The nights grew colder.
The soft winds that once brushed gently through the trees now came with a warning bite. Even the leaves, once lush with green, began their slow transformation. Summer was ending—and the world would not wait for anyone to be ready.
Zion's Camp
Zion stood on the ridge, watching. Below, hidden by distance and trees, the refugee group had begun settling into disorganized patterns. Makeshift shelters. Meager fires. A look of dread worn behind tired eyes. They didn't know who had saved them, only that the enemy had vanished.
Behind him, Kael practiced forms with two younger boys, correcting foot placement and breathing. Thalia sharpened hunting spears, teaching another girl how to track with animal precision. The rest were digging, stacking, storing. They worked with purpose, each movement feeding into the rhythm Zion had instilled in them—a rhythm of survival, growth, and quiet preparation.
"They're going to starve if they stay disorganized like that," Thalia murmured as she joined Zion on the ridge.
He nodded.
"I know. But the leader… he hasn't broken yet. That means something."
The Refugee Camp
Below, Jano, a tall, wiry young man barely into his twenties, was at the center of the crumbling survivor camp. His leg still bore a scar from the ambush, his face drawn from lack of sleep.
"The food stores are low," said a thin girl with torn braids. "We only have two days' worth of dried roots and even less water."
"And shelter?" Jano asked.
"A few lean-tos. Most of the children are sleeping in the open."
Jano clenched his jaw. The enemy had been slaughtered—some divine act, perhaps—but survival was still crushing them slowly. Every decision weighed him down. Every crying child made him feel smaller.
"We'll move soon. We'll find a better place," he said—but the conviction in his voice was cracking.
As he stepped away, his eyes wandered across the horizon. He had noticed it before—a faint column of smoke far off, too clean, too organized. Someone was near. Watching?
He had no time to chase ghosts. He had mouths to feed.
Back With Zion
Zion turned from the ridge.
"He's trying to lead. That's good. But he'll break if he doesn't find a way before the first frost."
Kael asked,
"Will we take them in?"
Zion didn't answer at first. Instead, he led the group through a dry riverbed, deeper into their camp's boundary—where he had already begun setting up winter storage pits, smoke huts for drying meat, and primitive greenhouses using knowledge long forgotten in this world.
"We will prepare either way," he finally said.
"They will come. Hungry. Cold. Tired. But by then… we will not be rescuers. We will be a tribe they must choose to join."
The next day, Zion's group moved more efficiently than ever before. The team dynamic was maturing. They knew their roles: Kael handled discipline and defense, Thalia led hunting and combat training, the others found ways to gather and preserve.
But most importantly, they trusted one another—not because of promises, but because they had all bled, built, and believed together.
And though Zion still said little of what truly lived inside him—the storm of memories from Earth, the whispers of Mama Odetta's Lwa, the burden of leadership—it was clear:
"A leader doesn't just save the people," he whispered to himself.
"He prepares the land… for them to grow roots."
Far across the distance, Jano stared into the sky, the scent of woodsmoke brushing past his nose once again.
"Someone's out there," he said softly.
"And they know how to survive."