The news of the southeast scouts finding a viable site reached the camp long before the runners did. It drifted through the meadow like warm breath in cold air—softening shoulders, easing the tightness around mouths, settling into backs hunched for too long.
People moved with direction now. Not rushing. Not frantic. Just… choosing to move. Choosing the next step.
Talia felt it as she walked the central path at dusk: a low, collective shift beneath the usual noise. The basin hummed—quiet but purposeful—as clusters scribbled lists, bundled tools, rehearsed simple tasks. Children dragged coils of rope twice their size. Aunties tested straps. Someone practiced folding tents with efficient snaps of fabric while scolding a teen tangled in guy lines.
The Lord's tent filled slowly as lanterns warmed the gathering dark. Cael stood at the entrance, arms crossed, eyes sharp—guarding the doorway with the vigilance of someone who refused to let another disaster slip by unnoticed. Inside, the air settled into something level and steady. Expectation without panic. Readiness.
Talia took her place at the low crate-table, hands resting loosely on her knees. Theo sat at her right. Dav leaned against a tent pole, unreadable but alert. Grandma entered with her notebook and spectacles, posture perfectly straight despite the long day. Mum and Dad arrived next, quiet and grounded. Auntie Junia followed, her soft gaze already assessing the emotional weather in the room. Dale lowered himself beside Arlen, who answered with a single nod. Grandpa Fin took the last open stool, arranging a neat row of pencils across his thigh.
Representatives from several family clusters slipped in along the edges, respectful and attentive.
Maps unfurled across the crate-table, creases smoothed flat by practiced hands. Charcoal notes layered over older ones; arrows sharpened; paths reconsidered. Theo spoke first, reviewing the scouts' route and marking the narrow gap between trees and the slope guarding the river. His voice was crisp but even—precise without urgency. No one interrupted.
It wasn't excitement that filled the tent.
It was something steadier.
Something like building ground.
They moved into feasibility: distance, terrain, bottlenecks. The risk of funneling four hundred people through underbrush hiding small beasts. The choke point at the south-forest bend. The steep riverbank that would require rope teams.
Talia traced each section with her finger, asking questions in the calm, grounded cadence that had begun anchoring even the most anxious workers.
"How narrow is this ridge?"
"What's our fallback if a beast blocks the route?"
"If someone collapses here—" she tapped a slope "—how do we move them without stalling five clusters behind?"
"Do the temporary carts hold on uneven ground?"
"How far can clusters space out before we risk losing visual contact?"
Theo had already drafted a moving order, marked emergency whistle signals, and outlined a separation protocol—simple enough for children to memorize, robust enough to prevent losing anyone.
Even Dav's expression softened in faint approval.
Auntie Junia folded her hands. "Emotional preparation is logistical preparation," she reminded gently. "Families with young children need early starts. We maintain Quiet Zones in the evenings. Structured rest whenever terrain allows."
Grandma nodded. "Rest isn't weakness. It's maintenance."
Their words settled into the room like warm stones. This wasn't a crisis council. It was planning—true planning. A prototype of the governance they hadn't known they were building.
Outside, twilight deepened.
Someone laughed near a fire. A pot lid clanged. A child shrieked as they chased another through the grass. Life kept moving.
And weaving through that everyday hum was another thread entirely.
Near the rope racks, a young man knelt adjusting knots. He laughed self-consciously at something a passerby said, wiping his hands on his trousers. Helpful. Quiet. Almost too polite. Someone handed him a coil of rope to pass along, and he did so with a modest smile.
"Strange, isn't it?" he murmured to two teens beside him. His voice was mild, almost shy. "Everyone's in the big tent. But… we don't get to hear what they're planning."
One teen shrugged. "It's a leaders' meeting."
"Right," he agreed quickly, nodding as if scolding himself. "Of course. I just thought—since we're all family-bound now—maybe we'd get… more say?" He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "But I'm nobody. Doesn't matter what I think."
He finished tying the knot cleanly, passed the coil over, and offered a small apologetic smile.
"I should get back to work."
Then he slipped back into the camp with practiced ease—lifting a crate for an elderly auntie, fetching a water bucket for a tired mum. Nothing out of place. Nothing to linger on.
But the two teens watched him go, unease settling between them like dust.
Inside the tent, the discussion deepened.
Theo read through the logistics with unyielding precision. Most equipment would be split across space pockets to avoid overloading any one person—but mobility aids needed physical handling. Dad, as the Crafters' leader, listed the transport items rushed out over the past few days, and Theo added donated pieces to the total.
Forty child carriers or pull-boards.
Thirty stretchers.
Ten hauling sleds for elders, the injured, or anyone who couldn't manage the full route.
"That should cover mobility needs," Theo murmured, glancing at Dale. Dale nodded once.
"Next—travel requests."
Dav spoke first. "You've covered my concern in the travel order. Fighters and guards on the exterior. Constant monitoring."
Dale pushed for minimum medic ratios per cluster, already calculating how his team would split kits between their own pockets.
Grandma emphasized keeping children centrally positioned—"Multiple hands nearby if someone bolts."
Mum debated farming tools versus weight until she remembered her own space pocket could hold more than she liked to admit.
Dad requested placement near the center. "If something breaks mid-route, we're close enough to fix it immediately."
Auntie Junia passed Theo a neat list of grief-support volunteers and morale teams assigned for travel days.
Talia listened to every voice. Asked the questions that clarified. Smoothed disagreements with a steadiness that eased people's breathing before they realised they'd been holding it.
She didn't dominate.
She didn't force.
They were her family.
She simply… directed the current.
When the final details settled, the migration plan lay complete: two days of preparation, trial packing tomorrow, full readiness the next, departure at dawn on the third.
Theo marked the map.
Dav confirmed guard rotations.
Grandma outlined cluster order with decisive strokes.
Talia sealed it all with a single quiet nod.
When the meeting adjourned, the council stepped out into the cooling dusk, and word spread quickly—soft at first, then gathering like a slow tide. Within minutes, families drifted toward the central fire pit. Lanterns were lit. Children were guided forward. People formed a wide ring, not quite silent, not quite speaking, waiting.
Theo raised his voice just enough to carry. "We've confirmed a viable site," he said. "Preparations begin tonight. Migration in three days."
A ripple passed through the crowd—fear, relief, uncertainty—braided so tightly it was hard to tell one from the other.
Dav stepped aside, allowing the lead southeast scout to move forward. The young woman looked worn but steady, her hands clasped behind her back.
"The place we found…" She searched for the words. "It's open grassland beside a wide river. Flat ground. Good visibility. No sign of major predators nearby. Water runs clean. Soil's dark. The river bends around a low rise—we can build on the higher ground."
Someone near the front asked, "No valley?"
"No," the scout replied gently. "Not yet."
Another voice, worried: "Flooding?"
"We mapped the high-water mark," she said. "We'll build above it."
A father called out, "Trees?"
"Sparse," she answered. "But enough to gather. And the riverbank has reeds and water shrubs."
Murmurs spread—hopeful in places, tense in others.
A mother tugged her child closer. "Grassland means visibility," she whispered.
A young man countered softly, "But no walls. No cliffs."
An elder exhaled, "Open sky. Maybe we can breathe there."
Questions layered quickly—How far? How long to travel? What about beasts? Could the soil grow grain? Would the water freeze in winter?
The scout answered each with quiet patience, and slowly the uncertainty in the crowd began to settle—not gone, but held. A direction existed now, a place to walk toward.
Talia's gaze drifted toward the dark tree line, instincts prickling faintly.
A cold breeze swept the basin, brushing the tent walls. Early autumn sharpening.
Something shifted with it.
Small, almost imperceptible.
They needed to move soon—
before the world decided to move first.