They moved after noon.
Damien hated waiting that long, but Leon couldn't be carried until they had something that wouldn't collapse under him. Shirts were torn into strips. Two people cut long branches while Chris twisted vines around the joints until the wood creaked and held.
It was ugly work.
It worked.
No one talked much while they built it. When they did, it was in short bursts—questions that didn't need answers, complaints that changed nothing.
Damien kept looking into the trees.
He couldn't shake the sense that the boar hadn't left. That it was pacing somewhere just out of sight, patient in a way that felt learned.
They lifted the stretcher carefully. Leon turned his face away, jaw clenched, refusing to let anyone see him shake.
Damien took point.
"Spacing," he said. "Don't bunch up."
Tasha snorted. "You sound like you've done this before."
"I have."
That earned looks. Not respect. Not curiosity.
Measurement.
They followed a shallow ridge where the ground rose and dipped in long waves, keeping them off the thick roots and damp lowlands. After twenty minutes, they found water—a narrow stream, clear, faintly glowing like moonlight caught in motion.
Damien crouched and watched it.
No ripples beyond the flow.
He dipped his fingers in.
Cold. Normal cold.
"Small sips," he said.
Groans followed, but they listened. Relief hit fast and ugly once people drank. Water made the world feel survivable again.
Leon drank too. His breathing steadied.
They rested five minutes.
Then Damien stood. "We keep moving."
Mark shook his head. "Why? We have water."
"Predictable resources are traps," Damien said. "Predators need water too."
They moved again.
A half hour later, Damien stopped.
Broken moss. Deep impressions. Resin smeared on bark at shoulder height.
Something had passed through here.
Recently.
He felt it too—not heat, not pain. Pressure. Faint, warning, like the air was leaning closer.
"Quiet," he said. "We go around."
They adjusted course.
Ten minutes later, the forest opened into broken stone and exposed ground. Patches of pale slabs caught the light, etched with faint grooves. Damien didn't like open ground—but it was better than close cover.
They crossed quickly.
Halfway through, Leon groaned.
"My leg," he gasped. "It's burning."
Damien knelt. The bandage had darkened. The skin around the bite was tight. Discolored.
Not rot.
Change.
"We stop," Damien said. "Two minutes."
"No," Mark snapped. "We keep moving."
Damien looked up. "Two minutes."
Mark stepped closer. "Who put you in charge?"
No one answered.
Damien rose slowly. "Do you have a better plan?"
"I have one that doesn't involve you playing wizard every time something happens," Mark said, eyes flicking to Damien's hands.
The clearing went still.
Leon groaned again.
"Chris," Damien said. "Keep them back."
Chris hesitated—then moved, palms raised.
Damien crouched and focused.
Not flame.
Heat with direction.
He held his hand near the wound, careful not to touch. Warmth flowed out in a controlled stream. The air shimmered faintly. Leon tensed—then sagged as the pain eased.
Damien pulled back, breathing harder than he should have.
Cost.
"That helped," Leon whispered.
When Damien stood, Mark was staring.
Not afraid.
Interested.
"We move," Damien said.
Tasha nodded toward his hands. "So it's real."
"We don't have names yet," Damien said. "Only consequences."
They moved.
Behind him, no one argued.
No one relaxed either.
People were watching the same problem from different sides now.