Morning came too early. Hunter woke on his mat—still in pain, still exhausted, but slightly less convinced he was dying. Progress.
The camp was already moving. People packing. Families preparing to leave. The sound of quiet goodbyes and rustling belongings filled the air like a funeral for the life they'd all shared for the past week.
Hunter forced himself up. His shoulder protested. His meridians still felt like raw meat. But he walked. One foot in front of the other. Leadership meant showing up even when your body was filing formal complaints.
The departing group had gathered near what used to be the defensive line. Fifteen people total. Mostly families with young children. The elderly grandmother with her three-year-old grandson. A couple with a baby. The skeptical merchant who didn't trust cultivation. Others whose faces Hunter recognized but names he'd never learned.
