The survivors arrived three days later.
Eleven of them.
All that remained of a settlement called Aldern, a name none of them had heard before that morning.
They appeared at the edge of the trees shortly after midday, walking in the slow, careful way of people who had stopped trusting their bodies to carry them much farther. Nobody spoke. Nobody hurried. They simply kept moving because, at some point, continuing to move had become the only thing holding them together.
There was one child among them, no older than six.
She hadn't let go of the older boy's hand since they'd first been spotted.
She didn't let go now.
Not when Isole reached them.
Not when Sarel brought food.
Not even when someone placed a bowl into her free hand.
Isole had the group settled before anyone thought to ask a question.
Water first.
Food.
A place to sit.
Blankets.
