The morning began with sweat before the sun had fully broken through the trees.
In the far corner of the clearing, where the roots of three thick-boled trees converged like twisted ribs, Eloin hacked at the ground with a makeshift digging stake. It was just a splintered limb lashed to a flint shard, but he drove it into the soil with a rhythm that bordered on ritual.
Thunk. Scrape. Thunk. Scrape.
Raif crouched nearby, rubbing his temples with a resin-slick hand. Every movement of Eloin's tool churned up sharp smells, wet clay, root rot, something vaguely metallic. The air here felt different: heavier, damp in a way that made breathing harder.
"Cellar's the wrong word," Eloin muttered, wiping his brow with a leaf. "It's a hole. Let's not flatter it."
"But it could store food," Raif offered. "Keep it cooler. Hidden. That's enough."
Eloin didn't answer. He was in that place again, where words were distractions and work was control. Raif knew the look. He'd seen it on stressed engineers back home, the ones who rebuilt circuits so they didn't have to face divorce papers.
Thomund leaned against one of the outer trunks, sharpening a vine blade. "Soil's soft here. You'll hit water if you go too deep."
"Then I'll stop just before that," Eloin said.
Thunk. Scrape.
From across the clearing, Goss gave a theatrical groan and flopped to the ground near the fire ring. "Some of us weren't born with shovels for hands."
"No," Thomund said without looking up, "some of you weren't born with spines either."
Raif exhaled slowly. The tension between them was rising again, always just beneath the surface. Like rot waiting in a root.
Eloin shifted position, drove the stake deeper.
"Let him rest," Raif said softly. "We all do it in turns."
"Turns don't matter when you're making excuses," Eloin muttered. "Or hiding."
Raif didn't reply. He just stood and walked back toward the centre, the air thick with effort and something else.
Naera was already at the racks by the western edge of the camp, weaving strips of fibrous bark between two forked saplings. She didn't look up as Raif approached, didn't greet him, didn't even pause in her work. She didn't need to. The rack she was building was wider than her arms could stretch, framed with greenwood that bent slightly but didn't crack. From a distance, it could've been mistaken for a primitive loom.
"You doing this for food?" Raif asked.
Naera nodded once.
"I didn't assign you to this."
She paused briefly, then resumed. "I know."
The bark strips creaked faintly as she threaded them. The frame trembled once in the wind, then stilled.
Raif crouched beside her. "Drying it might stop the spoil. Smart."
No answer.
"You think it'll work?"
"I think mould wins if we don't try."
He nodded slowly, then stood.
Back at the lean-to, Lira was lying down again, leg stretched out in front of her, one hand pressed to her thigh where the healing wound pulsed under tight wrappings. She wasn't asleep, her eyes tracked every movement across the camp like a predator waiting for something to justify violence. When Raif passed her, she didn't speak. He didn't either. There was nothing to say she hadn't already told herself.
But Lira was unravelling.
Her movements were slower now, tighter, each shift of her body came with a wince she tried to hide. Her hands trembled when she thought no one was watching, fingers gripping the hilt of her blade like it was the only thing anchoring her to the clearing. She didn't cry, Lira didn't do tears, but her jaw stayed clenched like she was biting back something. Not pain. Not really. The memory.
The barkwolf's claws had raked across her thigh, and even though the wound was bound and cleaned, she couldn't stop remembering the pull, the moment it tried to drag her into the trees. That feeling of helplessness. Of being prey.
When Goss passed too close, she flinched.
"Still breathing, Lira?" he muttered, half-joking.
"Keep walking," she snapped, her voice too sharp, too fast.
He blinked at her and moved on.
Eloin offered her water later, and she knocked it aside with the back of her hand. "I don't need babysitting."
"You need rest," he said evenly.
"I need to be useful."
Raif watched her for a long time. She wasn't okay. But if he said that aloud, she'd break in a different way. He didn't speak. Just left a cloth-soaked root poultice beside her log and walked away.
Across from her, Goss rummaged through a sack made from vines and stitched leaves. He pulled out several plump fungi and a palmful of thick tubers, eyes flicking around quickly before stuffing them under a fallen log beside his makeshift bed.
Raif stepped closer. "You planning to share those?"
Goss froze.
"They're all over the ridge," he said quickly. "I just grabbed what I saw."
Raif looked at him. Then at the log.
"Don't do it again."
"I'm hungry too," Goss muttered.
"So are we."
Raif turned away, his stomach twisting, not from anger. From the smell of the food.
By midday, the digging stopped. Eloin's hands were raw, one wrapped in a scrap of bark. The pit was a shallow basin now, maybe 2 metres deep, boxed in with flat stones and hardened mud. It might hold food. It might flood. They wouldn't know until it was tested.
Thomund dropped a bundle of leaves into the pit. "Insulate the base. Maybe keep the heat off."
Eloin grunted.
Raif crouched beside them, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's something."
"It's a hole," Eloin repeated. "But it's our hole."
Naera approached, carrying a woven mat. It held thinly sliced mushrooms and shaved root, some of it already curling at the edges. She placed it at the mouth of the drying rack.
"This will take a day," she said.
"If it works, we try meat," Raif replied.
The sun shifted overhead, bleaching the clearing in humid light.
A sharp cry broke the rhythm of the day.
Everyone froze.
Thomund clutched his stomach, knees buckling. He collapsed near the fire ring, retching violently.
Raif was at his side in seconds. "What happened?"
"Tubers," Thomund gasped. "Those yellow ones. Thought they were clean."
Naera was already kneeling beside them, her hands prying his mouth open to inspect his tongue. She sniffed the edge of a half-eaten root, eyes narrowing.
"Rotten," she said. "But not from time. It fermented."
Goss stepped forward, panic bubbling under his skin. "I didn't know! I swear, I just grabbed what looked right. They looked clean. They looked the same as yesterday. I didn't mean-"
"You didn't check," Naera said, voice flat but not cruel.
"I-what was I supposed to do? I'm not a bloody botanist!"
Thomund groaned again. Naera steadied his head, placed her hand over his chest. "He's burning."
She pulled out a bitter-smelling herb from her pouch, crushed it with trembling fingers, mixed it with water from her flask, and poured the slurry into his mouth.
Thomund choked, spasmed. His eyes rolled.
Goss stumbled back, nearly tripping over a root. "Oh god, I killed him. I didn't mean to-I just-"
"Goss," Raif snapped. "Not now."
Goss's voice shrank to a whisper. "I didn't mean to."
Naera knelt closer, fingers brushing Thomund's brow. "Come back," she whispered.
Thomund twitched. Then slowly, his breathing steadied.
Naera sat back, sweat dripping down her temple. "He'll cramp. Fever, maybe. But he'll live."
No one spoke.
Goss turned away, wiping his eyes. He kept walking, past the shelters, past the racks, until he was nearly at the clearing's edge. He stopped there, breath shallow, hands shaking. Then, suddenly, he dropped to a crouch, head in his hands.
"Stupid. Stupid. Stupid," he whispered.
His fingers dug into the dirt, nails splitting. "You always talk. Always bark. And now look. Nearly got someone killed."
He slammed a fist into the ground. Once. Twice. "You're not clever. You're scared. That's all. You hide it with jokes. With noise. But you're just as lost as the rest of them."
His breath hitched.
"They're going to hate you. All of them. They already do."
He looked up at the trees, voice cracking. "You listening, jungle? You win, alright? You got me."
Silence.
He sat there for a long time, rocking slightly, until his arms went still. When he finally stood, he didn't go back to the others. Not right away. He stayed at the edge. Alone.
Out the corner of his eye, Raif saw something. The orb pulsed.
The surface shifted.
[Challenge Complete. +6 KE awarded.]
[Recent Contributions:
Construction of long-term storage (Primitive Cellar)
Implementation of food preservation infrastructure (Drying Rack)
Avoidance of fatal food poisoning (Herbal Antitoxin Administered)]
[Total KE: 63]
[Next Upgrade: LOCKED]
[Required: 100 KE]
[Challenge Unlocked:
Ensure Stable Weekly Food Cycle (3 Consecutive Days without Hunger-Based Injury)]
Raif stared.
The orb had been silent for days. Watching. Always watching. And now. Only now, it spoke?
His jaw tightened.
"Where were you when Lira was bleeding?" he said aloud. "When we were starving?"
The orb gave no answer. Just that slow, unbothered pulse.
"You're meant to be a guide. A tool. But you're a bloody mirror. You reflect our pain back at us and call it progress."
He touched the surface again. "Why now? Why not two days ago? Why not when we needed you most?"
Again, silence. Again, indifference.
He stepped back, breath ragged. The orb's glow remained constant, unaffected.
Raif turned away, the pulse at his back like a heartbeat he didn't want to share.
A breeze rolled through the clearing, thin, but cold. It stirred the drying rack, rattled loose some ash near the fire ring. High above, clouds darkened to slate.
Raif looked up.
Storm's coming, he thought.
Not just weather.
Something worse.