That night, Clayton walked the civilian quarters.
He saw the newly arrived families huddled together in root-formed alcoves, mothers washing children with bowls of mosswater, elders leaning against vine-pillars for support.
They didn't know yet about the water diversions or the blight. But they felt the unease in the air.
He passed a young boy cleaning a salvaged pot and paused. The boy looked up at him, wide-eyed, and managed a hesitant, "You'll keep us safe, right?"
Clayton's breath hitched.
He crouched, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I will," he said simply.
It wasn't bravado. It was a promise. But the weight of it was a steel chain tightening around his ribs.
As he moved on, the truth settled hard in his mind; if this continued unchecked, his people would either starve or turn desperate enough to scatter… and either outcome would mean losing before the war even began.
When he returned to the council hall, the others were waiting.
