Victor entered the caravan as a problem that hadn't been solved yet.
No one said so out loud.
No one needed to.
They adjusted around him instead—steps angling wider, conversations flattening, eyes sliding past him without curiosity. He stayed on the outside of their movement like a tool you weren't sure was safe to pick up.
They did not welcome him.
They allowed him.
There was a difference, and Victor felt it in every glance that didn't linger, every voice that stayed neutral, every step that angled wider when someone passed him on the trail.
The caravan was not a line of wagons with banners and laughter.
It was work.
Two squat carts with high sides and canvas pulled tight. A third wagon sat lower and heavier, its wheels wider. Four draft animals that looked like oxen until you paid attention to the shoulders and realized they carried weight differently.
Six people total, counting the driver who rarely looked back and the older man who walked ahead with a spear held like he had used it before.
No one tried to talk to Victor.
That was fine.
Victor walked.
His ribs made sure he never forgot they were damaged.
Every step jarred the right side of his chest with a dull, grinding reminder. Not sharp enough to stop him. Sharp enough to punish sloppy breathing.
His forearm—where the wolf had gotten him—throbbed beneath the soiled bandage the woman had wrapped earlier. Properly set. Tight enough to hold. Already stiffening with dried blood.
He kept it close to his body, elbow bent, minimizing swing.
He kept his breathing shallow.
He kept his eyes moving.
The road they followed was a road the way a scar was a scar.
Not paved.
Not proud.
Just a long, worn path through trees that had learned to bend away from the constant passage of feet and wheels.
Victor marked everything.
Where the brush grew thin.
Where the ground dipped.
Where the canopy opened enough to show the sky.
Where the wind changed.
He walked just behind the last cart, offset to the left so he could see past it and still watch the trees. He kept enough distance that no one could bump him by accident—enough distance that no one had to pretend he was part of their formation.
He didn't mind.
He didn't want to be.
The day moved the way days always moved when you had no shelter.
Slow until it wasn't.
Light shifted. Shadows lengthened. The air cooled in increments so small you didn't notice until your hands began to stiffen.
The caravan leader—Victor assumed it was the woman who walked near the middle cart and did the talking when talking happened—raised a hand once.
No shout.
No theatrics.
The wagons slowed. The driver murmured to the animals and guided them off the road, up a shallow incline Victor would have chosen himself if he'd been alone.
High ground.
Not high enough to silhouette.
High enough to see trouble coming.
They stopped in a rough crescent, wagons angled inward like shoulders turning to close a door.
The animals were unhitched quickly.
No wasted movement.
No arguing.
This was not their first night doing this.
Victor watched the routine and made notes.
Two people went for water.
One checked the harness.
One unpacked bundled wood from the lead cart—pre-cut, dry, saved for nights when the forest didn't cooperate.
The older man with the spear walked a slow circle around the perimeter, posture loose but ready.
Victor moved without being told.
He stepped away from the wagons and scanned the slope below.
Trees.
Brush.
A narrow view of the road through gaps.
One good line of sight.
One bad one.
He picked the bad line and kept watching it.
That was where something would come from.
Footsteps stopped behind him.
"Wood."
Victor looked back. It was the first word he'd clearly recognized since joining them.
The speaker was younger than the spear-man. Broad shoulders. Rough hands. A short blade at his belt and a club slung over one shoulder like it belonged there.
Victor nodded once.
He walked downslope and gathered dead branches from old storms, choosing pieces dry enough to snap clean. His ribs protested every time he bent. He adjusted and kept going.
He carried the wood back and set it beside the fire ring.
No one praised him.
No one spoke.
Good.
Praise created obligation.
The fire caught—small, controlled—then settled into something steady.
The woman noticed his arm and handed him a fresh bandage.
Victor took it and nodded once.
He rewrapped his forearm , the new strip pressed against torn skin. It felt better immediately—not because the pain eased, but because grit was no longer grinding into open flesh.
The camp settled.
People ate.
Hard bread. Dried meat. A pot of something root-heavy and thin.
Victor was offered a bowl.
He accepted.
He ate slowly and watched while he did.
Hands.
Positions.
Who kept their back to the wagons.
Who kept their back to the woods.
No one wasted time on comfort.
Comfort was for places with walls.
Night arrived in quiet increments. The fire became the center of the world. The trees beyond it swallowed light greedily.
Victor's body began to shake from cold as soon as the sun dropped fully.
Not fear.
Cold.
And exhaustion.
He stayed upright anyway.
Sleep was a decision you made when you controlled the perimeter.
Watches were set without discussion.
The spear-man first.
The younger guard second.
The driver third.
The woman took none.
Or all of them.
Victor understood his position.
He was not on their rotation.
He was not trusted with their backs.
That was fine.
He moved uphill behind a fallen log that broke his silhouette and offered partial cover.
High ground.
Line of sight.
A clear retreat.
He built a crude bed of boughs and leaves—not for comfort, but to keep the damp ground from stealing heat. His ribs complained. He kept movements small.
He checked his knife. Still there.
He sheathed it and kept his hand near.
Not gripping.
Just present.
The cold pressed in.
He focused on what mattered.
Breath.
Pain.
Position.
Sound.
The fire crackled.
An animal shifted.
Something small moved through leaves downslope.
Not heavy enough.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
His eyelids sagged. His body wanted to shut down.
Victor stayed awake long enough to confirm the watch pattern held.
The spear-man moved in slow arcs—present, not nervous.
Competent.
Victor respected that.
When the younger guard took over, Victor lowered himself onto the boughs carefully.
Ribs flared.
He adjusted.
One hand rested near the knife.
The sky above the trees was darker than it should have been, as if the stars were reluctant here.
The overlay appeared without warning.
[CONDITION: STABLE]
Victor didn't flinch.
Stable didn't mean safe.
It meant he wasn't actively dying.
More text resolved beneath it.
[STATUS: INJURED]
[STATUS: BLEEDING — RESOLVED]
[STATUS: PAIN — ELEVATED]
A ledger.
A record.
Victor swallowed and let it fade.
So it was real.
A system.
Only visible to him.
If it could label him, it could label others.
If it could record condition, it could record action.
He let the thought go.
Thinking wouldn't keep him warm.
Wouldn't feed him.
Wouldn't mend his ribs.
He needed sleep.
Not deep.
Just enough.
His eyes finally closed.
Not surrender.
Procedure.
Tomorrow: water.
Then food.
Then information.
Follow the road until it led somewhere with walls.
And when it did—
Victor would learn what kind of world counted pain as a status and survival as a condition.