Preparation did not end. The hours after Gravel’s speech blurred together, not marked by sunrise or sunset so much as by repetition. Count. Recount. Pack. Unpack. Strip down. Reassign. The camp moved with a stiff, practiced efficiency, like a farmer preparing for a terrible drought. It was a sense of urgency that masked overwhelming dread. That dread had caused several fearful people to run away from camp, perhaps thinking that being bunched together would attract more danger. The boy didn’t blame them, even he believed that was somewhat true.

  Supplies were weighed by hand now. Anything that couldn’t be carried at speed was pushed into a growing pile near the center of camp. Blankets. Spare tools. Pieces of armor scavenged from earlier fights. Personal items no one wanted to look at for too long. A cracked mirror. A stuffed animal someone had carried through the fall and never mentioned. A few people hovered near the pile longer than several others, fingers brushing objects they couldn’t bring themselves to keep or abandon.

  Most turned away without touching anything. Comfort had become theoretical. Like a dream of the past. No one remembers who they once were. They also didn’t remember what it meant to be truly comfortable.

  Gravel didn’t explain his decisions. He didn’t need to. The lack of explanation was explanation enough. Roles shifted daily, sometimes hourly. Watches doubled, then tripled. Routes were tested, abandoned, then retested again at different times of day. What had once been a camp now felt like a temporary wound carved into the jungle—one that the land was already trying to close.

  Training filled the daylight. Gravel rotated drills constantly. Sheath helped out with the training because despite his annoyingly brash personality he was probably the most skilled fighter when it came to skill with his weapon.Movement practice first—short sprints followed by abrupt stops, turns that forced people to reorient themselves without thinking. Then formations, broken apart and reassembled with different people each time. Then silence drills, where even breathing too loudly earned a sharp look.

  The goal wasn’t mastery. It was simply to be good enough. No one really knew how good they would have to be to truly be prepared for the threats of this world. The boy followed along because everyone did. His ribs reminded him of it every single time. At first the pain had been a dull ache, something he could breathe around if he focused. By the second day, it sharpened whenever he twisted too quickly or lifted something heavy. By the third, it pulsed constantly, a low, persistent throb that flared whenever his heart rate rose or he laughed without thinking.

  He tried not to show it. Yet he failed. Wrighty noticed first.

  “You walk like you’re ninety,” Wrighty muttered as they hauled a crate toward the outer ring of camp.

  “I got slammed into a tree,” the boy replied.

  “Yeah, and Chop got eaten,” Wrighty said automatically—then froze. “Shit. Sorry.”

  The boy snorted a little as he held in a little laugh. Pain flared through his ribs hard enough to steal his breath. He staggered, dropping his end of the crate with a dull thud that echoed louder than it should have.

  Wrighty swore and caught the crate before it tipped. “Okay. Nope. That’s not fine. Your ribs still aren’t ok.’”

  “It’s manageable,” the boy said through clenched teeth.

  “That’s what people say right before the keel over and croak.” Wrighty says with a sigh, “I don’t want you to die dude.”

  They stood there for a moment, the crate between them, jungle noise pressing in from all sides. Wrighty scratched the back of his neck, clearly debating something.

  “You scared for what’s coming?” he asked finally.

  The boy considered lying. It would have been easier.

  “No,” he said instead. “I’m annoyed.”

  Wrighty blinked. Then laughed—short, sharp, almost surprised. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  They lifted the crate again. No more jokes after that, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. The boy enjoyed it. Wrighty can be pretty cool when he isn’t pissing me off.

  The nights were worse. Sleep came in shallow and unsatisfying. The boy woke often, ribs aching, chest heavy. The jungle never quieted completely—there was always sound, always movement but the rhythm felt wrong.

  By the second night, the weight in his chest felt different. It felt much denser.

  Like something settling into place. He pressed a hand against it more than once, half-expecting some reaction. There was none. Just the same dull pressure, the same faint ache beneath his ribs, as if whatever lived there resented being acknowledged.

  Shiela noticed his limp before he said anything. She sat near the edge of camp, adjusting the straps on her wheelchair with careful precision. When he approached, faint hexagonal patterns flickered around her palms before she consciously forced them down.

  “You’re limping,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  Shiela finally glanced at him. “You are.”

  The boy sighed and sat down on a log beside her, careful with his ribs. The movement sent a sharp ache through his side and he winced before he could stop himself.

  Shiela’s eyes narrowed. “See?”

  He didn’t answer.

  After a moment, he muttered, “It’s not just my ribs.”

  Shiela tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  The boy hesitated, then pressed a hand against his chest. “There’s something here. Like a weight. It’s always there. It hurts sometimes.”

  Shiela’s fingers tightened around her armrest. “Your power?”

  “I don’t even know if it’s that,” he said bitterly. “It doesn’t listen. I tried to use it when… when Chop—” His jaw clenched. “Nothing happened.”

  Shiela looked down at her hands. “Mine didn’t listen either.”

  The boy glanced at her.

  She raised her palms slightly. A faint hexagonal shimmer flickered into existence, then snapped out like a dying spark.

  “I can make it show up,” she said quietly. “But I can’t make it stay. And I can’t make it come when I actually need it.”

  The boy let out a slow breath. “So we’re both useless.”

  Shiela gave a small, tired smile. “Not useless. Just… new at this I guess.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  Shiela leaned back slightly. “Maybe you’re trying to force it too hard.”

  The boy scoffed. “And what am I supposed to do? Ask nicely?”

  Shiela shrugged. “I don’t know. But when I stop thinking about my shields like a weapon… it feels easier.”

  The boy stared into the trees, jaw tight. “That makes no sense.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Shiela said. “This world doesn’t.”

  Silence settled between them.

  Then Shiela spoke again, softer.

  “I’m scared,” she admitted.

  The boy’s voice came out low. “Yeah.”

  Shiela swallowed. “Do you think we’ll survive whatever’s coming?”

  The boy didn’t answer right away. His ribs throbbed. The weight in his chest felt heavier than before.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I’m not dying here.”

  Shiela nodded once. “Me neither.”

  Five watched them from across the clearing.

  Not openly. Just enough that the boy felt it when he glanced up. Five’s expression didn’t change when their eyes met. He simply turned back to the supply piles, reorganizing them with meticulous care, as if every movement was being logged somewhere behind his eyes.

  Shiela and the boy chatted for awhile about the boy’s inner weight and about what happened with the alpha canine.They talked all night as the boy couldn’t help but feel grateful Shiela understood even a fraction of his problems

  Snow, who was sent to scout for threats, didn’t return that night though. Or the next.

  By the third day, people started whispering. By the third night, they stopped whispering and started watching the tree line instead. Wrighty waited for awhile hoping she would come back soon. He and the boy spent the third day sitting in a tree watching for her as the boy barely comforted Wrighty as he stressed over her safety.

  On the fourth night, the boy felt something in the ground, present in a way it hadn’t been before. The boy woke with his ribs screaming and his chest heavy enough that breathing felt like effort. He sat up just as voices rose at the edge of camp.

  Snow stumbled into the firelight just before dawn, mud-streaked and hollow-eyed, flanked by two others from a scouting party. Her bow was nicked. One of the scouts bled from the shoulder. They were all breathing heavily. Wrighty came in and give Snow a small hug that made her flinch, but she gave a small one back.

  Gravel was there instantly.

  “What did you see?”

  Snow swallowed. “We saw it.”

  “Saw what?”

  She hesitated. “Some sort of grub, bigger than any grub we have ever seen. As it moved it destroyed everything in site. I would say it might be a bigger threat than that beast of bones that killed Chop was. I am almost certain it had to be what ate the last group.” Her face had a mixture of fear and determination.

  “How far?” Gravel said as he tried to assess the situation.

  “Too close.” She said with her face stern and her breath fogging.

  The camp went silent.

  “It’s moving in a straight line,” Snow continued. “It seems to be traveling.”

  Five spoke quietly. “Toward us?”

  Snow nodded.

  Gravel closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them again. “How long?”

  “A couple nights,” she said. “Maybe less.”

  The boy felt his ribs flare as something cold settled in his stomach. It was coming for them and the boy couldn’t say he believed they were prepared.