Arulan watched as smoke rose from the fire pit and counted the bodies in his head.

  Thirty-five when they’d left for Council. Eighteen dead. Seventeen are still alive, though three of those wouldn’t see spring.

  The numbers sat heavy in his chest, but he kept his face still. Leaders didn’t show despair. Despair spread faster than fever.

  “Downwind,” he said, pointing with his staff toward the eastern edge of camp where wind carried smoke away from the shelters. “Anyone coughing sleeps there. No arguments.”

  Teshar stood beside him, arms crossed, watching two women drag furs toward the new isolation area. The marked boy had grown quieter over the past months. Less talk. More observation. Good.

  “Shared cups,” Teshar said. Not asking. Stating.

  “Banned,” Arulan confirmed. “Each person drinks from their own. Wood, clay, whatever they can hold. No passing bowls at meals.”

  Siramae approached from the healer’s shelter, hands dark with plant stains. Her face looked thinner than it had two months ago. Everyone did.

  “Broth needs to boil longer,” she said. “Until it bubbles hard. Whatever lives in sick breath might live in warm food.”

  Arulan nodded once. “Tell the cooks. Anyone who serves cold broth answers to me.”

  “And the sleeping hides,” Teshar added. “Separate. No sharing between families.”

  Varek grunted from where he sat resharpening a spear point. “We don’t have enough hides for everyone to sleep alone.”

  “Then they sleep cold,” Arulan said. His voice stayed level. “Better cold than dead.”

  Varek’s jaw worked, but he didn’t argue. He went back to his sharpening, stone scraping against wood in a steady rhythm.

  “Visitors,” Siramae said. “From other camps. We need rules.”

  Arulan had been dreading this conversation. Trade kept them alive—obsidian for meat, herbs for hides, knowledge for tools. But trade meant contact. Contact meant sickness.

  “No one enters the ring,” he said. “Visitors stay outside the thorns. We bring goods to them. They leave what they have, step back, and we collect it.”

  “They’ll hate that,” Varek muttered.

  “They’ll live,” Arulan said.

  Teshar looked toward the thorn ring. “What if they’re desperate? Starving? They won’t respect boundaries.”

  “Then they get spears pointed at them until they do.”

  The words felt ugly in his mouth, but uglier things than harsh words were killing people.

  A child coughed from one of the shelters—wet, rattling. Siramae’s head turned toward the sound. Her hands closed into fists, then opened again.

  “I’ll check on her,” she said and walked away before Arulan could respond.

  Teshar watched her go. “Mira?”

  Arulan nodded.

  “How long?”

  “Days. Maybe less.”

  Teshar’s jaw tightened. He said nothing. Just stood there, arms still crossed, watching smoke rise.

  Arulan understood. Some things had no words worth speaking.

  The shout came from the thorn ring an hour before sunset.

  “People approaching!”

  Arulan grabbed his staff and moved. Not running—leaders didn’t run unless blood was already spilling—but fast enough to reach the gap before whoever was coming got too close.

  Hoden stood at the entrance, spear lowered but ready. “A band. Small. They look—” He stopped, searching for the word.

  “Bad,” Kelon finished. He’d appeared from nowhere, the way he always did. “They look bad.”

  Arulan reached the gap and looked out.

  Twelve figures moved across the grassland. No. Not moved. Stumbled. Dragged themselves forward like men already half in the grave.

  Their clothes hung loose. Bones showed at the wrists and collarbones. One man leaned heavily on another. A woman carried a child who looked too still to be sleeping.

  At the front, grey-haired and bent, walked Quaybec.

  Arulan’s stomach dropped.

  He knew that walk. Knew that face. Had traded with Quaybec’s band for twenty winters. Had sat at fires with him, shared meat, negotiated marriages between their young people.

  Quaybec had led forty-three souls last time they’d met.

  Now he led twelve.

  Arulan stepped through the gap. Varek and Teshar followed without being asked. Hoden and Kelon stayed at the thorns, spears ready.

  Quaybec stopped three paces away. His eyes were sunken, ringed with dark circles. His hands shook as they gripped his walking stick.

  “Arulan,” he said. His voice came out rough, like stones scraping against each other.

  “Quaybec.”

  They stood there, two old men who’d seen too many winters and too much death, measuring each other.

  Quaybec broke first. His shoulders sagged. “I know what I’m asking of you is selfish.” He paused, swallowed. “Can cause harm to you.”

  Arulan said nothing. Let him speak.

  “This plague—” Quaybec’s voice cracked. “No. This curse that’s been cast upon us has caused turmoil. Ruined families. Only twelve of us are left.”

  Behind him, his people swayed on their feet. One woman wept silently, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on her face.

  Quaybec met Arulan’s eyes. “I beg of you. Let my people seek shelter and aid.”

  Air went out through Arulan’s nostrils. They flared.

  Every muscle in his body wanted to say yes. Wanted to pull these broken people into the camp, feed them, warm them, save what could be saved.

  But he was a leader. Leaders didn’t save individuals at the cost of everyone else.

  “You know the rules, Quaybec.” His voice stayed hard. Had to stay hard. “My people are already in a dire situation. I’m struggling as it is to feed us all.” He leaned forward slightly. “And you have the audacity to ask me this.”

  Quaybec flinched. Looked down.

  Varek shifted beside Arulan. Drew a sharp breath through his nose. “Arulan.”

  Arulan glanced at him.

  Varek’s eyes stayed on Quaybec’s band. On the hollow faces. The bent backs. The barely-breathing child. “Teshar and the youngsters found a new food source.” He spoke slowly, choosing words with care. “The fish traps. Although it isn’t as heavy as meat, I think we can afford to take in more people.”

  Arulan’s jaw clenched. Varek was asking him to risk everything. Every person in the camp. Every child. Every elder.

  For twelve strangers who might be carrying death in their lungs.

  Quaybec straightened. Something shifted in his expression—desperation giving way to resolve. “We will permanently merge with you if you lend us your hand just this once.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He let that hang in the air. Waited.

  “I think you know the implications of what I’m saying, Arulan.”

  Arulan did know.

  Twelve people meant twelve pairs of hands. Meant hunters. Meant women who could gather, weave, and cook. Meant knowledge—Quaybec’s band knew different lands, different plants, different ways of doing things.

  It meant strength if they survived.

  It meant disaster if they didn’t.

  Arulan stroked his beard. Grey hair coarse under his palm. He looked at Quaybec. At the twelve souls behind him. At Varek’s carefully neutral face. At Teshar, who watched everything and said nothing.

  The decision sat in his chest like a stone.

  “So be it,” he said.

  Quaybec’s eyes widened.

  Arulan lifted his staff, pointed it at the band. “We do things differently around here. My band has new rules. Sickness rules. Food rules.” He leaned on the staff. “Tell your people to adapt or leave.”

  Quaybec’s throat worked. He nodded once, sharp. “Understood.”

  “Varek will show you where to sleep. Away from our main shelters for now. You eat after we eat. You follow Siramae’s orders. If anyone in your group shows signs—coughing, fever, blood—they go downwind immediately.”

  “Yes.”

  Arulan looked at the faces behind Quaybec. Saw gratitude. Saw relief. Saw people who’d been given a chance they didn’t deserve but needed anyway.

  He turned his back and walked toward camp.

  Behind him, Varek began giving orders in his rough, efficient way. Teshar fell into step beside Arulan.

  “You made the right choice,” Teshar said quietly.

  Arulan grunted. “I made a choice. Right and wrong don’t matter until we see who’s still breathing next moon.”

  They walked in silence for several steps.

  “The isolation measures,” Teshar said. “Quaybec’s people need to follow them from the start. No contact with our main camp until we’re sure they’re not sick.”

  “Already planned,” Arulan said.

  Teshar nodded. Opened his mouth to say something else.

  A scream cut through the camp.

  Not pain. Worse. Grief.

  Arulan closed his eyes for a moment. Opened them. Kept walking.

  “Mira,” Teshar said. Not a question.

  “Probably.”

  They reached the healer’s shelter. Siramae stood outside, hands pressed against her thighs, fingers digging into cloth. Her face looked carved from stone.

  Inside, someone wept. High, thin sounds. A child’s voice calling for her daughter.

  Arulan stopped beside Siramae. “When?”

  “Just now.” Her voice came out flat. “Lungs stopped. Tried everything. Nettle. Willow. Feverfew. Nothing worked.”

  “How many does that make?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Nineteen dead. Sixteen still alive, if you counted Quaybec’s twelve.

  The numbers didn’t add up to anything good.

  Teshar looked toward the shelter entrance. His jaw worked. “I should—” He stopped. “Siramae needs help preparing the body.”

  “No,” Siramae said. “Let the mother do it. Some things shouldn’t be taken from people.”

  Teshar’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “There wasn’t anything we could do.”

  “I know.”

  “Her body had to fight the disease on its own, or she’d die.”

  “I know,” Siramae said again. Sharper this time.

  Teshar turned to face her. “Then why did you give her false hope?” His voice stayed quiet, but something cold had crept into it. “You knew it yourself that girl was fighting a losing battle.”

  Siramae’s eyes snapped to his face. For a moment, Arulan thought she might hit him.

  Instead, she stepped closer. Spoke low enough that only the three of them could hear.

  “Listen here. I have been healing and dealing with sickness since you were a baby.” Her finger jabbed toward his chest without touching it. “And one thing I’ve picked from all these years is this: sometimes if you believe a lie enough, it becomes the truth.”

  Teshar’s jaw set. “That’s not—”

  “I didn’t want the poor girl to be distressed over her remaining few days.” Siramae’s voice broke slightly on the last words. She swallowed. Continued. “Better to go out happy than sad.”

  Teshar stared at her. His throat worked. He opened his mouth.

  Closed it.

  Scoffed quietly. Looked away.

  But he didn’t argue.

  Arulan watched the exchange, staff planted in the dirt, weight leaning on old wood. Two people who’d spent months fighting death together. Two people who knew they were losing.

  “Go check on Ketak,” Arulan said to Teshar. “See if he’s keeping food down.”

  Teshar nodded. Walked away without another word.

  Siramae stood there, arms wrapped around herself. Small. Worn.

  “He’s young,” Arulan said.

  “He’s scared.” Siramae looked at him. “Thinks if he can explain everything, measure everything, control everything, then people will stop dying.”

  “Will they?”

  “No.” She laughed—short, bitter. “But let him try. Better than giving up.”

  Inside the shelter, the weeping had quieted to small, broken sounds. A mother saying goodbye.

  Arulan looked toward the thorn ring, where Quaybec’s people were being settled in a space away from the main shelters. Twelve more souls to feed. Twelve more mouths that might cough blood tomorrow.

  “You think I made the right choice?” he asked. “Taking them in?”

  Siramae was quiet for a moment. “I think you made the only choice you could live with.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “No,” she agreed. “It’s not.”

  That night, Arulan sat by the fire longer than usual. Most people had retreated to their shelters. The camp lay quiet except for the crackle of wood and the occasional cough from downwind.

  Teshar appeared from the darkness, moving quietly. He sat down across the fire without asking permission.

  They sat in silence for a while. Flames climbed and fell. Smoke rose toward the stars.

  “Ketak?” Arulan asked eventually.

  “Better. Kept down fish broth. Siramae thinks he’s past the worst of it.”

  “Good.”

  More silence.

  “The new people,” Teshar said. “Quaybec’s band. They’ll need to be watched carefully.”

  “I know.”

  “Separate sleeping areas. Separate food preparation. No shared anything until we’re certain.”

  “I know,” Arulan said again.

  Teshar poked at the fire with a stick. Sparks jumped. “If even one of them is sick—if they’re in the infectious stage—they could undo everything we’ve done.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why—” Teshar stopped. Started again. “Why take the risk?”

  Arulan was quiet for a long moment. The fire popped. Smoke shifted direction and blew toward him. He let it sting his eyes.

  “Because if we only save ourselves,” he said finally, “we become the kind of people not worth saving.”

  Teshar looked at him across the flames.

  “Twelve people,” Arulan continued. “Twelve sets of hands. Hunters. Gatherers. Mothers. Children who’ll grow. Knowledge we don’t have.” He shifted his grip on his staff. “If half of them die, we still gain six. If all of them live, we double our strength.”

  “And if they’re all sick? If they kill half our camp?”

  “Then I made a mistake.” Arulan’s voice stayed level. “And the next leader will know not to repeat it.”

  Teshar’s jaw worked. He stared into the fire for a long time.

  “Siramae was right,” he said eventually. “About Mira. About the lie.”

  Arulan waited.

  “I wanted to tell the girl the truth. Prepare her. But—” Teshar stopped. Swallowed. “She was eight winters old. What good does truth do a girl who's only eight winters old when she’s dying?”

  “None,” Arulan said. “Truth is for the living. The dying need comfort.”

  “Even if it’s a lie?”

  “Especially if it’s a lie.”

  Teshar’s hands curled into fists on his knees. “I hate this. I hate watching people die when—” He cut himself off.

  “When what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Arulan studied the young man across the fire. The marked boy who’d brought them smoke slits and fish traps. Who’d taught them to boil broth longer and separate sleeping hides. Who looked at problems like they could be solved with enough thinking.

  “You can’t save everyone,” Arulan said quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” Arulan leaned forward. “Because you move like a man trying to carry the whole camp on his back. And backs break, Teshar. Even young ones.”

  Teshar said nothing. Just stared at the flames.

  “The measures you suggested—the isolation, the boiling, the separation—they’re working. Ketak’s recovering. The cough is spreading more slowly. Deaths have slowed.” Arulan tapped his staff against the ground once. “That’s enough. You don’t have to save everyone. You just have to save enough.”

  Teshar’s throat worked. He nodded once. Short. Tight.

  They sat there as the fire burned down. As night deepened. As the camp slept around them, sick and healthy both, living and dying in the spaces between breath.

  Arulan watched smoke rise toward the stars and thought about choices. About twelve desperate people and the risk of letting them in. About an eight-year-old girl who’d died believing she’d get better. About all the small lies and hard truths that kept people moving forward when everything was said to stop.

  “Go sleep,” he told Teshar eventually. “Tomorrow, we start integrating Quaybec’s people. Carefully. We’ll need your help.”

  Teshar stood. Hesitated. “Arulan.”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.” He paused. “For taking them in. I know it wasn’t easy.”

  “Nothing is easy.” Arulan looked up at him. “But some hard things are still right. Remember that when you’re leading your own people someday.”

  Teshar’s eyes widened slightly. He opened his mouth.

  Arulan waved him away. “Go. Sleep. Tomorrow has enough trouble waiting.”

  Teshar left.

  Arulan sat alone by the dying fire and counted bodies in his head again.

  Nineteen dead. Twenty-eight alive, if you counted Quaybec’s twelve.

  The numbers still didn’t add up to anything good.

  But they added up to something. To people still breathing. Still fighting. Still hoping that tomorrow might be the day the sickness finally stops taking.

  He fed another stick to the flames and watched smoke rise into the dark.

  Somewhere downwind, someone coughed.

  Arulan closed his eyes.

  Opened them.

  Kept watch.

  Because that’s what leaders did when everyone else was sleeping.

  They stayed awake and counted the cost and hoped the numbers would add up to survival.