Dawn breaks across the survivors' camp. They wake slowly, stiff from sleeping on hard ground. Fear returns with consciousness as they remember why they're here.

The stone-thrower rises first, checking his children still breathe. They gather closer to dying embers, speaking in hushed tones.

Children whimper at empty stomachs. The old struggle to stand on weakened legs. Two weeks of the horror's methodical culling has left them diminished.

"We need to go back," a woman says, clutching her clothing around thin shoulders. "Our homes."

"Our food," another adds. "Our supplies."

"Our walls," the stone-thrower stands. "The settlement's walls have protected us since grandfather's time."

"The tunnels run under everything," another answers. "Our homes, our fields. It shaped the ground beneath our feet for weeks while we lived blind above."

Some nod. Others stare at soil that might hide more horrors. The horror died, but they know now what darkness can hold.

"The cellars," a woman clutches her rescued daughter. "All those passages. How do we know what else lives down there?"

My shield lifts from earth, drawing their attention. The rising sun catches Haven's mark, a sun rising over walls. I tap the sigil, then point towards where the walled city waits.

They don't understand. How could they? Their world has shrunk to this patch of earth generations ago.

My sword scrapes dirt.

HAVEN WAITS. WALLS STAND. PEOPLE LIVE.

"Another settlement?" The stone-thrower studies the shield's mark. "How far?"

MORE SOULS THAN HERE. STRONGER WALLS.

An older woman squints at my writing. "If others live, why have we never heard? No traders come. No travelers pass."

ROADS GROW DARK. PATHS NEED GUARDS.

Another interjects. "We can't just leave. Everything we have is here. Everything we are."

My blade points to fresh-turned earth where tunnel roofs collapsed. To the horror's hunting grounds beneath their homes. To shadows that grow longer even as the sun rises.

CORRUPTION SPREADS. WORSE THINGS WAKE.

"Worse?" A child's voice breaks. "Worse than the face-stealer?"

WALLS BROKEN. CELLARS OPEN.

"How many days to this Haven?" The stone-thrower asks.

FOUR IF STRONG WALK. SEVEN IF WEAK NEED REST.

A woman nursing bruised legs shakes her head. "We'll never make it. The roads..."

My shield rises. Sunlight catches marks of ancient battles - dents from darker things than simple steel. They see how it still stands, still guards.

I AM SWORD. I AM SHIELD.

"A dead thing offering protection?" Someone spits. "We're supposed to trust that?"

The stone-thrower stands. "It freed us. Killed the horror. Led us out."

"And now it wants us to abandon our homes? Follow it into darkness?"

DARKNESS COMES REGARDLESS.

A girl tugs her father's sleeve. "The face-stealer kept us alive to eat later. Like storing food for winter."

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The stone-thrower pales. "Emmy..."

"Maybe other monsters do that too."

Silence falls. Even those who argued for staying understand the child's truth. Their walls stand broken. Their cellars lie open to darker things.

The stone-thrower meets hollow sockets. "You'll guard us? The whole way?"

I tap the shield's mark. Point to Haven's walls waiting beyond the horizon.

They look to hollow sockets for answers. These fragments have none more to give. The horror may be dead, but darker things stir in the realms. The corruption's touch spreads further each day, turning forest and field against the living.

These hollow sockets turn toward Joist's wooden walls, visible through morning mist. They see what the living cannot - dark shapes moving to fill the spaces.

Nature abhors a vacuum. The horror kept other evils at bay, but now...

"The dead thing offers aid?" An old man spits. "Better to take our chances alone."

The stone-thrower steps forward. "We've lost enough to pride. If death itself offers protection, who are we to refuse?"

Others nod slowly. What choice remains? Their homes lie broken above the horror's tunnels. The wilderness holds its own monsters. At least these bones have proven their purpose.

"We'll need supplies," a practical voice cuts in. "Food. Water. There are children to consider."

My blade points toward their settlement. Scavenging parties must brave the horror's domain one final time. But speed matters more than comfort. Corruption moves, filling spaces the horror leaves behind.

A child points east. "Father, what's that?"

Black mist creeps at the forest edge, too thick for morning fog. Eyes gleam within its depths. The corruption spreads, filling spaces the harvester's presence once kept at bay.

The stone-thrower stands. "We need to return to Joist. Get supplies before-"

"No!" A woman clutches her daughter. "That thing's tunnels run everywhere beneath. There could be more."

My sword scrapes dirt.

NO MORE HARVESTER.

They stare at the words. The stone-thrower steps closer. "You write? You... understand?"

I draw Haven's mark in the soil - a sun rising over walls. The shield turns, showing them the same sigil emblazoned on ancient steel. My finger points north, toward the Field of Broken Banners.

"A fortress?" An old man squints. "I've heard tales of walls in the north, but..."

Dark shapes move in the mist. Something howls, a wolf's cry twisted by corruption's touch. The sound drives them closer to the fire.

"We have no choice," the stone-thrower says. "Joist was all we had. If there's shelter north..."

My blade scrapes earth again.

MUST HURRY. DARKNESS SPREADS.

They gather what strength remains. The stronger help the weaker stand. Parents lift children too exhausted to walk.

"The village first," someone says. "We need food, clothes. Whatever we can carry."

The corruption's mist rolls closer. More eyes shine in its depths. But these fragments sense hesitation in their advance. They question what ended the harvester's hunt.

The village stands silent. No bodies mark its streets. The horror preferred living prey for its larder. Doors hang open where families fled or were dragged into darkness.

"Be quick," the stone-thrower tells them. "Take only what we need."

They separate into small groups, hurrying through empty streets. The stone-thrower leads a team to the granary. Others raid the blacksmith's stores. Parents guide children home to grab precious things.

These fragments patrol the streets between them, sword ready. The horror may be dead, but other things could be drawn to recent violence.

A woman screams from a doorway. Others rush to help but find her clutching a doll - her daughter's favorite toy, left behind in their flight.

More small treasures emerge as they search. A father finds his son's first hunting bow. A grandmother retrieves a family pendant. Little things that tie them to who they were before the horror came.

The stone-thrower organizes their findings. Water skins. Dried meat. Blankets and warm clothes. Tools that might serve on the road.

"We can't carry it all," he says to hollow sockets.

My sword indicates what they'll need most. The shield gestures to what can be left. These fragments remember other refugees, other flights to safety.

"Quick now," the stone-thrower orders. "Take only what you can carry. Food first. Warm clothes. Tools if you can manage."

Screams soon follow. "Rats! They're wrong!"

The sword finds twisted things that were once rodents. Corruption warps even the smallest creatures. The blade ends their hunger before it fully takes hold.

"The grain's already spoiled," the stone-thrower calls. "Corruption's faster than we thought. Take what's sealed. Leave the rest."

They work faster now. The mist reaches the village edge, seeping between buildings. Eyes watch from shadows that shouldn't exist in daylight.

A child cries over a doll left behind. Her mother pulls her away. "We'll find you another. We have to go."

The stone-thrower organizes them into columns. Strong arms carry food and tools. Others support the weak. They leave Joist behind, walking north as corruption claims their homes.

The mist flows through empty streets. Shadows with too many legs skitter between houses. Something that was once a tree begins to twist, its branches reaching like hungry fingers.

"Don't look back," mothers tell their children. "Just walk."

The road stretches ahead, worn stones marking the way north. These fragments remember its path - three days to Haven's walls, if the living can maintain the pace.

The mist of Joist and new horror remains behind. But its patience means little. Other horrors wait between this place and safety.

Some feet blister. Some legs cramp. Some backs ache under loads growing heavier with each step. But they keep moving. The dead city behind offers no sanctuary, and Haven's walls wait ahead.

A child falls, exhausted. Before her father can lift her, others take his burden so he can carry her.

They learn. They adapt. They survive.