They found their way to a far-off corner of the camp, near one of the crumbled outer walls. A lone fire burned there small, quiet, tucked into a windbreak of broken stone and half-collapsed scaffolding.
A single man sat beside it.
Older, his eyes were sunken, cheeks hollow, skin tanned but tired. He wore no armor. No weapons hung from his belt. Just worn leathers and fingerless gloves. He stirred a large pot of stew over the flame, using a carved wooden spoon.
No one else sat nearby.
In fact, no one even seemed to be approaching him.
The smell of the stew, however, was incredible rich, savory, laced with something wild and earthy. It cut through the stink of sweat and old blood like a promise.
The man didn't look up as they approached. Didn't flinch. He just kept stirring.
"Seats are open," he said, voice like gravel rolled in honey. "Eat if you like. I don't ask questions, questions require answers and answers are sometimes trouble."
The eight looked at one another.
No one spoke.
But one by one, they sat around the fire
The fire crackled. The wind carried the scent of the stew. The man with the tooth set it on the ground beside him, like a trophy or a totem. He stared into the flame, eyes distant.
No one said a word.
But something had begun.
Not a faction. Not yet. Not a unit or a squad.
But something.
Something that would outlast the bruises.
Something built on blood.
And fire.
And resolve.
The man stirred the pot with rhythmic obsession, head twitching slightly with every turn of the spoon. The fire popped and hissed in front of him, casting wild shadows over his gaunt face and matted hair.
He glanced sideways at the eight of them, then stared again into the flames.
Then he spoke.
"Oh, thank the pits," he said, voice fast and breathy. "Actual people. Thought you all were ghosts again. Not the screaming kind either, the quiet ones, the ones that watch while you sleep."
No one replied.
The man scratched his neck with the spoon handle and went back to stirring, the scent of meat and root vegetables rising thick into the cool air.
He grinned at them suddenly, too wide.
"They call me Mugwort. No idea why anymore. Might've named myself. Might've been a dare. Or maybe the herb. I like stew. You like stew?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Of course you do. You're not savages."
He reached behind him and began ladling stew into battered tin bowls, one after another, passing them out without ceremony. As each member of the group took a bowl, he kept talking. Rapid. Disjointed.
"You lot look fresh. Very fresh. Ripe. Like you still remember what toothpaste tastes like. That fades. Everything fades here. Food, color, meaning. But not stew. No sir. Not stew."
He tapped the spoon to his temple twice.
"Me? I just came back from The Quiet, or was it a while ago? No just? Maybe. Back province. Safe. Real safe. No killing there. No screaming. Just long halls, open fields, and soft walls and people who blink too slowly."
A woman in the group raised one brow slightly. The rest just kept eating in silence, too exhausted to interrupt or question him.
Mugwort's voice lowered, eyes narrowing as he stared into the fire again.
"See, that's where they send the broken ones. The ones who've had too many resets. The ones who wake up screaming even when they haven't died. Can't fight anymore. Can't think straight. Can't tell dreams from blood. So they send you to the Quiet. No one visits. Not unless they're worse off. You can choose to go too, that's what I did. But I am better now, just like stew, much better"
He scratched at a scar on his cheek, hand trembling.
"I came back. That's what they don't like. The coming back. Makes people nervous. Like breaking's contagious. Like if you talk to someone cracked long enough, you'll crack too."
His eyes flicked around the other people keeping their distance from this fire, then to the group.
"You're in The Fall, now. Softest of the provinces. Easy fields. Open sky. Where the newcomers drop. Where the veterans on the edge come to pretend they've still got it. Where the rest of us come to try and hold our pieces together. Or even those folks in the city who don't play war and instead make pretend families and try to live a "normal" life."
He pointed the spoon at them, bouncing it slightly.
"Don't let them fool you. Everyone here is running from something. The fighters who never left? They're either too scared to go deeper, or too damned proud to admit they should have. Or they've cracked already, just hiding it better than I did."
"And those making families in the city think they are better than those who fight."
He shifted tone suddenly, mocking. "Hi, I'm Mark, this is my wife Alice and our two little ones. We're better than the savages who fight and die. We hate stew."
He held the spoon like a noble's cane, grinning.
The eight ate in silence, letting the warmth and words soak through the exhaustion. Mugwort's madness was almost comforting. At least it was human.
Mugwort went back to stirring.
"You'll meet the factions soon. The recruiters come by once they see you don't die easy. Some will tempt you with power. Some with gold. Some with the illusion of meaning. Don't trust any of them. The factions are just out for themselves, they want your merits."
He grinned again.
"Except me. I don't want anything from you. I make stew. You eat stew, you like stew. Simple"
A long silence followed.
One of the men leaned back against a crumbled stone, eyes on the flame. A woman sipped slowly from her bowl, gaze distant. The twins were leaning on each other as they ate.
No one said a word.
Because what was there to say?
They had survived.
They had seen what this world really was.
And now they sat, eating beside a madman, in a place where no one truly died but now they knew they could break in other ways.
The stew had long gone cold in their bowls. The fire cracked and spat, throwing sparks into the dark. Around it, the eight sat in silence, heavy with thought.
None of them knew how long they had been there minutes, hours it didn't matter. There was no moon in this place, only dim stars smeared like old chalk across the sky. The kind of sky that made you wonder if the gods had ever been here at all.
They were strangers. They had no plan. But something bound them now something more than fear, more than survival. Something that had stitched itself together in blood and silence and pain. Out of the hundreds that had arrived with them, they had stood up. They had walked away. And that had to mean something.
The fire popped again, louder this time. A log gave out, collapsing into embers.
The fire hissed as another glob of stew popped and dripped from the kettle onto the cracked stone beside it. Mugwort sat cross legged in the dirt, still stirring the pot. His eyes were wild but not cruel, darting between the flickering shadows like he was reading a room full of ghosts. Then he spoke yet again, uninvited, unchecked, and unrelenting.
Mugwort's eyes darted between them and the shadows. "You're quiet," he muttered. "Everyone's quiet at first. Except the screamers. First-timers run out of the temple shrieking like their soul tripped over itself. It passes. Has to. If it doesn't, you end up wandering off mumbling about childhood pets or chocolate. Then it's off to The Quiet."
He tapped the side of his head twice. "Keep this ticking. Don't let it rust."
He scratched at his neck, then continued as if he hadn't paused.
"You'll learn quick. The war. The futility. The whole stew pot of it. And I see blood on you that's not yours. That's good. Means you've got merits."
He lifted the spoon, letting steam roll past his face. "Go to the temple. Touch the statue of the Unnamed One. You'll get your merits. Use 'em in the city; gear, food, ingredients. For stew, if you're smart."
The fire popped.
"Anyways. The war, right? Eternal. Endless. Pointless, some say. But they're not wrong. Just not useful. There's two sides humans and monsters, invaders and natives, doesn't matter what you call 'em. We call 'em the other ones. Been fighting over provinces for as long as anyone remembers, and memory's all you've got here. No clocks, no calendars, just the weight of your own scars. "
"You take a province's fort, you live better. More food, more boots. Still no toilets, though. City people get those."
He chuckled at that. Alone.
"Now, here's the thing: nobody wins. Never have. Maybe never will. But people fight like they can win, and that's the trick. That's the joke. That's the game. 'Cause comfort's all that's left, and you only get it by swinging steel for your side and earning merits."
"They say if one side takes the five fortress provinces, the Apex opens. War ends. Glory. Blah blah." He snorted. "The Apex. Dream stew. Breaks more people than it feeds."
He leaned forward, spoon in hand, like he was telling a secret to old friends.
"See you all already know the trick, you don't stay dead here. That's the Unnamed One's gift or curse, depending how long you've been drinkin' stew."
He held the spoon over the fire, letting the steam waft into his face.
"You die, you wake up in a temple. Same age you arrived at, body clean and fixed. Not the same temple, mind you. Each province has one anyone can use, then factions can set up their own if they've got the merit. "
He dipped the spoon back into the pot and stirred absently.
"The Unnamed One doesn't speak. Never has. No one's seen it. But the temple's always warm. Always smells like dust and pine. You end up there if you die, and you step out renewed. When you've seen enough, done enough, bled enough…"
He trailed off for dramatic effect, eyes scanning the group, though none met his gaze.
"…the temple calls you."
He waited again, letting the words settle.
"You'll feel it. You'll know. No one tells you what it means till it happens. But when it does you go back in, and this time… you walk out with something. A weapon. Yours. Only yours. And it knows you. Grows with you. You can call it. Not carry it. Call it. Like it's part of your soul now."
He gestured to no weapon in particular, just vaguely to the air around them.
"You see someone call a weapon in a fight? That means they're chosen. That means they've survived long enough to matter. Or maybe they've just died more than most. Hard to say."
He finally went quiet, the only sound the bubbling of the stew.
The eight ate slowly, processing everything the world, the rules, the madness that now felt almost sane.
Mugwort didn't mind the silence. Not anymore.
He kept stirring.
"You're the first to sit here in… I don't know how long," he said at last, voice softening. "So thanks. Even if it's just 'cause you're too beat to care."
He nodded once, satisfied.
"You'll do fine," he said, a little smile tugging at his lips. "I can smell it."
And the stew bubbled on.