Chapter 9 — Ground That No One Wanted
The land south of the garrison did not welcome them.
The road narrowed quickly after the first mile, stone giving way to dirt and then to something older—packed earth scarred by wheels long gone. Grass pushed through cracks where paving stones had once been laid, reclaiming what abandonment had left behind.
Mikkel walked at the front, spear in hand, eyes forward.
This time, there were no walls behind them.
Only people.
The column moved slower than any unit should. Children tired easily. The elderly leaned heavily on staffs and borrowed shoulders. Carts creaked under salvaged belongings—pots, blankets, broken furniture that still carried the shape of a former life.
Signe paced near the rear flank, armor dulled with dust, eyes scanning constantly. She had reassigned half her soldiers to walk inside the column rather than around it.
"It's inefficient," one sergeant muttered when she'd ordered it.
"It's protection," she'd replied. "Get used to it."
Freja moved like a quiet current through the group, stopping where voices rose, steadying where fear threatened to spill over. She carried no weapon, but her presence softened edges sharper than blades.
Liv had been gone since dawn.
That bothered Mikkel more than he let show.
They reached the abandoned lands by midday.
The first sign was silence.
Not the peaceful kind—but the absence of human noise layered over nature. No distant hammering. No smoke rising from hearths. No paths worn by daily passage.
Just wind.
The land opened into a shallow basin, ringed by low hills and broken stone. Ruins dotted the area—collapsed farmhouses, a toppled watchtower, the remains of irrigation channels long choked with weeds.
Elna Thorsen stopped beside Mikkel, eyes narrowed.
"This used to be good land," she said.
"Yes," he replied.
She gestured toward the ruins. "Then why was it abandoned?"
Mikkel answered honestly. "Because it was hard to defend. And no one wanted to pay the cost."
Elna snorted softly. "Figures."
The column halted.
People looked around uncertainly—at the ruins, at the empty space, at the horizon where nothing promised safety.
Mikkel stepped forward.
"We stop here," he said.
A murmur rippled through the group.
"Here?" someone asked.
"Yes," Mikkel replied. "For tonight."
"And tomorrow?" another voice called.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we decide what this place becomes."
That gave them something to hold.
The first arguments broke out before the packs were fully unloaded.
"This ground's too exposed."
"There's no water nearby."
"We should've stayed closer to the garrison."
Mikkel let the noise rise—for a while.
Then he raised his voice, not shouting, but firm enough to cut through.
"Everyone listen."
It quieted.
"This is not a village yet," he said. "It's a camp. And camps survive by rules."
Some faces hardened at that.
He continued anyway.
"No fires outside the center ring," Mikkel said. "No wandering after dark. Anyone who eats works. Anyone who works eats."
A pause.
"If you can't fight," he added, "you dig. If you can't dig, you cook. If you can't cook, you watch children."
Freja nodded slightly, approval flickering across her face.
"These rules aren't punishment," Mikkel said. "They're protection."
Torben—the scarred soldier—crossed his arms. "And who enforces them?"
Mikkel met his gaze. "We do."
Not I.
We.
That mattered.
They began to work.
Soldiers cleared rubble, marking defensible lines instinctively. Villagers followed, hesitant at first, then more confident as tasks were assigned. Children were set to gathering kindling under watch. Older men repaired broken carts. Women salvaged usable stone and timber from the ruins.
The camp took shape—not neat, not pretty, but intentional.
Freja organized a central care area beneath the remains of a collapsed barn. She assigned helpers without hesitation, her calm authority accepted without challenge.
Signe oversaw the perimeter, directing soldiers to build shallow trenches and sharpened stakes where the land dipped lowest.
By sunset, exhaustion weighed heavy—but so did something else.
Ownership.
Mikkel walked the perimeter as the sky darkened, checking sightlines, counting heads, noting who lagged and who stepped forward unprompted.
This was not an army.
Not yet.
But it wasn't a mob either.
Liv returned after dark.
She appeared at the edge of camp like a shadow peeling itself from the night, cloak dusted with dirt, eyes sharp despite fatigue.
"They know," she said quietly as Mikkel approached.
"How close?"
"Scouts passed the ridgeline at dusk," Liv replied. "Didn't engage. Just watched."
Mikkel nodded. "They're waiting to see if we root."
"Yes."
"And if we do?"
Liv's mouth tightened. "Then they'll test us."
As if summoned by her words, a horn sounded faintly in the distance—far off, but unmistakable.
Graymarch.
The sound rippled through the camp like a shiver.
Children clutched at parents. Some villagers looked toward Mikkel with naked fear.
He did not look away.
"Everyone inside the ring," he ordered. "Lights low."
Signe's soldiers moved instantly, discipline snapping into place. The camp tightened, bodies close, spears angled outward.
The horn did not sound again.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
Finally, silence returned.
They did not sleep easily.
Mikkel sat near the central fire long after most had settled, staring into the embers. Freja joined him quietly, lowering herself onto a nearby stone.
"They stayed," she said.
"Yes."
"That matters."
"Yes."
She hesitated. "Some people are already thinking of this as home."
Mikkel closed his eyes briefly.
"That's dangerous."
"And necessary," Freja replied gently.
He looked at her. "If this fails—"
"—it will hurt," she finished. "But if it succeeds…"
She let the thought hang.
Mikkel watched the dark beyond the firelight, where stakes and shadows blurred together.
"I don't want to be the reason people believe in something that breaks them."
Freja's voice softened. "Then don't lie to them."
"I won't."
Morning came cold and grey.
Mikkel woke before dawn to raised voices near the eastern edge of camp.
He reached the scene quickly.
Two men stood facing each other—one a soldier, the other a villager. Between them lay a sack of grain.
"He took extra," the soldier said. "For his family."
"They're hungry," the villager snapped. "You ate already!"
The tension was tight enough to snap.
Mikkel stepped between them.
"No extra rations," he said. "Not for anyone."
The villager's face flushed. "You said families come first!"
"I said children eat first," Mikkel replied. "Not families."
The man clenched his fists. "You expect us to starve?"
"No," Mikkel said. "I expect you to share."
Silence.
Then Mikkel picked up the sack and poured its contents into the communal bin.
"Tonight," he said, "we count supplies. Tomorrow, we plan fields."
Fields.
The word spread quietly.
By midmorning, scouts returned—some of Signe's soldiers, some villagers eager to prove usefulness. They reported water nearby, soil still rich beneath the ash, the remnants of old stone foundations that could be rebuilt.
Possibility took root.
But Graymarch did not wait.
Near noon, a small group appeared on the northern ridge—five men, unhurried, visible.
At their head was the same scarred scout leader from before.
He raised a hand in greeting again.
Signe's grip tightened on her blade. "Want me to take his head off?"
"No," Mikkel said. "Not yet."
He stepped forward into open ground.
The man smiled as before.
"You've moved," he called.
"Yes," Mikkel replied.
"You're building."
"We're surviving."
The man tilted his head. "Those are different."
"Not here," Mikkel said.
The scout leader's gaze swept the camp—the trenches, the stakes, the people working instead of hiding.
"Bold," he said. "Temporary."
Mikkel met his eyes. "Everything is."
The man chuckled. "Graymarch doesn't like things that refuse to disappear."
"Then Graymarch will have to get used to disappointment."
The smile faded, just a little.
"We'll see," the man said. "Enjoy the dirt."
He turned and walked away without hurry.
As he vanished beyond the ridge, Signe exhaled slowly. "They're not attacking."
"No," Mikkel said. "They're deciding."
That night, as the camp settled again, Elna approached Mikkel.
"This place," she said. "Does it have a name?"
He hesitated.
"No," he admitted.
She nodded. "Then it will."
Mikkel looked out over the camp—the fires, the people, the land no one had wanted.
"Not yet," he said.
But the idea had already taken hold.
In the dirt.
In the ash.
In the ground that no one had wanted—until now.