat carts with high sides and tight canvas. A third wagon lower and heavier, wheels wider. Four draft animals that looked like oxen until you watched their shoulders and realized they carried weight differently.
Six people total. The driver who rarely looked back. The older man who walked ahead with a spear held like he had used it before.
No one tried to speak to Victor.
That was fine.
He walked.
His ribs made sure he never forgot they were damaged.
Each step jarred the right side of his chest with a dull grind. Not sharp enough to stop him. Sharp enough to punish careless breathing.
His forearm throbbed beneath the bandage the woman had wrapped earlier. Tight. Proper. Already stiff with dried blood.
He kept it close to his body.
He kept his breathing shallow.
He kept his eyes moving.
The road was a road the way a scar was a scar.
Not paved.
Not proud.
Just worn.
Victor marked everything.
Thin brush.
Low dips.
Open canopy.
Wind direction.
He walked just behind the last cart, offset to the left so he could see past it and still watch the trees. Far enough that no one could bump him. Far enough that no one had to pretend he belonged.
He did not want to belong.
The day moved slowly until it did not.
Light shifted.
Shadows lengthened.
Cold crept in unnoticed until hands began to stiffen.
The woman near the middle cart raised a hand.
No shout.
No flourish.
The wagons slowed. The driver guided the animals off the road and up a shallow incline Victor would have chosen himself.
High ground.
Not high enough to silhouette.
High enough to see movement coming.
They formed a rough crescent. Wagons angled inward.
The animals were unhitched quickly.
No wasted motion.
No argument.
Routine.
Victor watched and stored it.
Two for water.
One for harness.
One unpacked pre-cut wood from the lead cart. Dry. Saved for nights when the forest would not cooperate.
The spear-man walked the perimeter in a loose circle.
Victor moved without instruction.
He stepped downslope and studied the tree line.
Brush.
Trunks.
One clean sightline.
One blind approach.
He chose the blind one and watched it.
Footsteps stopped behind him.
"Wood."
The first clear word he had understood.
Victor turned. The speaker was younger than the spear-man. Broad shoulders. A short blade at his belt. A club slung casually.
Victor nodded once.
He gathered fallen branches from old storms, selecting dry pieces that snapped clean. His ribs protested each bend. He adjusted and continued.
He returned and stacked the wood beside the fire ring.
No praise.
No comment.
Good.
Praise created expectation.
The fire caught quickly and settled into something controlled.
The woman handed him a fresh strip of cloth.
Victor accepted it.
He rewrapped his forearm. Clean pressure against torn skin. The pain did not lessen, but grit stopped grinding into flesh.
The camp settled.
Hard bread.
Dried meat.
A thin root stew.
A bowl was passed to him.
He took it.
He ate slowly and observed.
Hands.
Positions.
Who faced outward.
Who guarded the wagons.
No one relaxed fully.
Comfort required walls.
Night arrived in quiet increments. The fire became the center of light. The trees beyond swallowed the rest.
Cold set in as soon as the sun disappeared.
His body shook.
Not fear.
Temperature.
Exhaustion.
He stayed upright.
Sleep was chosen only when perimeter was known.
Watches formed without discussion.
Spear-man first.
Younger guard second.
Driver third.
The woman took none.
Or all.
Victor understood.
He was not in their rotation.
He was not trusted.
Acceptable.
He moved uphill behind a fallen log that broke his outline and gave partial cover.
High ground.
Line of sight.
Clear retreat path.
He layered boughs and leaves beneath him to keep the damp from stealing heat. Movements small. Efficient.
He checked his knife.
Still there.
Sheathed.
Hand near, not gripping.
The cold pressed in.
He focused on what mattered.
Breath.
Pain.
Position.
Sound.
The fire crackled.
An animal shifted.
Something small moved through leaves downslope.
Not heavy enough to matter.
Time passed.
His eyelids sagged.
Victor stayed awake long enough to confirm the watch pattern held.
The spear-man moved in steady arcs.
Competent.
When the younger guard replaced him, Victor lowered himself carefully onto the boughs.
Ribs flared.
He adjusted.
One hand rested near the knife.
The sky above the trees looked darker than it should have been, as if the stars were reluctant here.
The overlay appeared without warning.
[CONDITION: STABLE]
Victor did not flinch.
Stable did not mean safe.
It meant he was not actively dying.
More text resolved beneath it.
[STATUS: INJURED]
[STATUS: BLEEDING - RESOLVED]
[STATUS: PAIN - ELEVATED]
A ledger.
A record.
He let it fade.
So it was real.
A system.
Visible only to him.
If it could label him, it could label action.
If it could record condition, it could record persistence.
He set the thought aside.
Analysis did not generate warmth.
It did not repair ribs.
It did not secure food.
He needed sleep.
Not deep.
Just sufficient.
His eyes closed.
Not surrender.
Procedure.
Tomorrow: water.
Then food.
Then information.
Follow the road until it led to walls.
And when it did,
Victor would learn what kind of world counted pain as status and survival as condition.