They stopped near the bend where the land flattened out.
Not because it was safe—nothing felt safe anymore—but because everyone was tired of moving without knowing why. Stone rose on three sides, broken but defensible. A narrow stream cut through the lower ground, clear enough that someone knelt and drank from it without getting sick.
That alone felt like permission.
People lingered.
No one said we're staying, but the way packs came off shoulders and fires were built said it anyway.
Aiden stood apart, watching it happen.
Shelter took shape quickly. Not homes—nothing that hopeful—but walls of stacked stone, shallow overhangs cleared of debris, places where the wind couldn't reach as easily. Routines formed just as fast. Someone volunteered to keep watch. Someone else started sorting supplies. A woman with a steady voice began assigning sleeping shifts without asking permission.
No one argued.
Fear had changed shape.
Aiden felt it then—that pull again. Not pressure. Not danger.
Expectation.
People glanced his way when decisions stalled. When voices overlapped. When something needed to be settled.
He didn't step forward.
Neither did they.
But the space waited.
"She's good at organizing," someone said quietly, nodding toward the woman giving orders.
"Yeah," another replied. "But if something happens…"
Their eyes drifted to Aiden.
He turned away before they noticed he heard.
⸻
Squads formed without ceremony.
Three men with similar builds began training together near the edge of the clearing, practicing strikes, testing balance, watching the perimeter like they were already responsible for it. A few others joined them. They talked about rules. About order. About keeping people in line so things didn't get worse.
They never asked Aiden to join.
They just assumed he would, eventually.
Scouts prepared too.
Light packs. Quick feet. People who couldn't sit still anymore. They talked about mapping paths, checking the terrain ahead, finding out what waited beyond the rise.
They left before dusk, slipping away in pairs or alone, like they didn't want anyone to stop them.
Settlers stayed.
They built.
They planned.
They tried to make something permanent out of borrowed time.
Aiden didn't belong to any of it.
He sat on a low rock near the edge of camp, staring out at the land beyond the firelight. The world stretched wide and quiet, too calm to trust.
"You're thinking too loud."
He didn't turn.
She sat beside him like she always had—close enough to share warmth, far enough not to crowd him. She handed him a piece of dried food without looking.
"You noticed," he said.
"Of course I did."
She followed his gaze. "They're watching you."
Aiden exhaled slowly. "I didn't ask for that."
"No," she said. "But they'll decide anyway if you stay."
He glanced at her then.
She wasn't afraid. Not of him. Not of the world. Just… tired.
"They want you to stand in front," she continued. "And when things go wrong, they'll stand behind."
He clenched his jaw. "What do you want?"
She thought about it longer than he expected.
"I don't want walls," she said finally. "And I don't want orders from people who think fear makes them right."
Silence settled between them, familiar and easy.
"You're not meant to stay," she added.
Aiden let the words sit.
They felt true.
That night, while the fires burned low and voices faded into uneasy sleep, they packed quietly. No announcement. No farewell. Just necessities and memory.
As they stepped away from the camp, no one stopped them.
Some people noticed.
No one followed.
Ahead of them, the land opened up—dark, vast, unknown.
Aiden paused at the edge of the light.
"You sure?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "I've always been sure."
They walked into the dark together.
Behind them, the camp settled into its chosen shapes—walls, rules, waiting.
Ahead, the world waited too.
But this time, they were moving toward it.
End of Chapter 7