The air was cool that morning, heavy with fog and dew. No horns. No shouting. Just the soft clatter of wooden bowls and the creak of leather packs being cinched tight.

The refugees had gathered without being called. They stood in loose groups near the center of the camp—parents holding tired children, former fighters keeping watch. No one fidgeted. No one wandered.

Brannic stood slightly apart from them, arms folded, jaw tight. He didn’t bark orders or make speeches. He simply stood tall, and his people held formation around him like it was a natural law.

Rourke moved among them without a word.

He didn’t ask who needed healing. He didn’t ask if they were ready. They had accepted the offer—his offer—and that was enough.

He raised his hands and cast.

Mass Heal.

The light rippled through the gathered bodies. Wounds mended. Fevers eased. Posture straightened—not just from relief, but from belief, maybe. From understanding they were no longer fugitives. No longer prey.

Brannic said nothing, just watched. When Rourke moved to the next cluster, Brannic shifted to make sure no one blocked his path. It wasn’t performative. It was habit.

Kara and Elira fell into rhythm beside Rourke, adjusting positions, keeping the groups flowing.

By the fifth cast, his legs trembled. Kara offered an arm; he shook his head. He kept going.

The sixth spell drew too much. He nearly dropped. Elira steadied him with one hand, passed him a flask with the other. He drank, exhaled, and looked toward the final group.

Brannic stood at the center.

“We’re ready,” he said. “If you are.”

Rourke nodded and lifted his hands one last time.

Mass Heal.

Light burst outward. Strong. Measured. Final.

As it faded, Rourke dropped to his knees.

Brannic caught him.

“Easy now,” he said. “You’ve done more than enough.”

[Skill Upgraded: Mass Heal II]

Wider radius. Delay reduced. Cooldown increased.

Trigger: Sustained, multi-group healing under voluntary leadership.

Rourke didn’t respond right away. Just steadied his breathing, then said, “Now they can leave strong.”

Brannic nodded. “Thanks to you.”

He helped him sit gently against a cart wheel, then turned to oversee the rest of the camp without ceremony.

---

Rourke sat beneath the cart’s awning, watching the camp re-form itself. Packs were loaded. Cookfires doused. Voices low.

Brannic passed nearby, checking supplies. When their eyes met, he nodded once—not deferential, not stiff. Just solid. Grateful in the way a man showed through his shoulders.

Maeve tossed Rourke a waterskin.

“You ever gonna let someone else be the martyr?” she asked.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

She turned, whistling low as she joined Elira by the equipment pile.

Kara passed behind him and dropped a folded scrap of cloth beside him. “In case you need another wipe for the nosebleeds.”

“I didn’t bleed.”

“Give it a minute.”

He smiled faintly. She smirked back and moved on.

Brannic returned as the camp settled. He crouched beside Rourke without a word and set down a small bundle—bread, wrapped tight.

“We’ll eat after we cross the ridge,” he said. “But I figured you’d need this now more than we do.”

Rourke accepted it without protest.

“I’m not used to being followed,” he said.

Brannic replied, “I’m not used to being led by someone who earns it.”

And then he stood and left, just like that.

---

By late afternoon, the camp had changed shape.

Blankets became bundles. Crates were stacked into manageable loads. Conversations were soft, mostly logistical. There was no joy in the packing—just purpose.

Kara moved through it all like she’d been doing it for years. She spoke little, pointed often, and made sure no one stood idle for long.

Brannic was beside her more than once—offering a suggestion, rerouting a cart, redirecting energy when too many people gathered in one place. He never raised his voice. He didn’t have to.

“Three scouts on the front,” Kara told Elira. “Two on the rear. Brannic’s people can handle the middle—we’ll fold in behind them if anything stirs.”

Elira nodded. “Supply numbers are tight. But they’re holding.”

“We’ll stretch it,” Kara said.

Tobin passed nearby, arms full of rolled tarps. He nearly dropped one. A young boy darted forward and caught the top bundle just in time.

Tobin flinched—just for a second—but didn’t pull away. The boy looked up at him, grinned shyly, then ran back to help his group.

“…Thanks,” Tobin muttered after a beat, barely audible.

Maeve, sitting on an overturned crate with her bow across her lap, smirked. “That’s one for the books.”

Rourke stood near the edge of the movement, watching it all unfold. Watching Brannic circulate like a quiet pulse between his people.

Kara stepped beside him. “We’ll leave at dawn. Brannic and I will ride ahead tonight. Sweep the village.”

“You trust him that quickly?” Rourke asked.

Kara looked at him. “No. I watched him work.”

Rourke gave a small nod. That was enough.

---

The road was still soft from last week’s rain, but the wheels didn’t stick. The wagons rolled slow and steady, pushed more than pulled. No one rode unless they had to. Most walked—packs on shoulders, sleeves rolled up, eyes forward.

Brannic led them from the front, shoulders squared, gait steady. No speech. No wave. He just moved, and the rest followed.

Kara and two scouts rode alongside, weapons sheathed but ready. They said little, kept pace, and watched the treeline.

A few villagers stood near the outer fence, watching the procession wind down the ridge. One old man muttered something under his breath, but no one responded.

Rourke stood just beyond the gate, arms folded, cloak drawn around him against the morning chill.

One of the children broke from the line—no more than five or six. She jogged back a few steps and raised a small hand. Rourke knelt, unsure.

She pressed a bent hairpin into his palm. “It’s lucky,” she said, serious as a priest. “Mama said so.”

Then she turned and ran to catch up before Brannic noticed.

Elira appeared beside him. She didn’t speak for a while.

“They’re really going to make a home there,” she said eventually.

“They deserve the chance,” Rourke replied.

Elira reached into her satchel and pulled a folded note. “This came in last night. Scout report.”

Rourke took it. Read. Folded it again.

“Silver-armored figures?” she asked. “Just watching?”

He nodded.

“You think it’s them?”

“I think they’re waiting to see what we do next.”

Elira looked at him. “And what are we doing?”

Rourke’s gaze stayed on the road, where the last wagon dipped out of sight.

“We do this right,” he said. “Or we don’t do it at all.”