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The Reapers didn't speak unless they needed to.
Their camp was built into a hillside, camouflaged with black tarps and pine-needle coverings. No fires. No scent trails. Just silent weapons and eyes in the dark.
Pope sat atop a log, sharpening a blade already sharp. The steel scraped quietly in rhythm with his thoughts. Around him, the others maintained their discipline—checking gear, loading mags, oiling blades.
But something had changed.
That morning, Archer, the scout Pope had sent to observe The Right Arm, returned. He didn't speak right away. Just handed Pope a red-stained patch—their mark—returned to them by the man called Rick Grimes.
Pope stared at it for a long time.
Later that night, while the wind howled low across the ridge, Wells sat near the back of the supply tarp, checking the scope on his M14. Turner cleaned blood off his gloves—leftover from a wild hog they'd hunted and skinned earlier.
Leah stood watch, but her eyes had drifted more than once toward the horizon—toward the direction of The Right Arm.
"I heard what Archer said," Wells muttered, finally breaking the silence. "Grimes offered us a place. Shelter. Purpose."
Turner shook his head. "You think Pope's going to allow that?"
"I'm not talking about permission," Wells said. "I'm talking about choice."
Leah exhaled slowly. "It's not the first time I've thought about it."
They looked at her, surprised.
Wells leaned forward. "You'd join him?"
"I'd consider it," Leah said. "And that should be allowed."
The next day, word reached Pope.
He summoned Wells, Turner, and Leah to the central log ring—where Reapers met for decisions, judgment, and war.
They stood before him in silence, surrounded by twelve others in full black. Carver, Boone, Washington, and Cortez stood at Pope's flanks, expressions unreadable.
"You spoke of Grimes," Pope said coldly. "You spoke of following his hand."
Wells didn't flinch. "We spoke of purpose."
"We are the fire!" Pope growled, rising. "We burn away the weak. We don't join the ashes."
Leah stepped forward. "And what if fire turns inward? What if the flame kills itself because it won't change?"
Pope's eyes narrowed.
"You've gone soft, Leah."
"I've gone tired, Pope," she replied. "Tired of killing without knowing why. Tired of being a weapon for a war that's over."
Turner nodded. "We all lost something. Doesn't mean we can't find something else."
Pope looked to the others.
And that's when he saw it.
Doubt.
Not much. But enough.
Cortez wouldn't meet his eye. Boone looked away.
That night, as the rain began to fall, Leah, Wells, and Turner packed silently.
They weren't alone.
Four more Reapers—quiet ones—approached with packs on their backs and eyes steady.
"We're not traitors," Wells said.
"No," Leah said. "We're survivors."
They left before sunrise, taking only what they needed.
Just footsteps into the mist—toward The Right Arm.
By morning, Pope stood alone in the camp clearing. Eight Reapers remained.
He held the red patch in his hand, watching it twist in the wind.
"You want to build your city, Rick Grimes?" he whispered.
"Then we'll see if it stands in the fire."
The gates of The Right Arm creaked open slowly, just wide enough for the sentries to draw their rifles and raise their hands.
At the far edge of the road, seven figures emerged through the mist.
Black-clad. Silent. Unmasked.
They did not run.
They walked.
Leah led the group.
Her short blonde hair was damp from the morning dew. Her stance was confident, but her hands remained visible. No weapons drawn. No sign of aggression.
Behind her, Wells and Turner stood in near military sync. The other four—former Reapers, faces unreadable—kept a respectful distance between themselves and The Right Arm's walls.
Carl was the first to spot them from the tower.
"Dad," he called through the radio. "They're here."
Rick arrived at the gate in minutes, flanked by Maggie, Daryl, and Graves. Shane followed a few paces back, arms crossed, jaw tight. Morgan arrived next, shotgun over his back.
The gate slowly opened as Rick stepped forward, meeting Leah face to face.
Maggie kept one hand on her holstered revolver. Daryl just stared, silent.
Graves murmured, "These people move like wolves."
Rick's voice remained level. "Why now?"
Leah glanced back at her group. "Because we're tired of burning."
Wells added, "And because you asked."
Without being told, Leah dropped her sidearm to the dirt. Wells followed. Turner knelt, removed a knife from his boot, and placed it neatly beside Leah's.
One by one, the others did the same.
No one moved.
Rick waited ten full seconds.
Then nodded once. "You're not prisoners. But you're not family yet, either."
Leah held his gaze. "Understood."
Inside the Walls
They were allowed in—slowly, cautiously. The entire community watched from windows, rooftops, guard stations.
Children were pulled indoors.
Farmhands paused work to stare.
Even Carol, usually calm, stepped back from the stables when Wells walked by.
Shane walked beside Rick, voice low. "This is insane."
Rick said nothing.
"You're letting killers sleep beside us."
"They're not killers anymore," Rick replied.
"That's not your call to make alone," Shane growled.
"It never is," Rick said. "That's why there's a council."
Council Debate
In the main council hall, the debate was tense and immediate.
Dale: "You've brought wolves into the sheepfold."Morgan: "They surrendered peacefully. That's worth something."Guillermo: "They know tactics, medicine, how to survive. That's worth more."Shane: "And if they snap? If they're lying?"Maggie: "Then we end them. But they came here by choice."
Rick raised a hand.
"They sleep in the south storehouse. Empty, isolated, guarded. Two weeks probation. No weapons. No unsupervised work."
Dale asked, "And after?"
"We vote," Rick said. "The community decides."
The south storehouse was cold and bare.
No mattresses. Just blankets, cots, and crates turned into stools.
Leah sat against a wall, watching Turner adjust a splint on his leg.
"This isn't exile," Wells said. "But it ain't welcome either."
"No," Leah replied. "It's trust on trial."
A quiet knock sounded. Maggie entered, holding a folded towel and flask of clean water.
She placed them down. "We don't hate you," she said softly.
Leah looked at her. "Then what is this?"
"Caution," Maggie said. "Earn it."
That night, under cover of darkness, someone crept to the edge of the storehouse.
With coal or paint, they scrawled on the wooden siding in jagged black strokes:
"We don't sleep with fire."
When Carl spotted it during early watch, he called Rick.
Rick stared at the words for a long time.
Then he called Graves and Daryl.
"Double patrol," he said. "And we keep the fire inside the walls."
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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
patreon.com/HighKingdom