Season 1, Chapter 6 - Brink

The kitchen shack smelled like cinnamon and fresh dough.

Silas stood at the counter, claws carefully crimping the edge of a pie crust while Toni worked beside him, elbow-deep in a bowl of pumpkin filling. Flour dusted the counter in uneven patches, and someone had spilled sugar across the floor in a trail that led directly to where Toni had been searching for the spice rack five minutes ago.

"You sure this is the right ratio?" Toni asked, peering into the bowl with suspicion.

"It's fine," Silas said, not looking up from his crust. "I followed the recipe exactly."

"The recipe you got from where?"

"Moss."

Toni blinked. "Moss gave you a pie recipe?"

"He's surprisingly domestic."

"Huh." Toni poked at the filling with a bare finger. "Guess that tracks."

Around them, the evidence of their morning's work spread in organized chaos. Pumpkins sat gutted and hollow near the window, their insides scraped clean. A stack of prepared crusts waited on the side table, and three finished pies already cooled on the ledge, their golden surfaces gleaming in the early light.

Silas finished crimping and stepped back, admiring the clean lines. "There. That's five done."

"Five?" Toni straightened, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and leaving a streak of orange across his temple. "How many more do we got?"

"As many as we can before people start waking up."

"That's not a number!"

"It's a goal." Silas moved to grab another crust, but paused when he saw Toni's expression. "What?"

Toni grinned, slow and smirked. "So about that army."

Silas froze. His veins pulsed faintly beneath his skin. "I... don't know what you're talking about."

"The pumpkin army!" Toni gestured at the pies with exaggerated drama. "You were trying to usurp my delicious empire!"

"Well..." Silas started, then caught himself. His shoulders dropped. "Okay, fine. Maybe."

Toni's grin widened. "I knew it! You let it slip out earlier!"

"I never said anything of the such..."

"You absolutely said that. You were going to carve faces and everything, weren't you."

Silas picked up another pumpkin half, turning it over in his claws. "Look, the idea had merit! Could've made them into nice decorations, or something."

"And now we have pie."

"And now we have pie," Silas agreed, deadpan.

Toni laughed, the sound bright and easy in the quiet morning. "This is so much better than an army. We're feeding people instead of scaring them."

"Speak for yourself. My pies are terrifying."

"They're great, actually." Toni scooped another spoonful of filling into a waiting crust. "Everyone's going to love these."

Silas watched him work, and for a moment, as Toni turned toward the window, the morning light caught in his hair. The red streak that ran through it shimmered, just for a second. Almost pearlescent. Like oil on water, shifting with colors that shouldn't have been there.

Silas blinked.

The shimmer was gone. Just hair again, normal and familiar.

Must be the flour dust catching the light.

Silas shook his head slightly and went back to his crust. "Yeah. I think they will."

They fell into a comfortable rhythm after that. Toni filled crusts while Silas crimped edges and transferred finished pies into the furnace. The work was mindless in the best way, repetitive but satisfying, and the kitchen grew warmer as more pies baked.

"You excited?" Silas asked after a while.

"The election?" Toni glanced up. "Yeah! I mean, it's kind of a big deal, right? We're choosing who leads us. That's... hopefully for the best."

"Who are you voting for?"

Toni paused, considering. "Probably Mom. I trust her ands I think she's been doing a lot for everyone." He tilted his head. "What about you?"

Silas's claws stilled on the crust he was working. "I don't know yet. They both make sense for different reasons."

"Million diamond question." Toni said, voice quieter now. "They're both right about different things."

"Yeah."

The furnaces' timer chimed, breaking the moment. Silas grabbed a cloth and pulled out three golden pies, their crusts perfectly browned. The smell hit immediately, sweet and rich, filling the kitchen with warmth.

"Okay, those look amazing," Toni said, leaning in to inspect them. "We should make a dozen. At least."

"We're already at eight."

"Then let's make it an even ten." Toni wiped his hands on his shirt, leaving orange smears across the fabric. "After today, things settle down, right? Election's done, everyone can relax, and we can actually enjoy these instead of stress-baking them."

Silas glanced at him, something fond tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Stress-baking?"

"That's what this is." Toni gestured at the mess around them. "Productive panic."

"I thought we were feeding the community."

"Hey, two birds one stone."

Silas shook his head, but he was smiling now. "Fine. Ten pies. But you're cleaning up the flour."

"Deal."

Toni looked at him then, really looked, and something soft crossed his expression. "You should smile more, you know."

Silas's smile faltered. "What?"

"You're way less scary when you're covered in pumpkin." Toni gestured at Silas's flour-dusted shirt, the streak of filling still clinging to his collar. "You look... I don't know. Normal. Like a person who just makes pies with his friend."

The words hit differently than Silas expected.

Silas looked down at himself, at the mess they'd made together, and something loosened in his chest. For once, he didn't feel like the demon he thought he was. He just felt... like Silas.

He laughed. Genuinely. The sound surprised even him, warm and unburdened.

Toni's grin returned, bright and infectious. "There it is! See? Way better."

"Okay, okay."

They worked through the next hour in easy companionship, the kind that didn't need constant conversation. By the time the sun had fully risen, ten pies sat cooling on every available surface, their crusts golden and perfect, steam still rising faintly from the vents.

Toni stepped back, surveying their work with obvious pride. "Look at that. We did something."

"We did, didn't we."

While Silas stood in awe at the golden pies, Toni scooped a handful of leftover filling from a bowl and flung it directly at Silas's face.

It hit with a wet splat, pumpkin filling dripping down Silas's cheek and onto his shirt.

Silas blinked. Once. Twice.

Toni was already backing toward the door, grin wild and victorious.

"Toni."

"I couldn't help it! The opportunity was right there!"

Silas wiped the filling from his face slowly, deliberately. His veins pulsed brighter, multicolored light flickering beneath his skin. "You have three seconds."

"To what?"

"Run."

Toni bolted.

Silas grabbed the nearest bowl of filling and chased him out of the kitchen, both of them laughing as they disappeared into the morning light, leaving behind a kitchen covered in flour and the warm smell of fresh pumpkin pie.

The stack of ten pies sat cooling on the counter, golden and perfect, waiting to be shared with a community that still believed today would bring them together.

* * * The communal breakfast area was already stirring with early risers when Moss arrived, arms full of mismatched bowls and a basket of slightly stale bread. He set them on the long table with more force than necessary, the clatter echoing across the space.

"Right," he muttered to himself, surveying the meager supplies. "After the election, we really need to hunt."

Someone had already started a fire in the pit nearby, smoke rising thin and steady into the morning air. A few people milled around, waiting for food or just soaking up the early warmth. The usual morning energy, subdued but present.

And then Moss noticed the pies.

Ten of them, stacked on a side table near the kitchen shack, their golden crusts still faintly warm. The smell hit him a moment later, rich and sweet, completely at odds with the stale bread and rationed supplies he'd been working with.

"Where did these come from?" Moss asked aloud.

At the far edge of the breakfast area, Cheri sat on a low bench with her back against a post, surrounded by an organized chaos of journals. Three of them lay open around her, pages covered in dense writing and rough sketches. Her charcoal-stained fingers moved across another page now, quick and deliberate, not looking up.

"Silas and Toni," she said without breaking her work. "Been baking since dawn."

Moss blinked at the pies, then at Cheri. "Ten pies? What are they, stress-baking?"

"Probably."

He moved closer to inspect them, lifting one slightly to check the bottom. Perfect. Actually perfect. "Didn't think they'd actually do it."

Behind him, Cheri's charcoal scratched against paper. Moss glanced back, noticing for the first time the spread of materials around her. Journals stacked neatly by size. Loose pages weighted down with stones. A leather satchel open at her feet, more books visible inside.

"Writing something?" Moss asked, genuine curiosity breaking through his breakfast-organizing focus.

Cheri didn't look up. "Recording."

"Recording what?"

"This." She gestured vaguely at the breakfast area with her charcoal, the motion encompassing the table, the people, the morning itself. "Someone should remember today."

Moss's brow furrowed. "It's just breakfast."

"Everything's just something until it isn't."

The words hung in the air, matter-of-fact and somehow unsettling. Moss stared at her for a moment, trying to decide if she was being profound or just weird. He settled on both.

"Right," he said slowly. "Well. Keep up the good work, I guess."

Cheri's visible eye flicked up briefly, silver and sharp, then back down to her sketch. Moss caught a glimpse of what she was drawing: the breakfast table from her angle, rough but recognizable. People in loose shapes around it. The pies prominent in the corner.

He turned back to his work, shaking his head. Cheri was odd, but at least she was consistent.

And then purple smoke swirled at the edge of the clearing.

Nyla materialized in a burst of violet, Flint appearing beside her a moment later on foot, his eyes already resting protectively on the surroundings. Nyla's glowing eyes swept the area, landing immediately on the pies.

Her entire face lit up.

"Are those pies?" She didn't wait for an answer, crossing the space in long strides, Flint trailing behind her with considerably less enthusiasm. "Are these for everyone? Can I try one?"

Moss gestured at the stack. "Help yourself. Silas and Toni made them."

"Silas and Toni made pies?" Nyla was already reaching for one, cradling it carefully in both hands. "This is the best morning."

Flint stopped beside her, arms crossed, expression neutral but not hostile. His eyes scanned the area with the habitual vigilance he carried everywhere, flames flickering faintly at his temples. When he was satisfied there was no immediate threat, he glanced down at Nyla.

"You're going to eat the whole thing?"

"Yes," Nyla said immediately, taking a bite. Her eyes closed, and she made a small sound of contentment. "Oh, this is so good. Flint, you have to try one."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. Eat pie."

Flint's mouth twitched, almost a smile. He took one from the stack, breaking off a piece. "Happy?"

"Very."

They stood there together, Flint eating slowly while Nyla devoured hers with unrestrained joy. Around them, others started helping themselves to the pies, murmurs of appreciation spreading through the small crowd. Someone laughed. Someone else called out thanks toward the kitchen shack, where Silas and Toni had long since disappeared.

Moss watched it unfold, something warm settling in his chest. This was good. Simple, but good. People coming together over food, over something kind someone had done for no reason other than to be kind.

At the edge of the area, Cheri's charcoal continued scratching.

Moss glanced over and saw her sketching Flint and Nyla now: Flint's protective stance, the way his hand hovered near Nyla's shoulder even when he wasn't touching her. Nyla's smile, captured in a few quick lines. The communal warmth of people sharing pies, translated into rough shapes and movement.

Cheri worked without pause, flipping to a new page when she filled one, writing fragments of conversation in the margins. Someone's laughter. The phrase "after the election." Moss's earlier comment about hunting.

Nyla finished her pie and immediately reached for another. Flint didn't stop her, just shook his head with something that might have been fondness.

"You're going to make yourself sick," he said.

"Worth it."

Flint's expression softened, just slightly. His hand moved to her shoulder again, a brief squeeze. "Come on. We should get ready."

Nyla nodded, reluctantly setting down the half-eaten second pie. "Okay. But I'm coming back for this."

"Alright, alright."

They left together, Flint's presence a steady anchor as they disappeared back toward his fortified house. Others began drifting away too, bellies full or at least fuller than before, conversations trailing off as people returned to their preparations.

Moss started cleaning up, stacking some empty bowls. The pies were mostly gone now, just crumbs and a few remaining slices. When he glanced toward Cheri again, she was packing up her journals, tucking them carefully into her satchel one by one. The sketches and notes disappeared into leather-bound order, charcoal secured in a cloth wrap.

"You coming to the election?" Moss asked.

Cheri stood, slinging the satchel over her shoulder. "Obviously."

"Thought you might skip it."

"And miss recording the most important thing to happen to this camp in weeks?" She adjusted the strap, expression flat. "I'll be in the back."

"Figured."

She walked away without another word, satchel heavy with the weight of every moment she'd captured.

Moss stood alone in the breakfast area, smoke from the fire curling upward, the smell of pumpkin pie still lingering in the air.

Everything's just something until it isn't.

He shook his head and went back to cleaning, trying not to think too hard about what Cheri had meant.

* * * Wren's hut smelled like cinnamon and nerves.

She sat at her small table with a slice of pumpkin pie balanced on a chipped plate, picking at the crust without really eating it. Across from her, Toni was already halfway through his piece, crumbs scattered across his shirt.

"You know," Toni said between bites, "for first timers, Silas and I really nailed these."

"I didn't know you had this in you."

"Motivation does wonders." He grinned. "You should try actually eating yours instead of dissecting it."

Wren looked down at the mangled slice. "I'm eating."

"Fingers have mouths?"

She set down her fork and leaned back, adjusting her glasses. "I'm allowed to be nervous."

"You're going to win, you know."

"You don't know that for sure."

"I do, actually." Toni pointed his fork at her. "Flint's intense. People respect him, sure, but they trust you. Don't know?"

Wren's mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile. "And if they don't? If they vote for him?"

"Then we'll be okay." Toni shrugged, easy and confident. "That's what matters, right? We're still a community either way. Still together."

"Even if I don't, we'll be okay," Wren echoed quietly. "Yeah. That's what matters."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the morning light filtering through the window in dusty streams. Somewhere outside, voices drifted past, people preparing for the day.

Toni finished his pie and pushed the plate aside. "So what's the plan? Got a speech?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"I have ideas. General concepts."

"Mom."

"What? I work better improvising!" Wren ran a hand through her platinum pink hair, the feathers near her ears ruffling. "Besides, I want people to see me as me. Not some rehearsed version."

"Fair." Toni tilted his head. "Now tell me what you've been sleeping on."

Wren hesitated, fingers drumming against the table. "Callum."

"What about him?"

"I want him to feel included today. After what happened with Flint confronting us the other day... I think he needs to know he matters here. That he's not just... floating."

Toni's expression softened. "He's been kind of off lately."

"Yeah." Wren's voice was quieter now. "I don't know. I just keep thinking about how he looked when Flint used him as an example. Like he was waiting for it. Like he expected to be the problem."

"So what are you thinking?"

"I don't know... yet. But something." Wren met his eyes. "Something that shows him we trust him. That this is his community too."

Toni smiled, genuine and warm. "You're going to give him... like a role, or something?"

"Maybe."

"You're such a softie."

"I'm a risk-taker."

"You can be both."

Wren laughed, and the sound broke through some of the tension that had been building in her chest. She reached across the table and ruffled Toni's hair with more force than necessary.

"Hey!" He batted her hand away, trying to smooth the mess back down. "I just fixed that!"

"You'll survive."

"Rude..." But he was grinning. "You know, for someone who's about to run for leader, you're very immature."

"Watch your mouth, buster. It's part of my charm!"

Wren stood, pushing her chair back. She adjusted her glasses again, straightened her tie, rolled her sleeves with deliberate movements. When she looked at Toni, something settled in her expression. Confidence, yes, but also purpose.

"Let's go make this right," she said.

Toni stood too, brushing crumbs from his shirt. "Aye, aye."

Wren moved toward the door, then paused. "You coming?"

"In a minute. I told Silas I'd help with... something. Preparations, I think."

"Don't get into trouble."

"Me? Never."

Wren gave him a look, but she was smiling. "See you at the election."

"Front row. Best seat in the house."

"Of course you are."

She stepped out into the morning, the door closing behind her with a soft click. Toni stood alone in the hut for a moment, looking at the half-eaten pie on the table, the chair his mother had just vacated, the light spilling across worn floorboards.

He grabbed his plate and headed out, whistling tunelessly, ready to help however he could.

* * * Wren found Callum beside his tent, sleeves rolled up, hands buried in a tub of cold water. He worked at a shirt with steady, deliberate motions, scrub, rinse, wring, repeating the cycle as if the rhythm itself kept his thoughts at bay. Wet cloth slapped against his forearms, droplets darkening the dirt at his feet, but he didn’t seem to notice. He just kept moving, as though stopping would mean feeling.

She approached slowly, carrying the other half of her untouched pie on its plate.

"Howdy," she called out.

Callum looked up, and something shuttered in his expression. Not hostile, but guarded. Cautious.

"Wren."

"Can we talk?"

He hesitated, hands stilling on the rope. "About what?"

"Y'know... about the other day." She stopped a few feet away, not crowding him. "And about today."

Callum's jaw worked. He glanced past her, toward the camp, then back. "I'm kind of busy."

"I know. This won't take long." Wren held out the plate. "You eaten yet?"

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked."

Callum stared at the pie, then at her. Something uncertain flickered across his face. Finally, he set down the wet clothing.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Wren waited while he broke off a piece and took a bite. The silence stretched, not quite comfortable but not hostile either. She adjusted her glasses, buying time.

"I, ah, wanted to apologize," Wren said finally. "For the other day. Things got heated, and I should have... I don't know. Handled it better."

Callum chewed slowly, not meeting her eyes. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Maybe. But I didn't do anything right either." She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, searching for the right words. "Look, I know things have been tense. And I know you've been... struggling. With how you fit here."

The observation landed harder than she'd intended. Callum's shoulders tensed, but he didn't argue. He just took another bite of pie, mechanical and distant.

Wren took a breath. "I want you to mediate the election today."

Callum froze. The piece of pie stopped halfway to his mouth.

"What?"

"The election. I want you to be the one speaking. The mediator. The neutral voice." Wren stepped closer, earnest now. "I think you'd be perfect for it."

"Me?" Callum set the plate down on a nearby crate, shock breaking through his careful guard. "Why would you... why me?"

"Because you're human," Wren said simply. "You're not caught up in our sides. You're not bias, you're not aligned with Flint or me or anyone. You're just... you. And people will listen to that."

Callum shook his head, disbelief plain on his face. "I'm not sure about that one..."

"And honestly?" Wren cut him off, gentler now. "You've wanted to feel like you matter here. Like you have a place. I see that. I've seen it." She met his eyes, steady and genuine. "Well, here's your chance. I trust you."

The words hit like a physical thing. Callum's breath caught, and for a moment he just stood there, overwhelmed and uncertain and something else she couldn't name.

"I..." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "You really want me to do this?"

"I really do."

"What if I mess it up?"

"I think I know you," Wren said. "I think you care about this place. About this camp. That's what matters."

Callum looked down at his hands, at the flour still dusting his sleeves from pie, at the clothes he'd been scrubbing. When he looked back up, something had shifted in his expression. Not quite confidence, but acceptance. Decision.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Yes. I'll do it."

Wren's face broke into a grin. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Thank you. For... for trusting me."

"It'll be great," Wren said, and meant it. "This matters. You matter."

She clapped him on the shoulder, firm and warm, then stepped back. "I should get going. Preparations and all that. But I'll see you at the site?"

Callum nodded. "I'll be there."

"Front and center."

"Front and center," he echoed.

Wren walked away with purpose in her stride, shoulders back, head high. Whatever nervousness she'd carried earlier had burned off into determination.

Callum stood alone by his tent, watching her go.

When she'd disappeared around the bend, he looked down at the half-eaten pie, at the empty camp around him, at the morning light filtering through the trees.

I can do this.

The thought settled into his chest, solid and sure.

I can keep it peaceful. James said he just wants to be heard. He promised. I can make them listen. I can control this.

He picked up the plate and finished the pie, each bite tasting like purpose. Like belonging. Like finally, finally having something that mattered.

He gathered his things and started toward the election site, steps steady and sure.

Behind him, his clothes still hung damp, and somewhere in the trees, James listened.

* * * The path to the election site wound through scattered trees, dirt packed down by recent traffic. Morning light filtered through the canopy in shifting patterns, warm despite the autumn chill settling into the air. Flint walked with purpose, flames flickering faintly at his temples, a half-eaten slice of pumpkin pie in one hand.

Moss kept pace beside him, hands in his pockets, considerably more relaxed. His footsteps fell easy and unhurried, a stark contrast to Flint's measured stride.

"You know," Moss said after a while, "I'm shocked those pies actually turned out so well."

Flint glanced at him. "Why wouldn't they?"

"Because I gave Silas that recipe as a joke." Moss's mouth quirked. "It was a recipe I traded for. Super traditional, weirdly specific measurements. I figured he'd look at it, get confused, and give up."

"Instead he made ten perfect pies."

"And you'd never expect it." Moss shook his head, genuinely impressed. "He's got commitment. Him and Toni both. They must've been up since dawn."

Flint took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "It's good. Better than I expected."

"Right?" Moss pulled his hands from his pockets, gesturing as he spoke. "The crust is crispy, the filling's not too sweet. They even got the spice ratio right. That's the hard part."

"Huh."

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, boots crunching against packed earth. Behind them, the sounds of camp faded gradually. Ahead, voices carried on the wind, people already gathering. The election site wasn't far now.

Moss glanced sideways at Flint. "How's Nyla doing with all this?"

Flint's expression tightened. "She's nervous."

"Makes sense. It's a big day."

"She shouldn't have to be nervous." The words came out harder than Flint probably intended. He took a breath, moderating his tone. "She's been asking questions. What happens if James comes back. What happens if we can't protect ourselves. What happens if..."

He trailed off, eyes rolling.

Moss waited, giving him space.

"She's scared," Flint said finally, quieter now. "And I hate that she's scared. I hate that any of this is happening at all."

"You can't protect her from everything."

"I can try."

"Yeah." Moss's voice was gentle. "You probably could."

The path curved around a thick cluster of oaks, the election site hidden just beyond. Flint's pace slowed without him seeming to realize it, his shoulders tense beneath his hoodie. The pie was nearly gone now, just crumbs clinging to his fingers.

Moss noticed. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"Hence the stress-pie."

Flint glanced down at what remained. "It's good pie."

"It is. Doesn't change the fact that you're wound like a bowstring." Moss studied him more carefully. "What's going on?"

Flint slowed, then stopped entirely. He turned to face Moss, and something in his expression had shifted. More serious. More certain.

"Look, I have to admit."

Moss stopped too, giving Flint his full attention.

Flint took a breath, choosing his words carefully. "Even if I don't win today, I'm not letting Wren stop me from protecting this camp."

The statement landed heavy between them. Moss didn't respond immediately, just watched Flint's face, reading what was written there.

"What does that mean?" Moss asked finally.

"It means if James comes back, I'm not waiting for permission to act." Flint's hands clenched, flames dancing briefly across his knuckles before he forced them down. "I protect what's mine. What's ours. And if she wants to sit around discussing feelings while he burns everything down, that's her choice. But I won't stand by and watch."

The territorial edge in his voice was unmistakable. Not cruel. Not power-hungry. Just fierce, protective, the kind of intensity that came from genuinely caring too much and not knowing how else to show it.

Moss absorbed this, eyebrows tilting slightly. The breeze moved through the trees around them, carrying the distant sound of laughter from the gathering ahead. Everything felt normal out here. Peaceful, even.

But Flint's words carried the promise of fracture.

"I get that," Moss said slowly. "But maybe it won't come to that."

"Maybe."

"I know that's pretty much been the hope lately." Moss paused, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted into something more thoughtful. More deliberate. "Whoever wins... they'll need to actually enforce things, you know? Not just suggest. Make people answer for their actions."

Flint blinked, genuinely surprised. "Didn't know you cared about rules."

"I don't." Moss leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed. "But I care about consequences. People need to know there's a line. Cross it, and something actually happens. Otherwise what's the point of having a leader at all?"

"You've been thinking about this."

"Yeah." Moss looked out toward where the election site waited, expression unusually serious. "I mean, look at what happened with James. He burns his house, almost takes half the camp with it, and then just... disappears. No consequences. No accountability. Just fear and everyone picking sides about what might happen next."

Flint's shoulders slumped back, crossing his arms with a look of respect floating across it.

"Someone should've gone after him," Moss continued. "Or at least decided as a group what we'd do if he came back. Set a boundary. Made it clear. But instead we just... argued and waited and hoped it wouldn't get worse." He shook his head. "That's not how you keep people safe."

The words hung in the air between them, weighted with a philosophy Moss had clearly been developing but never quite voiced until now.

Flint stared at him. "Very thought-out for you."

"I have depths."

"Apparently."

"Don't spread it around. Ruins my chill reputation." Moss's mouth quirked, some of his usual lightness returning. "But I'm serious. Accountability matters. Structure matters. You can't just hope people will do the right thing."

"No," Flint agreed quietly, something settling in his chest. "You can't."

They started walking again, the confession and philosophy between them happened like shared weight. The tension had shifted into something more contemplative, more solid. The path curved ahead, winding through a section where the trees grew thicker, their roots breaking through the packed earth in patterns.

"For what it's worth," Moss said, breaking the silence, "I think you'd be a good leader. Even if you're kind of intense about it."

Flint glanced at him. "Kind of?"

"Very intense. Aggressively intense."

"Thanks."

"But hey, authority needs that strength." Moss nudged him with an elbow, his usual lightness creeping back. "At least if something goes wrong, you're literally fireproof. That's got to be an advantage."

Despite everything, Flint's mouth twitched. "That's the idea."

"So... can you actually control it? The fire?" Moss asked, genuine curiosity cutting through the levity. "Or is it just... always there?"

"Both." Flint stopped walking and held up his free hand, palm facing upward. For a moment, nothing happened. Then flames bloomed across his skin, orange and red dancing together, moving with a life that felt connected to his breath.

Moss watched, fascinated.

"It's instinct," Flint said, flexing his fingers. "Part of who I am. Like breathing. I can push it down, control it, but it's always there underneath. Always ready."

The election site opened up before them, the full gathering visible now. People finding seats, talking in small groups, the stage standing ready with its podium gleaming in the late morning light.

All those people, gathered together, trusting that today would bring clarity. That a vote would fix the fractures. That choosing a leader meant choosing safety.

He wanted to believe it. Wanted to think Moss was right, that maybe today would fix things.

But the unease wouldn't leave him. The sense that something was still wrong, still coming, still waiting just out of sight.

Flint finished the last bite of his pie and tucked the empty plate under his arm. The crust had been perfect. Silas and Toni had done well.

"Here we go," he said.

"You ready?"

"No." Flint's jaw set, flames flickering brighter at his temples. "But I'm going anyway."

"That's the spirit."

They descended toward the clearing together, Moss's easy calm a counterpoint to Flint's coiled intensity. The grass crunched beneath their boots, dried from days without rain. Around them, the camp gathered, faces familiar and hopeful, believing today would bring answers instead of more questions.

Flint's eyes moved constantly, cataloging positions, counting faces. Old habits from before the camp. He found Nyla almost immediately—middle section, purple glow unmistakable, sitting next to Rain. Safe. Close enough to reach if something happened.

Not that there would be danger. This was supposed to be peaceful.

But Flint's instincts screamed otherwise.

"I'll be in the front," Moss said, breaking off toward the seating. "Try not to set anything on fire."

"No promises."

Moss grinned and walked away, already waving to someone else, his earlier seriousness dissolving back into his usual relaxed demeanor.

* * * Rain knelt in the grass near the edge of the clearing, fingers working carefully to position another tulip. The flowers had taken most of the morning to arrange, bright splashes of red and pink and white against the darker earth. They circled the stage in loose clusters, roses mixed with tulips, petals catching the late morning light.

It looked peaceful. Intentional. Like something worth protecting.

Rain sat back on their heels, surveying the work with quiet satisfaction. After today, maybe this would be what the camp felt like all the time. Beautiful. Calm. Safe.

Nyla approached from the path, purple smoke wisping faintly at her shoulders, her tall frame hunched slightly as if trying to take up less space. Her glowing eyes fixed on the flowers immediately, widening with something like wonder.

"Oh," Nyla breathed, stopping a few feet away. "These are beautiful."

Rain smiled, brushing dirt from their hands. "Thanks. I wanted the site to feel... I don't know. Special, I guess."

Nyla moved closer, drawn forward like the flowers were pulling her. She crouched down, reaching out hesitantly to touch one of the tulip petals. Her fingers were gentle, reverent, like she was afraid of damaging something precious.

"I wish I could make things grow like this," Nyla said quietly.

There was genuine longing in her voice, something wistful and sad that made Rain's chest tighten.

"You could learn," Rain offered. "It's not hard. Just patience and paying attention."

Nyla shook her head, still tracing the petal's edge. "I don't know. I've never been good at creating things. I just... move through spaces. I don't make anything stay."

Rain watched her for a moment, then shifted closer. "That's not true."

Nyla looked up, surprised.

"You create safety when you move people away from danger," Rain said. "That's creating something. Space to breathe."

Nyla's expression softened, something vulnerable flickering across her face. She looked back down at the flowers, fingers still touching the tulip.

Rain made a decision. They reached out and carefully picked the tulip Nyla had been admiring, stem and all, holding it out between them.

"Here," Rain said. "Keep this one."

Nyla blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah. Plant it after today, when everything settles down. We'll have time then. I can show you how."

Nyla took the flower carefully, cradling it in both hands like it might break. The purple glow around her seemed to soften, and when she looked at Rain, her smile was genuine and warm.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll take care of it. I promise."

"I know you will."

They stayed there for a moment, kneeling together in the grass, the flower between them bright and alive. Around them, the clearing waited, empty but not for long. Voices carried on the wind, people beginning to make their way toward the site.

"I'm trying to make this place peaceful," Rain said, looking at the arrangements surrounding them. "Beautiful. After today, maybe everyone can just... breathe."

Nyla nodded, tucking the flower carefully into her pocket where it wouldn't get crushed. "I hope so. Flint's been so tense. Everyone has."

"We're all going to be okay." Rain's voice was certain, confident. "We just needed to come together like this."

"Yeah." Nyla stood, offering her hand to help Rain up. "Together."

They turned toward the clearing as the first group of people emerged from the path. Toni's voice carried ahead of him, loud and excited, Silas's quieter response following.

The gathering was beginning.

Toni burst into the clearing like he'd been launched, grinning wide as he surveyed the arranged seating. "I want the best seat!"

Silas followed behind, considerably calmer. "You always want the best seat."

"Because I have excellent taste." Toni immediately beelined for the front row, center position, and dropped into the chair with theatrical satisfaction. "Perfect. I'm going to see everything from here."

Silas shook his head but moved to sit nearby, choosing a spot offset to the side. Close enough to keep an eye on Toni but not directly in the line of sight. Moss appeared a moment later, sliding into the seat next to Silas with a nod.

"Stay close, okay?" Silas said quietly.

Moss glanced at him. "You expecting trouble?"

"Can't help but be a little anxious" Silas flexed his claws slightly.

"Fair enough."

More people filtered in, the clearing filling gradually with familiar faces. The atmosphere hummed with nervous energy, excitement mixed with apprehension. This was it. The moment they'd been building toward for days.

Nyla and Rain moved toward the middle section together, still talking quietly. Nyla's hand drifted to her pocket where the flower rested, checking it was still safe.

"Sit with me?" Nyla asked when they reached the rows.

"Of course."

They settled into seats near the center, Rain pointing out different flowers in the arrangements while Nyla listened, still cradling the knowledge that she'd been given something to keep. Something alive and growing that was hers to protect.

At the edge of the clearing, Iris landed with a flutter of white wings, her red scarf whipping in the breeze. She didn't sit. Instead, she positioned herself at the perimeter where she could see the entire gathering, the stage, the tree line beyond.

Her eyes moved constantly. Scanning. Checking sight lines. Watching for anything out of place.

Shew drifted past, heading toward the back, and Iris caught their attention. "Hey. We good?"

Shew paused, mismatched eyes meeting hers. "Yeah. We're good."

"Jungle spot after this?"

"Deal."

In the back row, Cheri had already claimed her spot. She sat with her back hunched, journals spread across her lap and the empty seat beside her, charcoal sticks arranged in careful order. Her visible silver eye moved across the scene methodically, cataloging everything.

The stage. The podium. The flowers. The crowd settling into seats.

The hope was palpable, visible in smiles and relaxed shoulders and the way people leaned toward each other instead of away. Like they'd been holding their breath for days and were finally allowed to exhale.

No one noticed the charges hidden beneath the stage. The gunpowder worked into the cracks between planks. The careful preparation that waited, silent and patient, for the right moment.

Wren and Flint approached the stage from opposite sides, their paths converging near the steps. Callum was already there, standing awkwardly at the base, hands in his pockets.

They paused when they saw each other, and for a moment the tension that had defined their recent interactions hung between them.

Then Wren extended her hand to Flint.

"May the best leader win," she said.

Flint took it, grip firm but not aggressive. "For the camp."

"For the camp," Wren echoed.

Callum shifted his weight, uncertain whether he should interrupt. Wren noticed and turned toward him with a smile.

"Callum. You ready?"

"I think so." His voice came out steadier than he felt. "What exactly do I...?"

"You'll introduce us both," Wren explained. "Keep it neutral. Then let us each speak. When we're done, you facilitate the vote. Nothing complicated."

Flint studied Callum with those intense eyes, flames flickering at his temples. "Wren told me she asked you to mediate. Good choice."

Callum blinked, surprised. "You think so?"

"You're human. Neutral. Neither of us can claim you're biased." Flint's expression was serious but not hostile. "People will trust that."

Somehow, Callum being a human wasn't just lack of something suddenly. He was something.

"I..." Callum looked between them, something warm settling in his chest. "Thank you. Both of you. For trusting me with this."

Wren clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll do great. Just be yourself."

The three of them stood together at the base of the stage, the community gathering behind them, waiting. Callum looked out at the faces he'd come to know over these past weeks. People who'd welcomed him, even when he felt like an outsider. People he wanted to protect.

* * * In the tree line above the clearing, James stood perfectly still.

The hill gave him a commanding view of everything below. The stage. The podium where Callum gripped the wood like an anchor. The neat rows of seating filled with trusting, oblivious faces.

All of them gathered. All of them vulnerable. All of them exactly where he needed them to be.

James adjusted his sunglasses with methodical precision, the gesture as much ritual as necessity. His other hand rested on Mary's handle, the axe leaning against the tree beside him. The weight of it was familiar. Comforting.

He watched Callum take a breath, preparing to speak.

Behind the bandages, James smiled.

Almost there.

He settled into position, patient and ready, waiting for the perfect moment. He stared at Callum, listening to him attempt diplomacy.

* * * Callum cleared his throat, and the last scattered conversations died away. The crowd's attention focused entirely on him now, expectant and attentive.

He opened his mouth. "Thank you all for coming."

His voice carried across the clearing, stronger than he'd expected. Steadier.

"Today, we choose our path forward. Today, we decide who we want to be."

The words felt right. Important.

His gaze swept across the crowd, then drifted upward toward the tree line beyond.

Movement. A shape among the trees.

James.

Callum's breath hitched, grip tightening on the podium.

No. He said he just wanted to be heard. He promised.

Callum forced his gaze back down.

He stepped down from the stage, moving toward his seat in the front section. His legs felt unsteady, but he made it. Sat down.

Everything looked right. Everything felt under control.

Wren stepped forward to the podium, ready to speak.

Callum took one more breath.

"Let's begin."