A crack snapped through the shelter.

  Teshar’s eyes opened to dark hide and other people’s breath. For a second, he didn’t know what the sound was—only that it didn’t belong.

  Naro lay beside him, turned towards the wall. His leg was bundled thick, thefur wrap tied too tight at the right thigh where the tusk had torn him. He slept in short pulls, as if pain kept tugging him back up.

  On Teshar’s other side, Kelon was awake. You could tell by the stillness. Kelon’s stillness wasn’t sleep. It was waiting.

  Another crack came—outside this time—followed by the scrape of wood dragged over frozen ground.

  Teshar eased out without waking anyone else. The air hit his face hard. Frost dusted the earth inside the thorn ring. The wall looked paler in the morning light, every branch edged in white.

  By the central fire, Marlek stood with feet planted wide, splitting deadfall with a wedge-stone and a heavy club. Each blow landed with the same blunt certainty: heat today or pain tomorrow.

  Marlek didn’t look up when Teshar approached. He didn’t need to.

  “Up,” Marlek said anyway, and brought the club down again.

  Teshar stepped in to stack the split lengths.

  A sliver of dry fibre drove straight into the pad of his thumb.

  He hissed before he could stop it.

  He stared at it—pale, small, buried just under skin—then pinched and pulled. It caught. It slid. Pain flashed hot against the cold, and a bead of blood rose.

  Marlek’s eyes flicked to his hand.

  “Pull it,” Marlek said, as if Teshar hadn’t already done it.

  Teshar wiped the blood on his leggings and kept stacking.

  Marlek watched him for a moment too long. “Small things rot,” he said quietly.

  It wasn’t only about the thumb.

  Across the fire, Arulan sat on his stone with the staff across his knees. The watch stick lay beside it on its flat place, darkened by smoke and hands. People moved around the fire in slow, careful paths—water skins, hides, coals—without speaking much. The cold made everyone tight.

  And eyes kept sliding to the stick.

  Kelon emerged and took up a place close to Teshar without a word. His gaze touched the bleeding thumb, then the watch stick, then Arulan.

  Naro followed later, pushing himself up with a sharp breath he tried to hide. He limped out on stubbornness, dragging the bad leg as if refusing to let it be seen as weakness. His face was set in that familiar shape—defiance first, fear hidden underneath.

  Varek appeared last, prowling the inside of the ring. His stick tapped stone now and then, impatient. He looked at the wood pile like it had offended him by being too small.

  Arulan lifted his gaze.

  The camp slowed as if everyone had heard the same sound.

  “Torek,” Arulan said.

  Teshar’s stomach tightened before Torek even moved.

  Torek stepped into the fire-circle from near the meat rack, shoulders rigid, forearm still wrapped where Siramae had pressed herbs into scratches. His face gave nothing away.

  Siramae was already standing a little to one side, hands tucked into her sleeves for warmth. Her eyes stayed on Torek like she was reading a wound that didn’t show blood.

  Arulan’s voice stayed calm. “Last night, the trees were not watched.”

  A hush dropped into the circle.

  Then Arulan added, quieter, “Again.”

  Torek didn’t deny it. He didn’t explain. His chin lifted a fraction—refusal to be made small, nothing more.

  Varek’s mouth curled. “So Torek sleeps, and we die.”

  Arulan’s eyes narrowed—not anger, focus. “Torek is a hunter,” he said. “Hunters sleep too, when the band asks too much.”

  “Then ask less,” Varek snapped.

  “And freeze,” Marlek said from the wood pile without turning, splitting another log with a crack. “Or starve.”

  Varek shot him a look. Marlek didn’t look back.

  Siramae spoke, quiet but carrying. “The stick is there to remember. If it lies, we lie to ourselves. That’s when wolves get bold.”

  Her eyes touched Kelon for a brief heartbeat—acknowledgement without praise—then returned to Torek.

  Arulan nodded once. “Torek slept. Kelon woke him. Kelon stayed and held two watches.”

  A murmur ran through the adults. Two watches were not bravery. It was theft from your own body.

  Naro’s eyes widened, then slid away as if refusing to be impressed.

  Varek snorted. “Good. A boy saves a man.”

  Kelon’s face didn’t change. Teshar still felt the insult land.

  Arulan tapped his staff once on the stone.

  “Listen,” Arulan said.

  The murmurs stopped.

  “The night will test again,” Arulan went on. “We won’t pretend we’re stronger than our bodies. We won’t pretend the cold can’t take us.”

  He looked at Torek.

  “Torek will carve.”

  Torek’s eyes narrowed. “Torek already knows.”

  “Not in your head,” Arulan said. “On the stick.”

  Torek stepped forward. His hands didn’t shake. That was its own kind of courage: standing where everyone could see you admit the gap.

  He picked up the sharp stone kept beside the stick.

  He didn’t carve his usual mark.

  He cut a new notch—short, rough, like a tooth bite taken from the wood—and set it beneath his other mark, close enough that the two nearly touched.

  When he finished, he put the stone down and returned the stick to its place beside Arulan’s staff.

  The stick looked the same until you knew how to read it. Then the new cut shouted.

  Arulan’s gaze moved across the circle. “Two people at the trees,” he said. “No one takes that watch alone until the cold eases.”

  Varek opened his mouth, already building the argument.

  Arulan didn’t let him. “If we can’t spare two, we pull the watch in closer. We don’t pretend we can watch everything and then fail at the one that keeps teeth out.”

  Hands moved again around the fire. Quiet counting began behind people’s eyes: who loses sleep, whose temper goes sharp, whose hands go slow on spears.

  Then Arulan’s gaze settled on Hoden.

  Hoden stood near the shelter line, arms folded, face set with the stubborn patience of a man forced into work he thinks is beneath him. His hands were red with cold.

  “Hoden,” Arulan said.

  Hoden’s jaw tightened. “Arulan already took meat from Hoden.”

  “That is not why I call your name.”

  Siramae’s eyes stayed on Hoden now. Siramae watched fear and sickness the same way—by tracking where it might spread.

  Arulan spoke softly. “Footprints were yours. Last night.”

  Hoden didn’t deny it. Denial would have been foolish; too many eyes had noticed too much.

  “Hoden walked,” he said.

  “Night,” Arulan corrected, though everyone had already heard the point.

  Hoden’s eyes flashed. “Hoden was hungry.”

  There it was. The simplest truth. The most dangerous one.

  Arulan nodded once, accepting it without excusing it. “Then speak hunger by fire,” he said. “Not by shadow.”

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  Hoden’s lips parted. A retort rose.

  Varek shifted forward half a step, stick in hand, eyes bright—ready to turn this into something he could enjoy.

  Arulan lifted a hand, palm out. Varek stopped as if he’d hit a wall.

  “Hoden stands in water again today,” Arulan said. “Hoden stands until he can say why he chose shadow instead of speech.”

  Hoden’s face hardened. “Hoden already said.”

  “You said hungry,” Arulan replied. “That’s the first word. Not the last.”

  For a moment, it looked like Hoden might snap. Then his gaze slid—briefly—to the children near the dirt, scratching little marks with serious hands, copying what they’d seen adults do with sticks and stones. Something tightened in Hoden’s face.

  He looked away first.

  He didn’t bow. He didn’t apologise. He turned and walked towards the river bend with stiff steps.

  The fire-circle loosened. Work resumed, but the air stayed weird.

  Teshar fed the wood pile, thumb throbbing under the skin. A tiny pulse that wouldn’t let him forget it.

  Kelon moved close enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice. “Torek will hate you,” he murmured, eyes on the wood.

  “Kelon chose the truth,” Teshar said.

  Kelon’s mouth tightened. “Truth makes enemies.”

  “If the stick lies,” Teshar said, “wolves learn. And people learn that lying is allowed.”

  Kelon flicked a look at him—quick, sharp—then went back to watching the work.

  By midmorning, they were at the river.

  The stone mouth sat in the current like clenched teeth, holding—only just. Water worried at gaps where Ketak had pulled stones free days before, and where they’d shoved repairs back in place too fast.

  Hoden stood in the shallows as ordered, breath steaming. His spear moved quickly and efficiently. He refused to look at Teshar.

  Teshar stayed on the bank with pebbles in his pouch, counting each fish that slid into the pocket.

  Pebble down.

  Pebble down.

  The little pile grew slowly.

  Naro crouched nearby, keeping weight off the injured leg, pretending he didn’t care. His eyes tracked everything.

  “Hoden’s getting good at this,” Naro muttered.

  “Hoden was always good,” Kelon said, flat. “He just doesn’t like being watched.”

  Naro gave a small, bitter snort. “Then he should stop doing things people need to watch.”

  Kelon didn’t take the bait.

  Yarla approached with a basket looped over her arm. Her gaze moved between the trees and the river, the way it did now—never trusting one direction.

  “Teshar,” she said.

  “Yarla.”

  She hesitated. “A child said the marks mean the band can see even when eyes are closed.”

  Teshar felt his throat tighten. He hadn’t meant the stick to turn into superstition.

  Yarla’s eyes slid towards Torek, standing further up the bank with arms folded, as if he could make up for a notch on a stick by watching twice as hard.

  “What do they mean?” Yarla asked.

  It wasn’t a child’s question. It was ownership. Meaning was power here.

  Teshar chose his words. “They mean someone saw once,” he said. “And didn’t want the next person to pay again.”

  Yarla held his gaze, then nodded once—acceptance without surrender.

  A wolf barked far upriver. Not close. Close enough to keep everyone’s shoulders slightly raised.

  Work continued until the count reached nine. Not plenty. Enough to make the broth taste like more than hot water.

  When they lifted the fish into a woven sling and turned back towards camp, Kelon stepped in beside Teshar.

  “We need to check,” Kelon murmured.

  Teshar didn’t ask what. His stomach already knew.

  They didn’t go straight back. They angled along the reed line, keeping the thorn ring gap in sight so it looked like caution rather than secrecy.

  The hollow log lay where it always did, half-buried under brush, its mouth dark and damp. A good hiding place because nobody liked putting their hands into a hole they couldn’t see into.

  Teshar crouched and pulled back the brush.

  It was wrong.

  Not torn apart. Not scattered. Just shifted.

  A twig lay snapped fresh, pale inside. Mud marked the rim where fingers had gripped.

  Kelon let out a thin breath through his teeth. “Someone touched.”

  Teshar slid his hand into the hollow, careful, and found the stave and cord.

  Still there.

  But the curve felt different—handled, bent, put back without care. Along the belly of the wood, a tiny splinter had lifted, sharp enough to catch skin.

  He eased it out just enough to see.

  Small damage. The sort that travelled.

  Kelon leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  Teshar’s mind ran through the camp the way it ran through tracks—who had reason; who had the time; who didn’t mind breaking something they didn’t understand.

  A child, curious.

  Or Hoden, angry enough to spoil what wasn’t his.

  Or Varek, smelling power shift the way a wolf smelled weakness.

  Teshar breathed out. “We move it,” he said.

  Kelon didn’t argue. “Tonight.”

  They tucked everything back and rebuilt the brush better than before, then walked away as if the log was nothing but rot.

  Back in camp, broth was stretched with greens and a shaving of dried meat for taste. It wasn’t comfort. It was hot.

  The watch stick lay beside Arulan’s staff, Torek’s new notch catching firelight.

  Torek didn’t sit close to the fire. He stayed nearer the boundary, spine straight, eyes on the tree line.

  Varek paced. Hoden ate in silence, eyes down.

  Children scratched marks into dirt until their fingers tired, copying the adults. Then they were herded into shelters with muttered warnings: don’t wander, don’t piss alone, don’t pretend you can outrun teeth.

  Teshar sat with his back against a warm stone, letting heat seep into his spine. His thumb still stung.

  Siramae came to him without ceremony and took his hand.

  Teshar tensed, then forced himself to be still. Siramae’s hands were firm, not gentle. She turned his thumb and examined the puncture.

  “You pulled it,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “You washed it?”

  He hesitated. He’d wiped it and moved on. He hadn’t wanted to look soft.

  Siramae’s eyes sharpened. “You washed it.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was an order in disguise.

  Teshar swallowed. “Not yet.”

  “Small things rot,” Siramae murmured, echoing Marlek like the band had decided to speak with one mouth. Then, quieter: “You already have eyes on you. Don’t give them an easy story.”

  “I’ll wash it,” Teshar said.

  Siramae released his hand and stood. “Good.”

  Night tightened.

  Two people took the trees, as ordered. Torches were set within reach. Water skins were placed by the fire. The thorn ring creaked as cold settled deeper.

  Teshar wasn’t on first watch. He hated how relieved he felt.

  In the shelter, he lay between Kelon and Naro and listened until the camp’s noises thinned. Naro’s breathing went uneven with pain, then steadied. Kelon didn’t sleep properly. Kelon waited.

  A bark cracked through the dark.

  Then another, closer.

  The camp shifted as one animal—hides rustling, breath catching, the scrape of someone grabbing a spear.

  “Teshar,” Kelon breathed.

  Teshar was already moving.

  Outside, torches flared. Smoke thickened. Shadows sharpened.

  At the gap, Varek stood forward, spear up, stick in his other hand as if it could strike too. Torek held a torch at the first trees, posture rigid with need.

  Wolves moved beyond the thorns, grey shapes threading between trunks.

  Further back, low to the ground as if it owned patience—

  The limper.

  The wounded one, shoulder held stiff. Bright eyes, learning eyes.

  The wolves split.

  One darted towards the gap to pull attention. Another slid wider, testing the ring where the branches were thinner—where a hurried repair had left a weakness.

  A child cried out from near a shelter wall as thorns shifted. Not a breach. A warning.

  Varek surged towards the sound, spear angled.

  “Hold,” Arulan snapped from the fire, voice calm and sharp.

  Varek froze for half a heartbeat.

  That half-beat cost.

  A wolf lunged at the thorn line where Varek had been, teeth flashing through gaps. It didn’t fit. Thorns caught fur. The wolf yelped and backed out.

  Varek lunged anyway, anger driving him.

  His spear shaft hit the thorn ring at the wrong angle.

  Wood splintered.

  The crack was sharp. A sliver drove into Varek’s palm.

  Varek snarled, more animal than man, and his grip faltered. The spear dipped. For an instant, the gap was open.

  Teshar felt Naro press forward behind him—too eager, forgetting distance. Teshar caught his arm hard.

  “Not past the light,” he hissed.

  Naro’s eyes flashed.

  Teshar leaned in, low. “Wanting doesn’t matter to wolves.”

  Naro’s breath hitched. He didn’t pull free. That was progress.

  Torek stepped in, torch thrust forward. Fire licked close. The wolves flinched. Fire still mattered more than hunger.

  Marlek’s spear came up beside Torek’s, steady. Siramae moved through the edge of the light, pushing children back, making bodies obey without shouting.

  Kelon appeared at Teshar’s side, spear in hand, eyes locked on the limper.

  The wolves tested again, then stopped. The limper rose, stared into the fire, and turned away with slow contempt—as if it hadn’t been beaten, only delayed.

  The pack melted into the dark.

  No kill. No theft.

  When the noise dropped, Varek stood with blood on his palm, staring at the broken shaft as if it had betrayed him.

  Arulan’s gaze swept the boundary, then the people, then the watch stick by the fire—already turning the night into marks.

  Only when Arulan seemed satisfied that panic hadn’t taken hold did people begin to move again.

  Later, back in the shelter, Naro finally slipped into a deeper sleep. Kelon touched Teshar’s shoulder once.

  A signal. Now.

  They slid out into the cold.

  Stars pricked the sky. The fire burned low, watched by two adults who tracked movement but didn’t question the two boys at the edge. Boys moved at night for water, for piss, for nerves. It was believable.

  They reached the hollow log.

  Teshar pulled back the brush.

  Kelon reached in and lifted the stave as if it might crack from being looked at.

  In starlight, the lifted fibre looked worse—tiny, but enough to start a split the first time the wood took full tension.

  Kelon’s mouth tightened. “It’ll break.”

  “Not if we stop hands finding it,” Teshar said.

  Kelon didn’t argue. He didn’t ask for a better plan. He accepted what could be done tonight.

  They slipped along the reed line until camp smoke was only a faint stain. They found an old stump split by lightning seasons ago, its heart hollow and dry.

  Kelon slid the stave in first, then the cord. He covered the opening with bark and mud, pressing it until it looked like rot and weather.

  Teshar stepped back and stared at it.

  A tool hidden, and still not safe.

  On the way back, the wind shifted.

  Teshar stopped.

  Kelon froze with him, instantly.

  For a second, Teshar thought he could smell smoke that wasn’t theirs—faint, wrong in the wind.

  They listened.

  Far away—beyond the river bend, beyond the thick reeds—came a sound.

  Stone striking stone.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Then nothing.

  Kelon whispered, “Did you hear—”

  “Yes,” Teshar said.

  They didn’t run. They moved faster, careful with their feet, because running at night was how you turned yourself into a story.

  Behind them, the dark settled again.

  His thumb still throbbed. The stave would break if they were careless. And the camp kept cracking in small places—quiet damage you didn’t notice until the strain came and the split travelled.