Rourke hadn’t slept much. None of them had.

The last raid had chipped more than just gear durability. It had eaten into the illusion that their little holdout was invincible. Each time they held the line, it cost them more—potions, stamina, certainty. The villagers didn’t say it aloud, but he’d seen it in their eyes.

This next group, Elira said, looked smaller. Scattered. Moving strange.

He wasn’t sure whether to hope or brace harder.

The party crested the ridge in tight formation—Darian and Kara up front, Maeve ranged to the left, Elira beside Rourke just behind the vanguard, and Tobin watching their flank. It should’ve been another hit-and-fade strike. Another fire line. Another list of wounds to triage.

But the valley below didn’t burn.

Instead, they found a ring of battered tents around a grain storehouse, smoke drifting from a single low campfire, and maybe two dozen figures huddled near it—no formation, no movement. A few stood, but none raised weapons. No horn sounded. No spell charged.

“They’re not deploying,” Kara said softly.

“They’re not even awake,” Darian muttered, peering down.

Maeve frowned. “Or they don’t care if we hit them. That’s... not better.”

Rourke scanned the scene. Wounded were visible—some with wrapped arms or legs, one laid flat beneath a blanket that barely covered his feet. Two kids sat near a broken wagon, trying to lift the wheel off the axle like it would do anything.

“This isn’t a warband,” he said.

Tobin was already shaking his head. “Could be bait. You soften. They strike.”

“Maybe,” Rourke allowed. “But if it is, it’s the slowest, quietest trap I’ve seen.”

“Or the saddest,” Maeve said. She didn’t lower her bow.

They approached in formation, slow and cautious. Kara circled left, blade already drawn. Darian walked forward like a mountain given legs. Elira’s hand hovered near a support spell, ready if things turned fast.

At the camp’s edge, one of the older men stepped forward—not tall, not armed, just steady. His armor was sun-bleached leather, and his shoulders hunched like someone used to bracing for impact. He raised a single hand.

Not surrender. Not command. Just—pause.

“We’re not here to attack,” he said. His voice was dry, but not weak.

Darian didn’t lower his shield. “Then what the hell are you doing camped on someone else’s grain supply?”

The man glanced toward the wagons, the tents, the sick. “Running out of places to stop.”

Maeve narrowed her eyes. “You think we’re going to pity you?”

“No,” the man said. “I think you’re going to kill us. Unless I say something first.”

Rourke stepped forward. “Talk.”

The man hesitated, then nodded toward the largest tent—where a crude stretcher leaned, stained dark. “We lost our commander two nights ago. Karric Varn. He thought this valley could be taken. He was wrong.”

The name meant nothing to Rourke—but Kara tensed at it.

“He led the last charge,” she murmured. “Was screaming orders before he vanished. We never found a body.”

“Spell caught him clean,” the man said. “Didn’t leave much to bury.”

Rourke glanced between the others. Maeve gave a noncommittal grunt. Darian didn’t move. Tobin looked like he wanted to speak, then thought better of it.

“So what now?” Rourke asked.

The man looked down. “That’s the part we haven’t figured out. We’re out of food. Half the camp’s wounded. And the people following him... they’re tired of dying for land they never held.”

Rourke’s hand hovered near his belt again. He didn’t reach for a weapon. Just a bandage roll tucked beside his healing flask.

“We’re not here for a fight,” the man added. “Not today.”

Rourke let the silence hang a moment longer.

“Let us walk your perimeter. You stay seated. We treat the worst injuries, after that, we talk.”

The man’s eyes flicked to the tents, then to his people, then back to Rourke. “You’ve got ten minutes. Then we decide together.”

Rourke nodded once. “Fair enough.”

---

They moved through the camp slowly. No one offered them a tour.

Kara led, blades sheathed but hands ready. Her eyes flicked from shadows to rooftops to the movement of cloth in the wind, cataloguing exits, angles, weak points. Darian trailed just behind, shield still raised—not threatening, but not relaxed either.

Rourke walked beside Elira, careful not to let his gaze linger too long on the wounded. The human instinct to recoil had dulled in him over the last few weeks, but some of these injuries weren’t just neglected—they were lethal. Improvised tourniquets. Burn dressings made from frayed shirts. A child with a fever so high her eyes had glazed over.

They passed a line of shelters, then a half-collapsed cart turned into a crude lean-to. Beneath it, a man lay gasping—lips cracked, skin pale and blotchy. His leg was wrapped in a blood-soaked scarf that hadn’t been changed in days. Rourke dropped beside him without hesitation.

“Elira,” he called, already uncorking a vial.

She knelt opposite him. “Sepsis,” she said. “If it hasn’t reached his heart yet, it’s close.”

Rourke pulled back the scarf. The wound beneath was ragged and swollen, red streaks climbing toward the thigh. He poured a clear solution over it, then pressed both hands to the injury, his brow furrowed.

The man shuddered, teeth clenched, but he didn’t scream.

“Hold him,” Rourke said.

Elira steadied the man’s shoulders as Rourke focused. A soft glow pulsed under his palms—gentle at first, then sharper, more focused. It wasn’t Minor Heal. Not exactly. It was a variation he’d honed in emergencies—pushing mana harder, letting the healing dig deeper.

The swelling reduced. The bleeding slowed.

The fever didn’t break, but the man’s breathing evened. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused but alive.

“That one,” Elira whispered, “wasn’t going to make it through the night.”

Rourke nodded once and stood.

Further in, they found a tarp laid over five still bodies. No markers. No names. Just legs too stiff to move and arms folded wrong, like the people who placed them there didn’t know how to do it gently.

“Guess they don’t bury everyone,” Maeve muttered, catching up to them.

“They ran out of ground,” Kara replied. Her voice was flat.

Rourke paused by the smallest bundle. The tarp didn’t quite reach the feet.

Bare toes. Small. Burnt at the edges.

He swallowed the burn rising in his throat and stood slowly.

---

Back near the fire, the man who’d spoken earlier was stirring something in a pot. It smelled more like boiled bark than food. He looked up as they returned, eyes tracking each of them with quiet caution.

“You didn’t draw steel,” he said.

Rourke nodded. “You didn’t give us a reason.”

The man didn’t smile. But some of the tension eased from his shoulders.

“You saved Arlen,” he said after a moment. “He was already cold when I checked him this morning. Thought we’d be digging his spot by dusk.”

Rourke didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

---

They regrouped near the dying fire. Most of the camp had gone still, save for the occasional cough or the creak of worn leather. The man sat cross-legged, stirring the same thin broth, now more steam than substance.

Elira crouched beside him, speaking softly. “Where were you before this?”

He didn’t look at her. Just kept stirring. “The lowlands. South of the river fork. Good land. Quiet.”

“What happened?” Rourke asked.

The man hesitated. Then: “One of the big guilds came through. Said the territory was being ‘reorganized.’ That we could join or clear out.”

“No negotiation?” Elira asked.

“Only the kind where you pick which way to run.”

He set the ladle down, hands briefly resting on his knees. “We tried to stay mobile. Hunt. Trade. Some groups made it work. We didn’t. Kept getting pushed further out. Ended up here.”

Maeve folded her arms. “So you figured we’d be soft.”

He nodded, not ashamed. “We thought you’d fall apart like the last few villages.”

“And now?” Rourke asked.

The man looked around his camp—the wounded, the missing, the ones too sick to wake. “Now we bury the last fool who thought fighting was a future.”

Elira’s voice was quiet. “You said they wore silver?”

The man’s jaw clenched, just slightly. “Polished armor. Crest like a mirror. They didn’t shout orders. Just handed them down like paperwork.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Kara broke the silence. “So what do you want from us?”

The man looked up. “We want to stop running.”

---

Later that night, the guild gathered in the longhouse. The fire cracked low in the hearth. Armor had been set aside. Boots stretched toward the heat. But no one looked comfortable.

Kara stood near the map table, one finger pressed to a pinned marker north of their position. “They’ll move soon. That much is clear.”

“To where?” Tobin asked. “They’ve got nothing left. Even if they wanted to disappear, they’d starve before they reached the next zone.”

“Unless we send them somewhere,” Maeve said.

Darian straightened in his seat. “You’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

Maeve didn’t flinch. “We’ve got three decimated villages between here and the ridge. One still has a functioning well. Some shelter left. Could hold twenty, maybe more.”

“Hold them?” Tobin echoed. “Like... what, under our flag?”

“Under our eyes,” Kara corrected. “They wouldn’t be our recruits. Just people. Settlers, if they’re serious.”

“They raided us,” Darian said. “We almost lost that last outpost.”

“They also lost half their fighters in the process,” Elira said. “And the rest just watched us save someone they’d already given up on.”

“Which doesn’t make them innocent,” Tobin muttered.

“No,” Rourke said. He was still standing, arms crossed. “But it might make them worth saving.”

All eyes turned to him.

He stepped forward, tapping the corner of the map. “We vet them. We watch them. But if they’re done running, and we have space to offer, then we offer it. Because we’re not just a wall. We’re supposed to be a future.”

No one answered right away.

Maeve exhaled and leaned back. “Better to try and fail than let them rot in another ditch.”

Kara nodded slowly. “I’ll draw up a supply run plan. We’ll need at least two escorts.”

Darian didn’t speak again. Tobin looked like he wanted to object, but didn’t.

Rourke left the report unsigned on the table.

Outside, the sky had cleared. No horns. No firelight on the horizon. Just the wind, and the slow, uneasy stillness of something new beginning.

The others filtered out one by one. Kara stayed behind to mark the supply routes. Maeve said nothing, just gave Rourke a long look on her way out. Darian lingered by the fire before leaving. Tobin didn’t say goodnight.

Only Elira waited for him.

They stepped outside together, the night air crisp with the promise of frost. The torches along the main path had burned low, leaving most of the village in shadow.

“You think they’ll accept the offer?” she asked after a while.

Rourke nodded slowly. “They’ll have to. There’s nowhere else.”

She didn’t speak right away. Just walked beside him, boots soft on the dirt path, cloak drawn tight. Somewhere near the stables, a dog barked and then quieted.

“They said the ones who burned their homes wore silver,” she said quietly. “Polished. Clean.”

Rourke didn’t answer.

“They didn’t name a guild,” she added. “But I’ve heard whispers. Some Accord squads have been sighted further west. Quietly.”

He stopped walking, just for a second.

Elira didn’t press. She never did.

“We keep the offer simple,” he said finally. “We give them ground, and one clean chance. No banners. No questions. Just a start.”

She nodded. “That’s enough.”

They kept walking. The wind tugged at his cloak. Somewhere behind them, the fire in the hall crackled low.

He didn’t look back.