Sage
The morning sunlight is just filtering through the trees when Mara finds me. Her hair is a little wild, eyes slightly wide as if she didn’t get much sleep. Before I can say anything, she grabs my arm and pulls me aside, away from the path to the main camp.
“Sage,” she begins, her voice somewhere between exasperated and amused. “I need to process this with you.”
My mind jumps to the worst. “Did Branson—?”
“No, no, nothing like that!” Mara cuts me off, her expression softening into a grin. “Come on, it’s Branson we’re talking about.” She rolls her eyes, and I let out a relieved laugh.
“Alright, then what’s got you looking like you just saw a ghost?”
Mara gives me a look, somewhere between disbelief and grudging appreciation. “I am not looking for a relationship—let’s be clear on that—but let’s just say Branson shirtless is… an unexpected sight.” She smirks, shaking her head as if to be serious. “He’s like some… rugged mountain man carved out of stone. I swear.”
It takes me a second, but then I burst out laughing, and she joins in, both of us clutching our sides as we head toward the main camp. I can’t help but picture Branson in all his somber, gruff seriousness, combined with Mara’s description.
“Oh, I love it,” I say, wiping my eyes. “So, shirtless Branson is a sight to behold?”
“Absolutely,” Mara deadpans, though there’s a spark of laughter in her eyes. “Look, it’s not a relationship I’m interested in… but I guess some things about this arrangement might not be so bad after all.”
We both cackle, our laughter spilling out across the morning air, drawing a few curious glances from others. For the first time since all of this started, it feels like a small, ridiculous piece of normalcy has worked its way back into our lives.
Our laughter still echoes between us as we reach the main fire pit. But as we round the corner, our steps falter. There, by the fire, stands Reeves, deep in conversation with Branson. The easy warmth in Mara’s expression drops, and I feel my own stomach twist, the humor of the moment evaporating in an instant.
“Of course,” Mara murmurs, her tone flat as she straightens her shoulders. “Can’t even enjoy a morning without him showing up.”
I nod, my eyes fixed on Reeves. His posture is relaxed, arms crossed casually, but the sharpness in his gaze as he watches Branson tells me this is no friendly visit.
Branson’s expression is stony, unreadable, as he listens to Reeves. But his eyes flicker up, catching sight of us approaching, and there’s a momentary softness, a hint of relief in his gaze. He gives the barest of nods, his signal to stay back—for now.
I glance at Mara, who’s already looking away, her expression guarded. Gone is the laughter and the camaraderie from moments before, replaced by the wariness that Reeves brings like a shadow every time he shows up.
“What do you think he wants now?” I whisper, more to myself than to Mara.
“Nothing good,” she replies, her voice just as low. Her gaze is steady, but I can see the tension in her stance, a readiness that wasn’t there moments ago.
Together, we hover at the edge of the clearing, close enough to keep an eye on what’s unfolding but far enough to avoid drawing attention. It feels like the air around us has thickened, the easy morning traded for something colder, sharper.
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I seethe, knowing I can’t join the conversation since Reeves will discount anything I say solely because I’m a woman. And as I watch Reeves lean in, his voice too low for us to hear, I know this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Dash strides in, his usual calm replaced with a quiet intensity as he heads straight toward Branson and Reeves. His hand brushes my arm in passing—a silent greeting, a grounding touch—and I feel a flicker of warmth, a steadying reminder in the midst of the tension brewing before us.
He stops beside Branson, his presence solid and unshakable. Reeves barely glances at him, his posture still casual, though I can tell from the tightness around his eyes that Dash’s arrival is not appreciated. Branson acknowledges him with a slight nod, his face remaining impassive as Reeves continues, his words now low and calculated.
I steal a glance at Mara, who’s watching the interaction with a mixture of curiosity and unease. Her jaw is set, her usual humor muted as we both strain to catch bits of the conversation. It’s frustratingly quiet, the low hum of their voices just out of reach, leaving us to read what we can from their expressions and gestures.
Reeves’s voice drops, low and quiet as he leans closer to Branson. I can’t hear his words, but the flicker of tension in Branson’s jaw tells me enough. Dash stands beside him, his posture rigid, fists clenched at his sides, watching Reeves with a steady, simmering anger.
Finally, with a slow, satisfied smile, Reeves steps back. He straightens his jacket, looking utterly at ease—as if he hadn’t just disrupted our morning, as if he hadn’t just planted something toxic in the heart of our camp.
Before turning to leave, his gaze sweeps over Mara and me, lingering a fraction too long. His eyes narrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, and with a sickeningly slow wink that makes my skin crawl, he’s gone, strolling out of the camp like he owns the place.
The moment he’s out of sight, Mara and I close the distance to Branson and Dash, questions already bubbling to the surface. Branson runs a hand over his face, his shoulders tense as if bracing for more.
“What was that about?” I ask, my voice barely hiding the urgency.
Branson glances at Dash, who gives a tight nod before turning back to us. “Reeves wants control over part of the southern edge,” he says, voice hard and flat. “The Accord wants to set up ‘watch posts’ there to ‘secure the area.’”
Mara scoffs, crossing her arms. “As if they’re here to ‘secure’ anything but their own power.”
“It’s a strategic spot,” Dash adds, his expression unreadable. “Gives them direct access to the stream, along with a clear view of the rest of our camp. We’ve got a few of our own lookouts there, but if they take it over, it means we lose some control.”
I feel my stomach twist. The southern edge—where some of the children play, where the women gather to wash clothes, where Mara and I had just been. “So they can watch us, plain and simple,” I mutter, bile rising in my throat. “And Reeves just expects us to let that happen?”
Branson nods, his jaw tight. “He’s framed it like it’s for our protection. Any refusal on our part, though, and he’ll take it as an insult, an open challenge.”
Dash’s mouth tightens. “If we turn him down, it won’t just be about that one section. Reeves will spin it however he wants, rile his men up, and find another reason to push in on us.”
Mara shakes her head, her face darkening. “So we’re supposed to hand over our ground, our privacy, because Reeves wants to play protector?”
Branson looks down, his shoulders weighted, and I feel the weight of his responsibility. “For now, it’s the lesser of two evils. We can use the time to fortify the rest of camp and start working on… other ways to resist if they try anything more.”
There’s a bitter silence as we process this, the enormity of it settling over us. I glance at Dash, his jaw set with that stubborn determination I’ve come to recognize, and our eyes meet. His gaze is steady, silently communicating what he won’t say aloud here: We won’t let Reeves tear this down.
I straighten my spine as fire enters my bones. We will overcome this lecherous bully. As my mind starts spinning, I begin a mental list of all the women over sixteen, already planning to have men from the camp stay near them at all times, and assigning each one a teen or young adult who will act as a “courting” partner if needed. No child will be allowed anywhere without adult supervision.
And as for Reeves? We’ll find a way to dismantle or weaken the Sovereign Accord. The determination settles within me like iron, steady and unbreakable. I turn back to the men, meeting each of their gazes in turn, feeling the silent agreement binding us together.
“Time to plan.”