They met in the longhouse—the only structure wide enough to fit everyone without forcing them into the rain.
The fire pit in the center crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the circle of faces. Some sat on crates. Some leaned against the wall. A few stood near the door, arms crossed, watching more than listening.
Toren stood near the fire, his back straight, hands visible, posture open.
He wasn't giving a speech.
He was starting something.
"We need structure," he said. "Not just to survive. To grow. This isn't a camp anymore. It's a kingdom."
Murmurs.
Mira leaned against a support beam, silent but attentive.
He continued.
"We're assigning roles. Not permanent, not rigid—but functional. You all know who's good at what. This is just making it official."
He stepped back, motioned toward the wall where the new governance schematic was painted in charcoal:
Security Lead: Grum
Resource Coordinator: Wess
Medical Oversight: Linae
Infrastructure & Tech: Mira
Founding Steward: Toren
Someone scoffed at the last title. Old Curn, the trap-setter.
"Steward, huh? Big words from the boy who couldn't tie knots a year ago."
Mira stepped forward. "He also stopped us from being eaten three nights back. So unless your snares suddenly kill monsters, maybe sit down."
The room shifted.
Toren raised a hand. "This isn't about titles. It's about accountability. Decisions. If something happens—we handle it together. Not alone."
Jakel nodded slowly from the back. "The boy's not wrong."
But others weren't sold. Faces half-shadowed, unreadable.
Toren caught Mira's eye.
She raised a brow, speaking only loud enough for him to hear:
"This is good."
"Doesn't feel like it," he whispered back.
"They're scared. That means they're listening."
He gave a slow nod.
And realized: this was governance. Not declarations.
Negotiation.