The caravan moved the same way every day.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just consistent—like a machine that had found speed when nothing broke. If routines were followed the machine wouldn't break.
Victor learned the rhythm before anyone tried to speak to him directly.
They started before the light was fully honest. They didn't wait for warmth or birdsong. They waited for the air to stop biting quite so hard, then they loaded, hitched, and rolled.
They stopped when the animals needed it, not when people wanted it. They stopped when the ground offered a defensible angle, not when someone got tired. Fire only when necessary. Small. Controlled.
Everything had a purpose.
Everything could be repeated.
That was the part Victor liked.
Repeatable meant survivable.
He stayed on the edge of them the way he had since the first night—offset, slightly behind, never inside the center of their formation unless terrain forced it.
No one corrected him.
No one invited him closer.
They didn't treat him like a guest.
They treated him like a variable.
And variables got watched.
Victor watched back.
He watched the woman who decided things by moving first. Others followed because they trusted her instincts, not because she demanded it.
He watched the older spear-man. His perimeter sweeps were never identical, but they always covered the same angles. Thorough, not paranoid.
He watched the younger guard—the one with the club. Harness straps checked twice, always from the same side, same motions. Habit turned into muscle memory.
He watched the driver—quiet, thin, eyes on animals and road. Not a fighter. A survivor by invisibility. The one truly responsible for this unit.
Victor understood that.
The third day walking with the caravan , his ribs stopped punishing him for every breath.
They still hurt.
They still burned if he drew too much air too fast.
But the pain shifted—less knife, more bruise.
A change you could work around.
Victor filed it. Not hope. Just data.
He adjusted his pace accordingly.
He walked a little farther from the wagons when the road widened. He scanned the tree line instead of counting breaths. He lengthened his stride when the ground turned firm.
He didn't push it.
Pushing put you back on the ground.
And the ground in this world didn't forgive.
At midday, when the caravan stopped for water, Victor didn't sit.
He moved.
He went downhill along the stream line, not directly to the water but parallel to it, watching soil darken and plants cluster. Listening for small movement.
He wasn't hunting a monster.
He was hunting the world.
Small creatures left patterns. Patterns led to understanding. Understanding kept you alive when things bigger than you decided you were food.
He found tracks first.
Tiny hoof marks, paired, light. Something that froze often. Something cautious.
He followed habit instead of steps.
He crouched behind a fallen log and waited.
Knife sheathed.
Stone in hand.
The underbrush shifted.
A small creature pushed through the leaves—rabbit-like but wrong. Longer body. Narrower head. Fur mottled like dead bark.
It froze.
Victor didn't move.
When it committed, he threw.
The stone struck clean, with a loud pop.
The creature dropped.
Victor crossed the distance, snapped its neck, and felt no satisfaction.
Only food.
He returned toward the caravan from the side, visible.
The spear-man saw him first.
The woman assessed him without speaking.
Victor held up the carcass.
"Food." He managed to say. The word sounding more familiar.
A gesture toward the fire ring.
Permission.
Not welcome.
Victor worked at the edge of their space. Clean. Efficient. No wasted cuts.
The meat was used.
That was enough.
Warm fat settled in his gut later, quieting hunger from a scream to pressure.
They moved again an hour later.
Same formation.
Same pace.
Same silence.
The road narrowed and widened for reasons Victor couldn't see until he climbed high enough to look back and understand the terrain was making decisions, not people.
The caravan adapted without discussion.
Three days past the first marker stone now.
Walls still an undetermined distance away.
Far enough that Victor had stopped expecting the world to soften.
His ribs improved the way injuries did when pride stayed out of it.
Still painful.
Still costly.
But manageable.
Victor learned the caravan's rules the same way he learned everything else.
By watching what happened when someone broke them.
During a water stop, one man wandered too far from the wagons.
Not far in distance.
Far in attention.
He stepped into brush without looking up.
Two seconds later, the spear-man spoke—low, sharp.
The man froze.
The spear-man pointed.
Not at the man.
At the trees.
Everyone stopped.
Silence spread outward from the caravan.
Victor saw nothing.
Then he heard it.
Leaves shifting.
Deliberate.
Heavy enough to matter.
The spear-man waited.
Then spoke again.
Shorter.
The caravan resumed.
No scolding.
No punishment.
Just correction.
Victor filed the rule.
Do not leave formation without reason.
Do not let attention drift.
This forest wasn't hostile all the time.
It was alive.
And alive meant it ate.
That afternoon, the canopy thickened and turned the world into permanent dusk.
The woman raised her hand.
The wagons angled uphill.
High ground.
Always high ground.
They stopped in a crescent, the shape nostalgic at this point animals inside the arc.
Routine began.
Unhitch.
Check straps.
Small fire.
No joy.
Just function.
Victor moved without being told.
He walked the perimeter and studied terrain.
Downhill fell into thicker brush.
Uphill rose to a narrow ridge.
Left: boulders forming choke points.
Right: a shallow bowl where sound gathered and hid movement.
Victor watched the bowl.
Something about it felt wrong.
Not quiet.
Different.
As if insects avoided it.
He kept watching anyway.
The spear-man began his perimeter.
The younger guard checked animals.
The driver worked the harness.
The fire crackled.
Normal.
But beneath it, something pulsed.
Distant.
Steady.
Like something patrolling the night.
Victor sat at the edge of firelight with his back to stone, not tree.
Rock held silhouettes.
Tree lines hid them.
He ate thin stew and coarse bread.
Drank water in small amounts.
Night thickened.
The fire became the center of the world.
Everything beyond it became possibility.
Victor moved uphill again.
Not far.
Just enough.
He crouched behind a boulder and listened.
The forest was never silent.
But tonight, the pattern didn't hold.
Insect hum grew denser.
Then a howl carried through the trees.
Long.
Loud
Shaped.
Not close.
Not random.
A second answered.
Then a third, spaced.
Positions.
Victor's mind built a map.
This wasn't one creature.
This was coordination.
The spear-man heard it.
The woman rose.
The younger guard sat up.
No panic.
Just readiness.
Victor moved down.
Pointed.
Terrain.
Risk.
Acknowledgment.
He placed sound markers.
Branches set to crack.
Kill lanes chosen.
The system flickered.
[ ENVIRONMENT: NOCTURNAL ACTIVITY — ELEVATED ]
Then—
[ THREAT PROXIMITY: UNKNOWN ]
Unknown meant the system couldn't—or wouldn't—define it.
Only that night mattered.
The howls stopped.
Not gradually.
Suddenly.
The forest stayed loud.
Then—
A crack.
Left.
Another.
The bowl.
Two angles.
Victor's hand went to his knife.
The animals shifted.
Fire dimmed.
A rumble passed through the ground.
Closer.
Eyes caught firelight—
Gone.
The camp locked in.
No shouting.
No running.
Running invited attention.
The darkness moved.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Measured.
Leaves bent where they shouldn't.
Shadows shifted without sound.
The animals knew first.
One stamped.
Another pulled hard enough to creak wood.
The spear-man adjusted by inches.
The younger guard widened his grip.
Victor tracked the shape.
Observation turned to engagement.
This wasn't patrol.
It was a test.
The forest reacted.
Bird calls cut off.
Insects went silent in a clean line.
Victor felt certainty settle.
Whatever was out there had chosen.
Choice was the moment danger stopped being theoretical.
His grip tightened.
Not to strike.
Not yet.
To be ready when hesitation became fatal.
The system appearing again.
[ THREAT DETECTED ]
[ OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE ]