Dawn broke cold and pink-gold across the basin, both moons fading into the brightening sky. Mist drifted low over the grass, brushing ankles, catching on tent lines. It felt softer than yesterday—lighter somehow—yet Talia felt the weight beneath it. Not dread. Not grief.
Movement.
The camp broke fast, tents collapsed into storage rings with crisp efficiency. Elders rolled their shoulders like their bones had decided to cooperate for once. Children charged between legs, curious rather than frightened, as if the entire idea of walking into the unknown was simply a bigger version of playing "follow the rope line."
For the first time, the whole camp moved as a caravan instead of a cluster of survivors.
Families hugged members of the other Lord groups goodbye, lingering but not clinging. Auntie Junia gathered a small circle of people, murmuring blessings over their hands. Grandma inspected every child carrier and sling with the ferocity of a general reviewing weapons. Dav paced the perimeter, boots whispering over dew.
Talia paused once to look back at the meadow. No grief tightened her chest. Just the quiet knowledge that they were leaving something behind—a beginning, not a grave.
The caravan began to form with the kind of orderly chaos only desperation or a very large family could produce. Dav and Joel set the line: vanguard scouts, front guard, family clusters, defence group six, flank security rotating every hour. The core team spaced themselves along the edges.
Talia and Theo walked the line checking straps, adjusting a crooked sling, reminding one researcher—again—not to pack live insects near the food, steadying a nervous teen's breathing.
From the edge of the meadows, the remaining Lord camps watched the long line of Talia's people vanish into the forest. Lord Aria stood with hands clasped, exhaling a quiet prayer for their safety. Lord Mei watched contemplatively, mind turning through calculations, maps, and the quiet hope that someone—anyone—might carve a stable foothold in this unpredictable world.
Liang sneered, arms folded. "Let them march. They won't last a week."
He didn't mention his spy embedded among them, he didn't need to; they would do their work soon enough.
A few others only watched in silence—caught between admiration, envy, and the sharp recognition that the first bold step had just been taken.
With each step of Talia's caravan, came the subtle hum of something collective:
We're doing this. We're actually doing this.
Departure was the opposite of graceful.
The moment they stepped into motion, carts squeaked like distressed animals. Babies cried. Kids argued. Someone's toddler announced, "I NEED TO PEE," with the consistency and volume of a tiny foghorn. Wildlife fled dramatically from their approach.
The research team stopped every ten meters to inspect a leaf, a rock, or a patch of moss until Cael physically redirected them back to the path. A toddler slipped through the bottom of his woven basket, plopping into the dirt mid-walk like a sack of potatoes. An elderly father reclined across a stretcher, offering commentary on everyone's walking posture. Sling babies slept with enviable peace.
A dad bargained with his toddler for silence: "Five berries. Final offer."
Teens surged ahead then lagged to complain about hunger.
Someone dropped a pot; half the line flinched as if a beast had roared.
Talia's mind slid into that very specific mode of leadership she hadn't known she possessed—calm, patient, and profoundly resigned.
She suspected she looked dead inside. Joel clapped her shoulder and laughed. Dav followed suit a moment later.
The forest grew stranger as they moved deeper—trees rising like pillars carved from ancient bone, their trunks so wide ten people couldn't have linked arms around them. Roots twisted across the ground in thick ropes, jutting at angles that forced the caravan to step carefully, lifting carts over ridges or guiding elders along hand-to-hand chains. Moss glowed faintly beneath shaded hollows, and enormous vine blooms dangled overhead like suspended lanterns.
Children whispered in awe. Adults… in caution.
One root rose nearly waist height; two dads tried to lift a cart over it, only for the wheel to catch and send both men stumbling. A researcher stopped mid-step, transfixed by a giant fern unfurling like a slow breath until Cael bodily steered them back into line. A teen tripped on a slick patch of lichen and slid three meters downhill, popping up embarrassed but unharmed. Even the stable walkers found their balance tested by the soft, uneven ground that shifted underfoot like damp sponge.
The caravan adjusted, but every step carried that awareness—this world was alive in ways that refused to be ignored. Strange, magnificent, and vast enough to swallow them whole if they weren't careful.
By mid-morning they stopped to rest under the shade of wide-leaf trees. People sprawled across the ground or perched on roots. Water skins passed hand to hand. The air smelled like crushed greenery and sweat.
A young man helped unload water skins with the smooth competency of someone who wanted to be seen doing things correctly. He laughed lightly at a joke someone made, handing off a crate.
Then in a quiet, almost embarrassed voice, he murmured to a pair of nearby teens, "Do you think we're safe with this route?"
He chuckled softly, like he regretted speaking. "I mean… Talia's smart. I'm sure she knows best."
A beat.
"I just wish we could see the map ourselves, you know? I feel insecure not knowing where I'm going."
He shook his head. "Anyway—orders are orders."
And he jogged off to help someone lift another crate.
The teens exchanged a small, guilty look—unsettled by the tiny truth in his words even though they trusted their Lord.
When they moved again, chaos returned with renewed enthusiasm.
Children wandered into other clusters. A toddler smacked an adult in the face with a stick and immediately burst into tears. Someone's wheelbarrow shed a wheel, prompting Dad and Grandpa to sprint after it like it was a runaway horse.
Talia muttered under her breath, "This isn't a migration; it's daycare with knives."
Cael walked with a baby in his arms, a young woman holding his elbow and laughing at something he whispered. Talia glared at them purely on instinct, earning a smirk from Theo.
The research team attempted to run toward a patch of giant mushroom shelves and were intercepted by two guards moving with parental resolve. Small beasts wandered close to investigate the noise and were promptly turned into supplementary food.
Joel wiped his brow. "On the bright side, at least we're eating well."
After the fourth forced break, Talia's sense of progress collapsed.
Joel checked the numbers. "We've done eight kilometres in six hours."
Dav shrugged. "Kids are slowing us. And researchers."
Talia pinched the bridge of her nose. Then: "Vanguard move ahead with logistics. Find a campsite early."
She was learning the job moment by moment.
Late afternoon, the rear guard moved up the line. "We're being followed."
The words shifted the air around her.
"Distance?" she asked.
"Consistent. One-fifty to two hundred meters. Small group. Not closing in."
"Don't engage," she said quietly. "Just observe."
Natives?
Curious beasts?
Another Lord's scouts?
Dav fell back with Dom, both of them moving like shadows, watching the treeline with ears tuned to every shift in the underbrush. No one said what they were thinking.
They were halfway through a narrow stretch of forest when the undergrowth ahead rustled with an urgency that didn't belong to wind. Talia's hand lifted before she consciously registered the sound—guards tightening formation, families pulling children close. The creature burst out of the brush a heartbeat later: low-bodied, thick-furred, eyes glowing like hot embers. Not large—maybe knee height—but fast, built like a wedge of muscle and teeth. Two more followed, streaking toward the line with bounding, snapping lunges.
Dav met the first mid-charge, spear braced low. The impact jarred his arms, but he twisted, sending the beast tumbling. Cael intercepted the second, shield catching the creature's jaw with a crack. The third skidded sideways toward a cluster of children, but Arlen and Dad moved as one—Arlen's polearm sweeping it off its feet, Dad's hammer stump knocking it senseless.
The beasts tried to regroup, but the caravan was no longer a loose scatter of survivors. Guards closed ranks, adults pulled back the vulnerable, and the line moved with instinctive cohesion. The creatures hesitated—realising they were outmatched—then fled into the brush with frustrated growls.
A long, shaking breath moved down the caravan. No cheers. Just the quiet understanding:
They could handle this.
Together.
They reached the forest-meadow edge just before dusk. People practically dissolved outward—kids racing in circles, elders collapsing onto blankets like felled trees, researchers disappearing into their tent with suspicious speed. Fires sputtered to life. Someone started cooking like it was a festival. Laughter carried.
Exhaustion. Relief. Hope.
Talia stood at the edge of it all, taking in the movement, the noise, the warmth, the impossible miracle of 423 people making it through day one.
Dav and Dom returned at last. "They turned away once we stopped," Dav reported. "Didn't approach."
Talia felt the tension in her shoulders ease a fraction.
"Natives?" she asked.
Dom nodded slowly. "Feels like it."
She looked toward the darkening ridge, the first stars appearing overhead.
"So… friend or foe."
The question hung there long after the firelight settled.