The camp didn't argue about going out.
Not after the morning.
Food was laid out on a flat slab and counted twice, then once more when someone realized they'd included an empty wrapper by mistake. Water bottles were lined up and tipped to see what still sloshed. A can was opened, split three ways, and eaten standing because no one wanted to be the one who sat down and made it feel permanent.
"There's nothing to eat here," someone said, stating it plainly.
Mark nodded. "Then we stop pretending this place feeds us."
A few people glanced at Damien. He didn't say anything.
They were already forming a group.
No announcement. No vote. People drifted toward the edge with whatever they could carry. Knives were checked. A long branch was snapped shorter so it wouldn't catch on roots. Someone tried to leave a heavy bag behind, walked three steps, then went back for it.
"We're not going deep," Mark said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "We grab wood. If we see something we can kill fast, fine. Then we come straight back."
Chris frowned. "And if something sees us first?"
Mark shrugged. "Then we don't freeze. We've all got something now."
He flexed his fingers. A faint curl of air stirred dust off the stone.
Tasha snorted. "That doesn't mean we're bulletproof."
Damien stepped in. "Eyes forward. No spreading out. If anything moves, we stop and count heads."
Mark looked at him for a second, then nodded. "Fine. You coming?"
"I'll stay," Damien said. "Someone has to watch the edge."
Mark hesitated, then shrugged. "Your call."
They moved out toward the forest line, boots scraping stone, packs shifting. A strap slipped on someone's shoulder and they stopped to retie it with cloth torn from a sleeve. A water bottle went around, each person taking a careful sip like they were pretending it didn't matter.
Damien watched them go until the ridges swallowed their legs, then their torsos, then their heads.
Sightlines closed fast out there.
He turned back to the camp and took position near the thinned edge, facing the trees.
Behind him, people waited in the way people do when waiting makes them feel useful. Someone folded a jacket. Someone else checked a bag that didn't need checking. A man counted his remaining matches, frowned, and put them away.
Time dragged.
The forest stayed still.
When the sound came, it wasn't a beast.
It was wood scraping stone.
Damien turned.
People were coming out of the broken ground on the opposite side of the clearing. Not rushing. Not sneaking. Just walking carefully with weight on them. One person carried a bundle of branches tied together with cloth and vine. Another had something wrapped and slung over their shoulder; dark stains had soaked into the fabric and dried there.
They stopped as soon as they saw the camp.
Hands came up. Not high. Not dramatic. Just enough to show they weren't looking for a fight.
Damien raised one hand in return and took a step forward, staying on the stone.
One of them spoke first. "Didn't expect to run into anyone this close."
Her voice was calm, but her eyes kept cutting toward the treeline, then back.
"We're not here to cause trouble," another said quickly. "Just getting stuff."
Mark and the resource group came back into view from the forest side a moment later, carrying less than they'd hoped. A few branches. No meat. Faces tight.
They slowed when they saw the others.
Everyone stopped.
The woman with the wood adjusted her grip. "We don't stay out long," she said. "There's nothing to cut on the stone, so we come out, grab what we need, and head back."
Mark looked at the wood, then at the stained cloth. "You hunt?"
"Sometimes," she said. "Sometimes we find things that already died."
She didn't elaborate.
Damien took them in without staring. Their loads were light but spread evenly. Nobody looked like they were carrying more than they could handle. Nobody had empty hands.
Chris leaned closer. "They planned this."
"Yeah," Damien said. "They knew what they could carry back."
Mark cleared his throat. "You come from the forest?"
The woman shook her head. "No. We don't go deep unless we have to."
"Then where are you staying?" Mark pressed.
She hesitated, then said, "Farther in than this. Not right here."
That was as clear as she was willing to be.
Tasha spoke up. "You didn't see what happened this morning?"
The man with the wrapped bundle stiffened. "We heard yelling. Didn't stop."
"That's because it wasn't meant to," Damien said.
The man looked at him for a second, then nodded. "Yeah. That tracks."
"We really should get moving," the woman said. "Being out here longer than needed is how people get clipped."
Mark bristled. "We can handle ourselves."
She didn't argue. She just looked at the uneven packs behind him—the snapped strap tied with cloth, the person with no bag at all, the water bottle being passed back and forth.
"So can we," she said. "That's why we don't wander."
There was a pause.
Then, practical again. "You seen any fresh trails?"
Mark shook his head. "Nothing big."
"That's fine," the man said. "We weren't looking for big."
They shifted as a group and turned back across the stone, heading inward—not toward the forest, not toward the edge where beasts tested.
As they passed, Damien caught the smell on them—iron and old smoke worked into fabric. Not fresh. Not accidental.
"They didn't go back into the trees," Chris murmured.
No one disagreed.
Mark watched them go, jaw tight. "They didn't even ask to trade."
"Because they don't have extra," Tasha said. "Neither do we."
One of the others paused and looked back. "If you're cutting wood," she said, "don't chase sounds. That's how people get hurt."
Then they were gone, swallowed by the ridges and dips that broke the clearing into pieces.
The camp let out a breath it didn't know it was holding.
"Well," Mark said, forcing a lighter tone, "at least we know we're not alone."
"That's not what matters," Damien said.
Mark frowned. "Then what does?"
Damien looked in the direction the others had gone—away from the forest, away from the edge.
"They carry less because they don't walk far," he said. "They leave, get what they need, and come back."
"Come back where?" Mark asked.
Damien didn't answer.
Chris shifted beside him. "They didn't look surprised we were here."
"No," Damien said. "They looked surprised we were still this close to the edge."
The group set their gathered wood down. The pile looked smaller on the ground than it had felt in their hands.
"Not enough," someone muttered.
Tasha nodded. "We'll have to do it again."
Mark followed the inward line with his eyes. "Or we change where we start from."
Nobody argued.
No announcement. No vote. Packs were adjusted. Heavy items changed hands. A can dropped with a sharp clatter and everyone winced like it had shouted.
Damien went back to the edge one last time and faced the forest.
Nothing moved.
When he turned around, the camp had already shifted a few steps inward—closer together, tighter, like distance itself was the problem.
He understood why.
He just didn't trust it.
Because the people who came back with wood and meat hadn't looked safer.
They'd looked careful.
And they'd gone the other way.