The mountain no longer felt like a refugee camp.
Not entirely.
It still carried the scars of survival everywhere one looked—patched tents stitched together from old military canvas, barricades reinforced with uneven timber, smoke-darkened cookpots hanging over open fires, exhaustion carved deep into the faces of people who had lost too much too quickly.
But now—
there was rhythm to it.
Purpose.
The chaos that had once consumed the ridge had slowly transformed into structure.
By afternoon, the pathways between shelters were crowded with movement. Some refugees trained near the upper clearings beneath Jones and Maren's supervision, wooden practice weapons cracking loudly against one another while irritated Alphas barked corrections across the snow-covered grounds.
Others worked near the storage terraces, sorting supplies or repairing damaged winter gear before the next storm arrived.
