The Protective Circle

“Some circles keep things out. Others keep you standing when everything else tries to pull you under.”

Stepping into the protective circle cast by the fire-sticks felt like breaching a thin membrane between danger and sanctuary. Their flickering glow danced across our faces, revealing the exhaustion etched into every line, the grime and blood clinging to our clothes, and the sheer disbelief that we had made it back.

Then Charity's voice sliced through the tentative quiet: “Wha's the camp leader?” The question was calm, almost too calm. But there was no mistaking the weight it carried. This wasn’t idle curiosity—it was assessment.

“I am,” Paul replied before I even had time to consider the implications. His voice was clear, unflinching. Not boastful. Not uncertain. Just… Paul. Solid. Certain.

Something inside me eased at the sound of it.

The night had nearly torn us apart, but hearing Paul claim leadership in that moment felt like an anchor in storm-wracked seas. I saw it, too—the way his shoulders squared slightly, not out of pride, but readiness. He wasn’t just saying it. He meant it.

Charity didn’t waste time. “We need tae talk. Ye and I.” Her words struck like an arrow—direct, decisive. There was no room in her tone for compromise. And yet, her gaze flicked around, restless. Wary. Like she already knew this place of fire-lit comfort could become a trap at any moment.

Paul didn’t flinch. “We need to see to Kain’s wounded leg first,” he countered, his priorities laid out plainly, his loyalty to our people woven into every syllable.

But then, something in Charity shifted. She dropped to a crouch, gave Kain’s bloodied leg a glance—no more than that—and dismissed it with unsettling brevity. “It's barely a scratch. He'll bide.”

I felt my stomach twist.

The bandage was sodden, crimson blooming through the fabric like ink in water. Kain’s face was pale, his breath shallow and ragged. Barely a scratch?

Paul moved to speak again, but Charity silenced him with a swift motion of her hand and a quick, scanning glance over her shoulder. Her eyes, sharp and darting, didn’t look at us—they looked past us. Into the darkness. As if expecting it to answer.

And that, more than anything, unsettled me.

Chris appeared, almost ghostlike, slipping beneath Kain’s arm and relieving Paul of the burden. The transition was seamless. Practised. The kind of quiet teamwork born from shared trauma.

I stepped forward, already moving toward the medical tent. “We need to get him to the medical tent,” I said, my tone firm with purpose.

Because he would live. Not because Charity said so, but because we would make it so.

I didn’t wait for permission. I didn’t need it.