The damp grass seeped cold through my trousers, a grounding counterpoint to the frantic hammering of my heart. Ten minutes bled into fifteen, the silence thick with exhaustion and the weight of unspoken dread. Only the wind sighing through the stalks and Marco's ragged breathing punctuated the quiet. Roan sat like a carved statue, eyes perpetually scanning the field, the distant flickers of campfires, and the web of crisscrossing paths.
I leaned back, pressing my palms against the cool earth, trying to rest. I chewed the last of the dry venison, its salt stiffening my tongue, and washed it down with a lukewarm mouthful from my waterskin. It wasn't much, but it was all we had—and even that was rapidly dwindling.
Zale hadn't eaten with us. He'd moved a little way back up the slope we'd descended, perched like a hawk on a narrow outcrop, his silhouette tense against the bruising sky. His gaze swept the field—counting shelters, tracking smoke, watching movement.
Finally, he descended the few yards back to our miserable huddle, his expression too focused for my liking. Bad news maybe. He didn't sit.
"If I'm not wrong," he said, a little unsure, "fifty percent of three-fifty-nine puts the threshold at about one-seventy-eight."
He scanned the terrain again. His eyes, usually muted green, now had a sharpened edge to it. "But there are more people here than there should be."
Roan stiffened beside me, his posture coiling with tension. His eyes swept the landscape again, this time slower. "More groups made it through than expected."
"Yes," Zale said quietly. "One would think the hailstorm would thin the numbers out naturally. The leadership, They're watching. Letting it play out."
The realization clicked into place, ice sliding down my spine.
We weren't moving toward anything. There was no objective to reach. No final checkpoint to race for. The threshold wasn't a gate to be crossed—it was a trapdoor that would only open when enough people were dead.
"How long until sunset?" Marco rasped, pushing himself up on shaky elbows.
Zale turned west. The molten coin of the sun was kissing the serrated peaks now, painting the clouds in angry streaks. "Half hour. Maybe less."
"SHIT. Godsdamnit! Of course." Marco cursed.
Roan stood abruptly. "Alright. Then we hold." His voice was steel. "We don't run. We don't move. We defend this spot until the numbers thin out."
He looked to Zale. The question hung between them, Roan's posture was enough to convey it, Are you in this?
Zale didn't blink, only nodded stiffly.
Some of the weight lifted from Roan's frame. Just enough. He turned to Marco. "You said you're good with a bow."
Marco shifted, looking hunted. "I was. My hands—" He held them up. They trembled faintly. "It's nerves. I'm exhausted."
"You said you were an expert marksman," Roan stated flatly.
Marco flushed, looking down. "Yeah. I did."
"Marco," I cut in, my voice firmer than I felt. Both men looked at me. "Your aim isn't that bad. I can give you a few pointers. Tighten your grip, steady your breathing. It'll be enough." I remembered the way he'd fumbled his shots during the sucker incident only a few days ago, the raw potential buried under panic.
Marco looked from me to Roan, then back to me, desperation warring with embarrassment. "Why don't you go, Iris? You're the expert with the bloody bow!"
Now both Roan and Zale were looking at me intently. I shook my head. "I'm passable with a bow when it's a necessity," I admitted. "But I'm much better at hand-to-hand. Daggers are my tools. Close work." The slightest touch of my blades at my hips was a small comfort.
Roan nodded. "Same. Axes are my thing. Close combat."
Zale's hand drifted toward the bandage beneath his tunic. "Sword, mostly. But I won't last in a long fight."
"Doesn't matter," Roan said. "We're not here to win fights. We're here to outlive them."
He crouched and started sketching lines in the dirt with a blade tip, rough map, quick and clean.
"This ridge gives us elevation," he said, tapping the slope. "Good sightlines. Natural choke point. They come from below, they funnel up. If we position Marco here"—he marked a point on the rocks uphill—"he can cover the blind angles. Warning shots only. Hit if you have to, but the point is deterrence. Make them hesitate."
Marco was staring at the spot Roan indicated—an uneven outcrop with a narrow ledge, partially veiled by brush. Good vantage, decent cover. Still exposed.
Marco nodded slowly. "Warning shots," he echoed. "Right."
"You won't be alone," I said, meeting Marco's eyes. "I'll come with you for ten minutes. Help you steady. After that, I need to be down here."
Roan looked to Zale. "You pick the flank. North or south. We'll hold center. If they come up the side, you sound off."
Zale inclined his head. "North. Less scrub. I'll see them coming."
"Good." Roan sheathed the axe at his back. "We rotate watches. Move as little as possible. Conserve strength. No heroics."
"And if they attack in force?" I asked quietly.
"Then we fight just enough to make them think we're more trouble than we're worth," Roan answered. "They'll look for easier prey."
Zale's voice was colder than before. "They're all here to survive. They will kill if it meant surviving."
That hung in the air for a long second. No one disagreed.
We moved into position—Marco clutching his bow, Lorraine's prized possession, as if afraid it might vanish if he held it wrong. Zale melted into the long grass like a ghost, already halfway invisible. Roan moved with quiet precision, double-checking the perimeter, his axe glinting briefly as he adjusted the strap on his back.
I stayed close to Marco at first, placing a hand on his elbow to still him. "Your stance is too rigid," I murmured. "Shift your weight to the balls of your feet. You want to be ready to move, not frozen."
He nodded, adjusting.
"Relax your grip. You're strangling the bow. Let it breathe, Marco. The tighter you clutch, the more your hands shake."
Another nod. His breathing was still shallow, but slower now.
"Draw smoothly. Don't yank. And anchor the string near your cheek—same spot every time. Consistency matters more than power."
"I know," he muttered, more to himself than to me. But he adjusted again.
I stepped back, watching him nock an arrow and aim it toward the outcrop without loosing it. Better. His fingers weren't trembling anymore.
"I'm going, should you face any danger, give me the birdcall you used on Tor."
As I turned to leave, he cleared his throat. "Hey."
I looked back.
Marco offered me a crooked half-smile. "Try not to die or anything. I'd feel real bad. Lorraine would haunt me for letting her bow go to waste."
I smirked, the tension easing for half a second. "Not dying's the plan. You just keep people from getting creative down there."
"Creative people get arrows. Got it."
I gave him a nod and slipped away into the tall grass. Below us, the Field of Thorns rustled and stirred, the last light bleeding from the sky.
There was no charge to victory. No finish line.
Only endurance. Only survival.
Until the number dropped low enough…
And the real monsters came to collect what was left.
I moved through the grass in a half-crouch until I reached the ridge again, coming to stand beside Roan. He didn't look up, just gave a small grunt of acknowledgment as I settled in next to him, eyes scanning the slope below where dusk thickened into something heavier.
Zale reappeared a moment later, moving like wind-shadow, and took up position slightly behind us—watching the rear, his sword already unsheathed, blade resting lightly across his knees.
The wind carried scents of smoke, sweat, blood, and fear. A fire somewhere in the valley crackled too loudly. Laughter echoed, sharp and too fast—someone was cracking under the pressure already.
Zale's voice came low, not quite a whisper. "How do you know how to fight?"
I didn't glance back. "When you grow up that close to the border, everyone learns to hold their own. You don't really get a choice."
Zale gave a quiet hum, maybe understanding, maybe not, but it was the kind of sound people made when they didn't want to push further.
We stayed like that, letting silence stretch for a while, until my gaze slid sideways toward Roan.
"You knew Aila?" I asked.
His jaw shifted. "Knew of her."
"She fought well," I said. "I mean—more than well. Like someone who's been trained hard and long. Did you… did you find that strange?"
Roan finally looked at me, only for a moment before readjusting his grip on his axe.
"You probably didn't notice," he said, voice low, "but she was branded. A refugee."
I blinked. "Branded?"
He nodded. "Mark was on her wrist. Faint, but there. The old kind. Of Noctaira."
Zale stiffened behind me. I felt it even without turning. He didn't know her but it was still an information that could get such reactions from other people.
My breath hitched. "She was from the sucker's territory?"
"Yeah," Roan said. "People who fled Noctaira—the ones who made it across alive—they're granted a special clause. Doesn't matter their age. If they survive long enough, they're eligible for the trials."
I inhaled sharply. "You mean she was…"
Roan finished it for me. "Raised in a place where children learn to kill before they can speak full sentences. That's probably why she knew how to fight that good."
He glanced out toward the shadows creeping across the field.
"Would've been a real threat to the suckers on the field," he added. "Had she lived."