Marcus’s POV
Dawn brings them to us.
Not like the desperate flood we witnessed weeks ago, when terror drove dozens across our borders in a single frantic wave. This ti, only a few shadows erge from the forest treeline, moving with the heavy exhaustion of people who have already spent their last reserves of adrenaline just to make it through the darkness.
The numbers are smaller now.
That detail hits first as I count the approaching figures. Fewer silhouettes against the pale morning light. Fewer voices carried on the wind. It should bring relief, but instead, it settles like lead in my gut, cold and heavy with implication.
I understand the pattern too well now.
Refugees never arrive in neat, predictable groups. They co in waves that tell their own story. The first surge carries those who ran while fear was still fresh and sharp, when survival instinct overrode everything else. The second wave moves slower, quieter, already weighed down by what they’ve lost along the way. But when the numbers start dwindling like this, it ans sothing worse. It ans the net is closing sowhere behind them, tightening around whoever couldn’t make it out in ti.
I walk out to et them personally.
No formal delegation this ti. No ceremonial welco party or official protocols. Just my boots against the damp earth and my jacket pulled tight against the morning chill that seems to seep into everything here. As I approach, I lift my hands slightly, palms open and visible, a gesture I’ve learned carries more weight than any words I could offer.
The body language of trust has to co first.
"You’re safe here," I tell them, keeping my voice low and steady. "For now."
A few heads nod in response. One person doesn’t even look up.
They’re exhausted in the bone-deep way that sleep won’t fix. Hungry in a manner that speaks of days, maybe longer, without proper als. Guarded with the particular wariness of people who’ve learned that safety is always temporary.
A woman with two small children clinging to her weathered coat watches like I might disappear if she dares to blink. Her grip on their shoulders never loosens. An elderly couple moves together with steps perfectly matched by years of shared habit and mutual dependence, their fear a unified thing. A young man stands slightly apart from the others, dried blood staining his sleeve dark brown.
I nod toward the stain. "Is that yours?"
He shakes his head quickly. "No. I just... there wasn’t ti to wash it off."
"Understood," I say. "We’ll get you cleaned up."
I don’t press for details. Not yet. Maybe not ever, depending on what they need. Trauma has its own voice, and it speaks loudly enough without interrogation.
Getting them settled becos the imdiate priority. Food cos first, always. Then water. Clean blankets. Basic dignity restored one small comfort at a ti.
"Take it slow," I advise one of the children when he starts cramming bread into his mouth like it might vanish at any mont. "There’s plenty more where that ca from. I promise."
His mother hesitates, uncertainty flickering across her features. "You’re certain about that?"
I et her eyes directly. "I’m certain."
My instructions stay gentle, phrased as suggestions rather than commands. "You can rest here as long as you need. dical personnel will co by later if you want them to. You don’t have to explain anything today, or any day."
People who’ve been hunted don’t respond well to authority, even the benevolent kind.
I help relocate them in carefully spaced groups, making sure they don’t feel herded or penned in. The temporary housing sits near the treeline, positioned far enough from our main settlent to feel like a choice, close enough to maintain protection. I walk the established routes with them myself, boots crunching softly against fallen leaves as I point out important landmarks.
"See that marker there?" I indicate a stone post half-buried in the forest floor. "That’s the boundary line. You don’t need to worry about anything beyond that point. You don’t have to ask permission to cross it, just let soone know your general direction."
"What if we decide to leave?" the elderly woman asks, her voice careful.
I don’t hesitate. "Then you leave. No questions asked. No one will try to stop you."
Most of them accept this arrangent.
Gratitude appears on their faces, cautious but genuine. Relief doesn’t look like celebration when it’s been earned through this much suffering. It looks like shoulders dropping that final inch. Like soone finally allowing themselves to sit down without constantly checking the exits.
One family remains standing apart.
While the others begin to settle, this group clusters tightly together like a single organism braced for the next impact. Father, mother, and a teenage daughter whose eyes hold too much knowledge for her years. They listen to everything I explain, nod politely when appropriate, offer quiet thanks for the assistance.
Then the father shakes his head.
"We won’t be accepting protection," he states.
I pause, letting his words hang in the air between us. "Can you help understand why?"
His jaw tightens visibly. "We’ll be moving on instead."
His tone stays level, controlled, but fear coils underneath it like a snake ready to strike. The mother keeps her gaze fixed on the ground. The daughter stares directly at , unblinking, as if she’s already reached her own conclusions about what I represent.
"We’ve accepted protection before," the father continues after a long mont. "It didn’t hold when we needed it most."
There it is. The truth underneath everything else.
Distrust carved so deep that reassurance can’t reach it. History that outweighs any promise I could make. Every instinct tells to push back, to explain how this place is different, how I won’t allow the sa failures to happen again under my watch.
I resist that impulse.
Real leadership isn’t about convincing people you’re trustworthy. It’s about respecting their decision when they determine you’re not.
"All right," I say quietly. "Then let at least show you the safest routes out of here."
The daughter’s eyes narrow with suspicion. "Why would you do that?"
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