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The air was unusually dry that morning.
Not hot. Not humid. Just… dry. Like the trees had stopped breathing.
Rick noticed it first during patrol. So did Daryl. And so did the crows—they hadn't circled the north side of the forest since the night before.
Something was different.
Something was watching.
Council Hall – Morning Meeting
The long wooden table inside the council hall bore new life today—not because of its wear, but because of a new chair.
Maggie Greene now sat among them.
To her left: Glenn, nodding with pride. To her right: Dale, cautious but polite. Across: Shane, not hiding his suspicion. The others—Morgan, Guillermo, Daryl, Merle, Graves, Morales—watched with reserved respect.
Rick stood at the head.
"She's shown she can work, plan, and lead," Rick announced. "That's what matters. Not where she came from."
Shane leaned forward. "And you're sure this isn't just a favor?"
Maggie answered before Rick could.
"If I wanted power, I wouldn't have walked through hell to sit in this damn chair."
Merle smirked.
Rick nodded once. "Meeting adjourned."
Later that day, Daryl returned from patrol with something clenched in his fist: a scrap of blackened cloth—stitched with a faded white symbol.
An inverted cross.
He tossed it on the table in front of Rick, Graves, and Glenn.
"They were here," Daryl muttered. "Watching. Camped no more than a mile past the creekbed. Left no fire. But the earth's disturbed. Tracks are deep—military boots."
Rick stared at the cloth.
The symbol was burned.
Not drawn.
Branded.
Maggie entered mid-conversation and stopped cold.
"I've seen that before," she said.
Rick turned. "You sure?"
She nodded. "Not up close. But one of them passed our ridge last winter. Silent. Cold. Didn't stop. Left a squirrel skewered to our fence with that same symbol carved in the bone."
Morgan sat with Glenn and Sarah, flipping through a salvaged military field journal and old National Guard maps. Daryl leaned against the wall, sharpening his knife.
"They're precise," Morgan said. "They don't take. They don't barter. They erase."
Graves added, "Rumor in Homestead was they cleaned out two dozen survivors in northern Alabama without a trace. No smoke. No mess. Just gone."
Sarah whispered, "The Reapers."
Everyone fell silent at the name.
That night, Rick met privately with Maggie, Daryl, Graves, and Morgan.
"They're not here to attack," Rick said. "Not yet."
Graves nodded. "Scouting maybe. Or migration."
Rick continued, "We need to get ahead of it. I don't want war. I want options."
Maggie narrowed her eyes. "You're not thinking of fighting them."
"No," Rick said. "I'm thinking of recruiting them."
Daryl straightened. "You're insane."
Rick looked at him. "Just desperate enough to try."
Graves leaned in. "They won't all be zealots. Some just follow orders. Soldiers without a purpose."
"Exactly," Rick said. "And if we give them one? Even just a few? We change everything."
Council the Next Morning
Rick stood before the full council, holding the branded cloth.
"This was found near the north perimeter," he said. "A group is passing through."
Shane scowled. "And you want to talk to them?"
"I want to understand them."
Morgan added, "They're not raiding. They're observing. That tells us they don't need us. That's leverage."
Shane muttered, "Or that they're planning something worse."
Maggie stood. "We make the first move. From a distance. No weapons drawn. Just words."
Dale looked unconvinced. "And if they answer with bullets?"
Rick said plainly, "Then we'll be ready."
Beth and Carl – Watching the Trees
Atop the wall, Carl scanned the northern horizon with binoculars. Beside him, Beth sat on the tower floor, plucking soft chords from her repaired guitar.
"You see anything?" she asked softly.
"Nothing."
But then—he paused.
Far below, in the shadow of the trees, a figure in all black stood still, just beyond sightline. Then, without movement, they vanished behind the fog.
"They're there," Carl said.
Beth stopped playing.
The mist hung thick over the north woods.
Rick moved slow, each step muffled by pine needles and damp earth. Beside him, Daryl walked like a ghost—silent, bow slung across his back, eyes scanning every tree.
They'd been following faint signs since dawn: footprints that vanished between roots, drag marks that ended in nothing, a crow hung upside down from a branch with no blood on the feathers.
They were close.
Too close.
Rick raised a hand. Daryl stopped instantly.
Ahead, beneath the boughs of two warped oaks, stood a man in black.
The Reaper
He didn't move.
Didn't reach for his blade.
Didn't speak.
His face was hidden behind a metal skull-like mask, gray and weathered, painted with charcoal ash. Leather wraps covered his arms. A combat knife glinted at his hip, and an AR-15 hung loosely over his back.
He stood perfectly still, like a statue waiting for command.
Rick stepped forward. Not too close. Just enough.
"We know who you are," Rick said.
No response.
"We're not looking for blood. You're just passing through—we want to offer something else."
The Reaper tilted his head, birdlike. Listening. Maybe surprised.
Rick continued, "You're trained. Disciplined. That means purpose. I lead a place that could use that."
Daryl's grip tightened on his bow.
Still, the Reaper didn't move.
"I'm not offering you chains," Rick said. "I'm offering you a place. Food. Shelter. A reason."
Finally, the man took a step forward.
When he spoke, his voice was distorted under the mask—low, rough, and calm.
"You don't speak for the flame."
Rick furrowed his brow. "I don't follow."
The Reaper answered, "The flame chooses who survives. You offer comfort. We offer fire."
Daryl muttered under his breath, "That ain't good."
Rick stood tall. "I've seen fire. So has everyone we lead. And we're still standing. Not because of comfort—but because we choose to build, not burn."
The Reaper stepped back.
"Your words aren't for me."
Rick took a risk. "Then who are they for?"
The man paused, as if calculating whether to speak.
Then, coldly: "Pope watches."
In the next instant, the Reaper tossed something at Rick's feet.
Rick didn't flinch. It landed with a soft thud: a cloth patch, stitched with the Reaper symbol—this one painted red instead of white.
Rick bent down and picked it up.
When he looked back up, the Reaper was gone.
Daryl scanned the woods. "Son of a bitch…"
Rick pocketed the patch.
"He heard us. That's all we needed."
Later – The Wall
Back at The Right Arm, Rick stood beside Graves atop the northern wall. He handed him the red Reaper patch.
Graves turned it over slowly. "That's a message."
Rick nodded. "Pope knows we're here."
Graves asked, "You think they'll come in peace?"
Rick didn't answer immediately.
Then: "They'll come. The question is how."
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If you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on Ptreon for early access, exclusive chapters, and more:
15 Advanced Chapters on Patreon
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