They didn't walk straight in.
The woman led them along a shallow curve in the stone, not toward the center, not toward the forest—along a path that only made sense once Damien noticed the wear. The stone here was smoother, scuffed by repeated steps. Cracks were packed with dirt pressed flat by use.
"Stay on the stone," she said without turning. "And don't wander."
No ceremony. No explanation.
They passed low stacks of rock arranged to break the wind. Branches were laid out to dry where the stone dipped. Cloth stretched between poles in a few places, pulled tight enough to give shade but not enough to pretend it was shelter.
Everything looked temporary.
Everything looked used.
People moved without looking up. Someone split branches down to size. Another scraped something dark from a blade and wiped it clean. A third retied a cord that had started to fray, fingers practiced, expression blank.
No one stopped to stare at the newcomers.
That told Damien more than a welcome would have.
"Fire's there," the woman said, nodding toward a shallow pit ringed with stone. Old ash was ground into the cracks around it. "One place. Easier to watch."
"And if someone lights one somewhere else?" Chris asked.
She shrugged. "We put it out."
That was it.
They stopped near the edge of the camp—not invited deeper yet. The woman turned to face them.
"We don't have time to explain everything," she said. "So listen. Nobody eats unless they help gather. Nobody goes out alone. If something moves near the trees, you say it out loud."
Tasha nodded. "Arguments?"
"Take them away from the edge," the woman said. "Quiet."
No one smiled.
Damien let his gaze move.
The camp wasn't large, but it was spaced deliberately. No one was packed shoulder to shoulder. Packs were smaller than his group's, tied the same way, set down in similar spots. Tools lay where anyone could reach them.
Nothing was guarded.
Nothing looked owned.
That was the difference.
He noticed the structure only when the sightlines opened.
Beyond the far side of the camp, the stone rose gently, then leveled out. And there—breaking the pale sky—stood something vertical.
It was tall.
Too straight to be a ridge. Too uniform to be a tree. The surface looked like stone, but not like the slabs beneath their feet. Smoother. Darker. Marked with shallow lines that caught the light unevenly as the sun shifted.
Damien slowed.
Chris noticed and followed his gaze. "Is that…?"
The woman glanced back. "That thing?"
"Yes," Chris said.
She looked at it the way someone looks at a boulder that's been in the way too long. "It's just stone," she said. "Been there since we arrived."
"Does it do anything?" Chris asked.
She shook her head. "Not that we've seen."
"Then why build around it?" Tasha asked.
The woman shrugged. "It's in the way. Easier to work with the space than fight it."
That was all.
People walked past it without stopping. One leaned briefly against its base while adjusting a strap. Another set a bundle of wood down nearby and moved on.
No reverence. No caution. No interest beyond practicality.
Damien nodded once.
He didn't feel awe.
They were led a little farther in, then stopped again.
"How many of you?" the woman asked.
"Twenty-three," Damien said. "Two injured. One of them can't walk far."
"And food?"
"Not enough," Damien said.
She nodded like she'd expected that. "You'll help gather."
"That's fine," Chris said immediately.
"And you follow how we do things," she continued. "No exceptions because you're new. No exceptions because you're scared."
Tasha met her eyes. "Understood."
The woman looked at Damien. "And you?"
"We're here because what we're doing isn't working," Damien said. "That won't change if we pretend it is."
She studied him for a moment longer than she had the others.
Behind her, a man set down a bundle of wood and wiped his hands on his pants. "They came straight in," he said. "Didn't poke around."
"Yet," someone muttered.
The woman lifted a hand. "We try it. If it doesn't work, we separate."
"Fair," Damien said.
She gestured inward. "You stay where you can be seen. Tonight."
As they moved again, Damien noticed more details. How the edge of the camp aligned with natural breaks in the stone. How people rotated through tasks without being told. How watch positions weren't marked, but always occupied.
This wasn't safety.
It was discipline.
Mark wasn't here to challenge it. That absence made the contrast sharper. Damien could already imagine the questions—the why of every rule, the urge to push farther, faster.
He could also see the answers.
Because here, answers weren't ideas. They were habits.
They stopped where the stone dipped into a shallow bowl. From there, Damien could see everything at once: the forest held back at its invisible line, the camp moving with quiet intent, and the tall stone structure standing where it always had—unbothered by all of it.
The woman followed his gaze again.
"It's in the middle," she said, almost apologetic. "We worked around it."
Damien nodded.
Chris leaned closer. "You seeing anything?"
"Not yet," Damien said.
That was the truth.
The structure didn't hum. It didn't glow. It didn't respond.
It was just there.
The woman turned back to them. "You can talk to the others," she said. "Figure out how many you're moving. We don't crowd."
"Understood," Damien said.
As they stood there, watching people move and work and count and return from short trips with measured loads, Damien felt something settle—not comfort, not confidence.
Clarity.
This place worked not because it was protected.
It worked because everyone had learnt enough.
They didn't guess.
They observed.
For now, that was enough.