Chapter 7: Plague

The axe bit deep, splitting the log clean through. James planted his boot on one half and kicked it aside, already reaching for the next piece. Sweat dampened his collar despite the autumn chill, and his dark brown hair fell forward across his eyes. He swept it back, leaving streaks of bark dust across his forehead.

"You're going to give yourself a hernia," Garrett called from where he stacked the split wood into neat cords. "We've got enough for three winters at this rate."

James hefted another log onto the stump. "Better to have surplus than scramble when the cold hits."

"That's what the council's for." Garrett straightened, his freckled nose wrinkling as he squinted against the afternoon sun. "They've been good about distributing supplies when families run short."

"I'd rather work harder than pressure the town." The axe came down again, the crack echoing across the work area. "We can handle our own."

Garrett snorted but didn't argue. He was older than James by a decade at least, with the kind of compact strength that came from years of labor. "You always were stubborn."

"It's called self-reliance."

"It's called pride." But Garrett was grinning. "Come on. Let's haul this load before you split every tree in the forest."

They worked together to load the wood into Garrett's cart, settling it across the bed. The work area sat at the edge of Providence's east side, where the forest met the first scattered homes. From here, James could see the town spreading out below, log buildings atop stone foundations, simple masonry, and smoke rising from chimneys in lazy columns.

Providence sprawled across a gentle valley, divided not by walls but by natural geography. The district clustered near the farmland, homes built close together for warmth and community. Beyond that, the mixed district where species mingled more freely with markets, workshops, communal spaces. And further still, the west quarters where those with wings or fire or stranger gifts made their homes in structures James didn't quite understand the construction of.

Somehow, it all worked.

They walked together through the district, Garrett pulling his cart while James carried an armload of kindling. Neighbors called greetings as they passed: Edith hanging laundry, her belly round with a child due before winter; Henrik repairing his fence; old Marion sweeping her porch with more energy than her years should allow.

"Growing every season," Garrett observed, nodding toward a new foundation being laid two houses down. "Another family arriving next week, I heard. From somewhere east."

"More mouths to feed."

"More hands to work." Garrett glanced at him sideways. "Though I'll admit, the livestock's been struggling. Lost two chickens last week to something. Weren't eaten, just... dead."

James frowned. "Disease?"

"Maybe. Council's looking into it." Garrett paused. "You could ask them directly. You know Winslow likes you."

"Winslow's busy running the town. He doesn't need me pestering him about chickens."

"You're not pestering if you're helping." But Garrett let it drop, turning instead toward his own home. "I'll see you at the harvest meeting?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

They parted ways, and James continued alone toward the edge of the district where his own home sat. It was modest: single room, well-built, with a small plot behind it that Mary had transformed into thriving rows of vegetables.

He found her kneeling between the carrots, auburn hair tied back, dirt under her fingernails and satisfaction in her expression.

"There's the lumberjack," she said without looking up. "I heard you from inside. Pretty sure the whole town heard you."

James set down his load of kindling. "Building character through honest labor."

"Building calluses through stubbornness." She sat back on her heels, surveying her work. The carrot patch had nearly doubled since spring, neat rows stretching toward the tree line. "Winslow was by earlier. Looking for volunteers again."

"Foragers?"

"Scouts, he said. But yes." Mary pulled a particularly stubborn weed, examining its roots before tossing it aside. "Mentioned you by name. Said you'd be perfect for the work."

Something warm flickered in James's chest. He crouched beside her, picking up the rhythm of weeding without being asked. "What did you tell him?"

"That you'd probably volunteer before he finished asking." She glanced at him, and there was something in her expression he couldn't quite read. Not concern, exactly. More like awareness. "You're quick to take on more work."

"There's work that needs doing."

"There's always work that needs doing." Her fingers stilled on a carrot top. "James, you know you don't have to prove anything, right? To them or anyone else?"

He did know. Of course he knew. But knowing and believing were different things entirely.

Instead of answering, he swept his hair back and reached for another weed. Mary watched him for a breath longer, then returned to her own task.

"Besides," James said, aiming for lightness, "someone has to make sure the inhumans don't have all the glory. Can't let them think they're the only ones capable of heavy lifting."

"The inhumans do the exploring and building because they're built for it," Mary said quietly. "That's not glory. That's just biology."

"Maybe." James pulled three weeds in quick succession. "But we're just as capable. We just have to work harder to prove it."

There it was again: that flicker of concern in her expression. But she didn't press. She never did. That was part of what he loved about her. She trusted him to find his own way, even when she disagreed with the path.

They worked together as the afternoon stretched toward evening. Around them, Providence settled into its evening rhythms, smoke thickening from cooking fires, voices calling children home, the distant sound of hammers as inhumans continued construction work that wouldn't stop for something as trivial as darkness.

James straightened finally, surveying their work with satisfaction. The patch looked pristine, ready to yield a harvest that would help feed them through winter. Mary's work. Her patience and care turning dirt into sustenance.

"I'm going," he said. "To volunteer. If Winslow still needs people."

Mary stood as well, brushing dirt from her skirt. "I know."

"You're not going to try to talk me out of it?"

"Would it work?"

"No."

"Then I won't waste my breath." But she stepped closer, reaching up to brush bark dust from his shoulder. Her fingers lingered there, warm even through his shirt. "Just be careful. The inhumans are good at what they do because they've been doing it forever. You don't have to keep pace with them."

"I can keep pace."

"I know you can." Her hand dropped. She chuckled. "Mostly worried for their sake."

Before he could ask what she meant, she turned back toward the house. "Wash up before dinner. You smell like the forest floor."

James watched her go, then looked out over the town as twilight gathered. At the mixed community that had welcomed them when they had nowhere else to go. At the inhumans and humans living side by side in something that looked almost like harmony.

It could work. It was working. All it needed was people willing to put in the effort.

He rolled his shoulders and headed inside to wash up.

The east district's central square was packed dirt, a few benches, and a message board where notices fluttered in the breeze. When Winslow spoke, it held the entire neighborhood.

James heard the gathering before he saw it. He rounded the corner from his street and found at least forty people pressed into the space, humans mostly, with a scattering of inhumans at the edges.

At the center, standing on the well's stone rim, was Winslow.

He cut an impressive figure: tall, black-haired, wearing a practical trench coat that spoke quiet authority. White feathers rose from behind his ears, distinctive and striking. His voice carried without shouting, trained to command attention rather than demand it.

"I understand the concern. Believe me, I share it. But panic serves no one, and neither does hiding from hard truths."

James edged closer, finding a spot near Garrett. His neighbor gave him a knowing look but said nothing.

"Three weeks ago, we lost livestock to an unknown illness," Winslow continued, his tone underlaid with steel. "Sheep first, then chickens, then cattle. We thought it isolated to animals. We were wrong."

A ripple moved through the crowd.

"It spread to the herders. Then to their families." Winslow surveyed the gathering. "Both humans and inhumans have fallen ill. But I won't lie to you: humans are suffering worse. Your constitutions, through no fault of your own, seem more vulnerable to whatever this is."

"What are you doing about it?" someone called.

"Everything." The word landed with quiet force. "Our healers are working without rest. We've isolated the sick. We've sent word to neighboring settlements for medicine and expertise." He paused. "But Providence is growing. We have more mouths to feed than when winter planning began. With livestock dying and fields quarantined, our stores won't last."

The crowd's anxiety thickened.

"Which is why I'm here. I need volunteers. Able-bodied individuals willing to venture beyond our safe territory to forage, to scavenge, to find resources in places others have abandoned. It's dangerous work. I won't pretend otherwise. But it's necessary, and I believe this community has people brave enough to do it."

James's hand rose before his mind caught up.

"I'll go."

Heads turned. Winslow's gaze found him immediately, and in those eyes he saw recognition and something warmer. Almost like pride.

"James," Winslow said, making the name feel significant. "I hoped you would volunteer."

"James is solid," Garrett said. "You want someone reliable, that's him."

Others murmured agreement. "Strongest worker in the district." "Won't quit even when he should."

A few voices took up his name, enough to make his face flush and his spine straighten.

Winslow let it continue for a few beats before raising a hand. "James, I appreciate your courage." Winslow's expression carried genuine warmth, no trace of condescension. "Your reputation precedes you. If half of what I've heard is true, you'll be an asset to any expedition."

"I just want to help," James said.

"I know." Winslow's smile reached his eyes. "That's exactly why I'm accepting your volunteer. We leave tomorrow at dawn. Meet at the west gate." His gaze swept the crowd. "Anyone else?"

Two more hands went up: an inhuman woman James didn't know well, and Harlan from three streets over. Winslow acknowledged each with that same personal attention.

"Thank you," Winslow said, somehow making it feel individual to each volunteer. "Providence survives because people like you step forward when needed. The sick are counting on us. The children are counting on us. We won't let them down."

He stepped down from the well's rim with fluid grace, and the crowd began dispersing. But Winslow made his way directly to James, weaving through the thinning bodies.

"Walk with me a moment?"

James fell into step beside him, aware of eyes following them. Garrett gave him an encouraging nod as they passed.

"I meant what I said," Winslow continued as they moved toward the edge of the square. "I did expect you. Mary mentioned you've been working yourself ragged preparing for winter."

James pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "She told you that?"

"I asked how you were doing." Winslow's tone suggested this was perfectly natural. "I try to know the people I lead, James. Their strengths, their concerns. You've made quite an impression since arriving in Providence. The way you've integrated, contributed without complaint, worked twice as hard as anyone expects you to." He glanced over, and his expression held genuine respect. "That matters. Especially now."

Pride and purpose tangled together in James's chest, overwhelming in their intensity.

"Tomorrow will be hard," Winslow said, stopping where they could speak privately. "The journey is long, the work exhausting, and we'll be venturing into territory that's been abandoned for good reason. But I believe you're capable of it."

"I won't let you down."

"I know." Winslow clasped his shoulder, the touch brief but firm. "Dawn, west gate. Bring supplies for three days. We'll handle the rest."

He walked away before James could respond, moving to speak with the other volunteers. James stood there, the weight of the opportunity settling over him.

A chance to prove himself to Providence and the man who led it.

The gravel hill was steeper than it looked.

James's boots slid on loose stone as he descended, one hand braced against an outcropping to keep from tumbling forward. Above him, Merrion spread his arms and glided down, curly hair streaming behind him as wind caught beneath his frame.

"Need a lift?" Merrion called up. "Oh wait..." He made an exaggerated show of looking behind James's shoulders, where wings conspicuously failed to exist.

Lucius barked a laugh from where he stood beside Winslow at the hill's base. "Leave him be, Merrion. He's doing fine."

"Just offering," Merrion said innocently.

James gritted his teeth and kept descending. By the time he reached the bottom, his palms were scraped and his thighs burned.

Winslow watched without comment, though his expression turned thoughtful.

They pressed on through increasingly dense forest. The thorned bushes appeared around midday, clustered so thick they formed an impenetrable wall across the game trail.

"We'll need to go around," James started.

Lucius stepped forward. He didn't speak, just let flames ripple across his torso as he walked directly into the thorned mass. The bushes caught immediately, curling away from the heat with sharp cracks.

When he emerged on the other side, he glanced back at James. "Careful with those. Wouldn't want you getting an infection."

"I'll manage," James said, following through the burned path.

They stopped briefly for water near a stream. James's pack felt twice as heavy as it had at dawn. He drank deeply, trying not to show how his hands trembled.

"No offense, Winslow," Merrion said, not quite sotto voce, "but couldn't we have brought someone more equipped for this?"

James forced himself to keep drinking.

"Equipped how?" Winslow's tone carried mild curiosity.

Merrion gestured vaguely. "Someone who can actually keep pace without struggling down every hill."

"James has proven his place," Winslow said, quiet authority threading his words. "Some of you could learn from his dedication."

The reprimand was gentle but unmistakable. Merrion had the grace to look abashed.

Winslow moved to where James crouched by the stream. Without preamble, he pulled dried meat from his own pack and held it out. "Here. You're burning more energy than the rest of us to cover the same ground."

James looked up, surprised. "That's your ration."

"I have plenty." Winslow crouched down, meeting James's eyes directly. "Most humans would have asked for rest by now. You haven't complained once."

The validation burned through James's exhaustion. He took the meat, the gesture feeling like recognition.

They pressed on.

The abandoned settlement appeared near dusk: collapsed buildings overtaken by forest, but with stores of preserved goods still intact in a root cellar. Bags of grain, sealed containers, even dried herbs for medicine.

"Exactly what we needed," Winslow said, directing the group with practiced efficiency. "Merrion, help me catalog. Lucius, check the remaining structures. James, secure the perimeter. Make sure nothing's going to collapse on us while we work."

James circled the settlement's remains while his companions excavated supplies. When they finished loading, his pack was heavier still. He adjusted the straps without complaint.

By the time they made camp, James's shoulders bore angry red marks where the straps had dug in. He collapsed near the fire Lucius started, muscles screaming. Around him, the group settled into the comfortable silence of shared exhaustion.

Winslow distributed the last of their rations with practiced efficiency. "Eat slowly," he advised James. "You'll need to rebuild gradually."

James forced himself to chew properly despite his hunger.

Merrion broke the silence first, stretching his arms overhead until his joints popped. "One more day like this and we might actually have enough stockpiled."

"Assuming the plague doesn't spread further," Lucius said. Soot streaked his face. "Heard two more families got sick before we left."

The fire crackled, filling the silence.

"It's hitting the human district harder," Winslow said, his tone matter-of-fact rather than apologetic. "Biological simplicity makes you more vulnerable to environmental stresses. No offense, James."

"None taken." James tore off another piece of bread. "I know we're not as gifted as you. But I don't make that a problem."

Winslow hovered his hands over the fire. "And that's exactly why you're here. You prove that humans can be just as capable." He paused, and the pause felt deliberate. "With the right support, of course."

James nodded, missing the conditional entirely. It felt like acknowledgment, not limitation.

"What if it gets worse?" Merrion's wild curls caught firelight as he leaned forward. "The plague, I mean. What if we can't protect everyone?"

The question hung weighted between them.

Winslow's gaze stayed on the flames. When he spoke, his voice held the weight of someone who'd already thought this through. "Then we protect who we can. Leadership means making hard choices, not emotional ones."

James frowned. "Surely the most vulnerable first... the sick, the children..."

"Of course." Winslow's tone stayed warm, but something beneath it rang hollow. "Though sometimes sentiment is a luxury survival doesn't afford. We have to think practically about who we can save versus who we should try to save."

The phrasing settled wrong in James's mind, like a misaligned joint. But before he could examine it, Lucius spoke up.

"Heavy talk for a fire." The Blazeborn's amber eyes glinted. "We're all exhausted. Let's save the philosophy for when we're not half-dead."

Winslow smiled, and the heaviness lifted like smoke dispersing. "You're right. It's easy to spiral when you're responsible for an entire settlement."

"Must be exhausting," Merrion said, sympathy softening his voice. "Being the one everyone looks to."

"It has its challenges." Winslow glanced at James. "Though it helps having people who understand what needs to be done. Who don't flinch from hard work."

The compliment settled warm in James's chest, burning away the earlier unease.

The conversation lightened after that. Merrion told a story about a disastrous expedition from years ago that had everyone laughing. Lucius demonstrated a trick with fire that made shapes dance above his palm, before singeing his hair.

"You know what," Lucius said, gesturing at James with a half-eaten piece of bread. "I didn't think you'd make it past the first day. Genuinely thought we'd be hauling you back."

"Thanks for the confidence," James said dryly.

"No, I mean it as a compliment." Respect was clear in Lucius's expression. "You kept pace. More than kept pace. Hell, you carried extra weight and didn't complain once." He flexed his arm. "Think you could take me in arm wrestling?"

James laughed despite himself. "Probably not."

"Only one way to find out."

They cleared a space. James gripped Lucius's hand across a flat stone, the Blazeborn's palm uncomfortably hot.

"On three," Merrion announced. "One, two..."

James threw everything into it. Lucius's arm barely budged, then slowly gave back two inches. Enough to surprise everyone.

Lucius slammed his arm down with a grunt, winning easily but breathing harder than expected. "Okay. That was impressive."

"Told you he had strength," Winslow said quietly.

James's hand throbbed, but the ache felt good. Around the fire, the others looked at him differently now, not quite as equal, maybe, but closer. He held up his reddened palm, then rubbed it into the cold dirt without complaint.

The fire burned lower as exhaustion finally won out over conversation. Winslow stood first, brushing off his trench coat.

"Dawn comes early," he said. "We should rest. Tomorrow's journey home will be just as heavy."

The group dispersed to their bedrolls. James settled into his, muscles grateful for even the hard ground. Across the fire, Winslow sat with his back against a tree, taking first watch.

"James," he called softly.

James propped himself up on one elbow. "Yeah?"

"You did well today." Winslow's gaze stayed on the flames. "Better than well. I'm glad you're part of this."

The words glowed in James's chest, dissolving the day's aches and doubts.

"Thank you," James said. "For the opportunity."

James laid back down, staring up at the canopy of stars visible through the trees. Around him, the others' breathing gradually deepened into sleep. He felt good. Tired, yes. Sore beyond measure. But good. Like he belonged here, doing this work. Like he was finally proving what he'd always believed: that humans could contribute just as much as anyone else.

We protect who we can.

The phrase drifted through his mind as sleep pulled him under. Of course. That's what Winslow meant. The sick, the children, the ones who couldn't protect themselves.

James's eyes grew heavy, the warmth of belonging pulling him down.

He didn't notice Winslow's gaze shift, or the expression that crossed the leader's face as he watched James sleep.

The return journey the next morning blurred into placing one foot in front of the other. Somewhere around the halfway point, Merrion fell into step beside him.

"Hey," the Avian said, his tone shifted from yesterday. Less mockery, more genuine. "That perimeter check you did? I went back through after. You didn't miss anything. Thorough work."

It wasn't an apology, exactly. But it was something.

By the time Providence's lights appeared through the trees, James's vision had started to tunnel. He barely registered Winslow clasping his shoulder as they passed through the gate, or the way Lucius nodded with approval.

He just knew they'd succeeded. The supplies would help. He'd proven he could keep pace.

And tomorrow, if Winslow asked him to do it again, he would.

A week after James's first expedition, the death toll among livestock had tripled. Seventeen humans had fallen ill. Three inhumans. The healers worked without sleep, but the disease spread faster than understanding.

Winslow ordered the separation.

For faster treatment, he said. To prevent cross-contamination between species while they isolated what made humans more vulnerable. The east district was cordoned off with rope and warning posts. Inhumans would deliver supplies to the boundary. No direct contact until the healers had answers.

It made sense. James told himself it made sense.

Which was why he'd volunteered for another run the moment Winslow asked. Medical supplies from the northern trading post. Four days, maybe five. The human district needed help, and James could provide it.

Rain hammered through the canopy, turning the forest floor to mud. James's boots slipped with every third step, the downpour so heavy he could barely see Lucius ten feet ahead. They'd been pushing through the storm for an hour, trying to reach shelter before dark.

Winslow appeared beside him, trench coat dark with rain. He raised his voice over the downpour. "Another mile! There's an overhang the scout mentioned!"

They pressed on, the group strung out in a ragged line through the storm. Lightning flashed, illuminating the forest, and in that instant James saw movement. Figures huddled beneath a cluster of pines ahead.

"Wait!" James grabbed Lucius's shoulder. "There's people!"

The group converged. As they drew closer, the figures resolved into six individuals, soaked, clinging to each other beneath inadequate cover. Four humans, emaciated and desperate. Two inhumans, one with wings folded tight against the rain.

"Please!" One of the humans staggered forward, a woman barely able to stand. "Please, we need help!"

Winslow moved to the front. "What happened?"

"Raiders!" A man with a gash across his forehead shouted over the thunder. "They lured monsters to our convoy! Scattered us! We've been running for..." He dissolved into coughing, wet and rattling.

The winged inhuman supported him. "Three days. No supplies. Some of us are wounded."

James moved forward instinctively, already shrugging off his pack.

"James." Winslow's hand caught his shoulder, firm enough to stop him. "A word."

He drew James aside, just far enough that the rain covered their words. "We can't," Winslow said, pitched low but clear.

"Can't what?"

"Help them." Winslow's expression was hard, resolved. "Look at them. Half-dead already. Wounded. Sick. They won't survive even if we give them supplies."

"We have to try!" James's voice cracked. "They're dying!"

"And we're responsible for nearly a hundred people! People waiting for these supplies. For medicine. We give our resources to six strangers who are already on death's door, and how many back home die because we came back empty-handed?"

The woman stumbled closer. "Please! Just water! Anything!"

James looked at her, really looked. The infection weeping from her arm. The glassy fever-brightness of her eyes.

"We could at least..."

"These are losses, James." Winslow's grip tightened on his shoulder. "You understand that, don't you? We have to protect our assets. The people who depend on us. We can't save everyone."

Protect who we can.

The phrase from last night echoed, but it hit different now. Colder. Harder.

"Please!" The winged inhuman's voice broke. "We just need enough to reach the next settlement!"

"I'm sorry." Winslow's expression didn't change. "We can't help you."

He turned to the group. "We're moving! Providence is waiting!"

"What?" Merrion stared. "We're just leaving them?"

"Yes." No hesitation. No doubt. "Now."

Lucius exchanged a glance with Merrion, something uncertain flickering across his features. But he shouldered his pack and moved when Winslow did.

James stood frozen, rain battering his face. The refugees stared at him with desperate, dying eyes.

"I'm sorry," James whispered, but the storm swallowed it.

He turned and followed Winslow into the darkness.

Behind them, the woman's sobs cut through the thunder, sharp and broken. Then the rain took even that, leaving only the howl of wind and the sick churning in James's stomach.

The storm broke near dawn. By the time James reached Providence, exhaustion had numbed everything else.

Mary was tending the carrots when he arrived. She straightened when she saw him, relief flooding her features.

"You're back." She crossed to him, hands already checking him over for injuries. "You're soaked through. Come inside, I'll..."

"We left people," James said.

Mary's hands stilled. "What?"

"On the way back. Six people. Refugees." The words came mechanical, distant. "Raiders attacked their convoy. They were wounded. Sick. Asked for help."

"And?"

"Winslow said we couldn't spare the supplies. That they were already dying and we had responsibilities to Providence." James pulled off his pack, setting it down with care. "So we left them."

Silence pressed against his ears.

"Did you even try?" Mary's voice was quiet, dangerous. "Did you give them anything?"

"It would've been a waste."

Mary stopped. Just stopped moving entirely, staring at him like she'd never seen him before.

"Listen to yourself," she said. "'Waste.' You're starting to sound like him."

James's jaw clenched. "I'm being rational. That's what leadership requires."

"That's not leadership." Her voice turned sharp and raw. "That's cruelty dressed up in practicality."

"You weren't there! They were already dying! We have people here depending on us, sick people, children, we can't waste resources on..."

He stopped. Heard what he was saying.

Waste resources. On people.

Mary heard it too. He watched something die in her expression. Trust. The certainty that she knew who he was.

"I need to check the south beds," she said, voice gone flat. "There's stew inside if you're hungry."

She walked away before he could respond, disappearing around the side of the house toward the garden plots. Not angry, not crying. Just absent.

James stood in the doorway, rain-soaked and hollow, unable to grasp what had broken between them. He'd done the right thing. Winslow was right. They'd had to prioritize.

You're starting to sound like him.

James pushed the thought away, stepping inside to change into dry clothes. Mary would understand eventually. She had to.

Outside, Mary knelt in the mud between carrot rows, palms pressed to the earth. Rain still dripped from the leaves overhead, but she didn't move. Didn't cry.

When had he learned to call people waste?

The next expedition had been their most successful yet. Three days, multiple sites scavenged, enough supplies to keep Providence stable for weeks. James's body ached in that particular way that felt like accomplishment.

They were an hour from Providence when Winslow fell into step beside him, gesturing for the others to continue ahead.

They moved off the main path slightly, still within sight of the others but out of earshot. Winslow's expression held something James had never seen directed at him before. Appraisal of a different kind.

"You've proven yourself," Winslow said without preamble. "Each time. Every expedition, you work harder than anyone expects. You've become exceptional among us."

"I want you on my council." The words landed with the weight of an anvil. "The settlement needs your perspective. The other humans would feel better knowing one of them oversees operations. Represents their interests directly."

James's breath caught. "The council?"

"You've earned it." Winslow studied James's reaction. "You understand what needs to be done. You don't flinch from hard choices. That's exactly what leadership requires."

Oversight. Authority. A voice in decisions that shaped Providence's future.

"Think about it," Winslow continued, though his slight smile suggested he already knew the answer. "Though I expect you already know what you'll say."

James did. Of course he did.

"Yes." The word came immediate, certain. "I'd be honored."

"Good." Winslow clasped his shoulder briefly. "We'll formalize it tomorrow. For now, go home. Rest. You've more than earned it."

They rejoined the others, and James walked the rest of the way in a euphoric haze. Council. Him. A human on Winslow's council, helping make decisions that would save lives, protect the settlement, prove that...

"Winslow really trusts that human."

The voices carried from ahead where Merrion and Lucius walked.

"He's useful," Lucius replied. "Winslow knows how to pick the good ones."

The good ones.

James's feet slowed. The phrase settled wrong, like a splinter working beneath skin. Good ones. Implying there were bad ones. Implying James was exceptional for a human, not exceptional period.

He pushed the thought away almost as soon as it formed. They meant it as a compliment. Recognition of capability. Nothing more.

Focus on the opportunity. The chance to help. To represent his people.

Mary was inside when he arrived, sorting through their dwindling herb stores with methodical precision. She looked up when he entered, and her expression carried the same careful distance it had since the refugee incident two weeks ago.

"You're back early."

"Successful run." James couldn't contain the excitement thrumming through him. "Mary, Winslow offered me a position. On his council."

Her hands stilled on the dried lavender. "His council?"

"Can you believe it?" James crossed to her, energy making him restless. "A human. Representing our district. I'll have actual say in how resources get distributed, how decisions get made. I can help fix all of this. The plague, the shortages, everything."

Mary set down the herbs carefully. "That's... that's wonderful, James." But her smile didn't reach her eyes.

"This is what we needed." James was already planning, mind racing ahead. "Real representation. Someone making sure the human district gets fair treatment, that supplies reach the people who need them most. I can make a difference."

"Can you?" Mary's voice stayed quiet, but something sharp edged the words. "The supplies are growing thinner, not better. More people are getting sick. Three more families just this week."

"That's exactly why I need to be on the council!" James grabbed her hands, willing her to understand. "I can help fix this. From the inside. With real authority."

"James." She pulled her hands free gently but firmly. "The Snowdens died yesterday. Both of them. Their children went to the Frosthams." Her voice cracked slightly. "How many families have we lost since you started these runs? Ten? Fifteen?"

"Which is why this matters!" James felt frustration building. "Don't you see? I'll finally have power to change things. To make sure supplies actually reach people, that medicine gets distributed fairly. No more waiting for the council to decide. I'll BE the council."

"You've been bringing back supplies for weeks." Mary's auburn hair fell forward as she looked down at the herbs. "Grain. Medicine. Everything they asked for. Where is it, James? Where are all those supplies going?"

Silence stretched between them, weighted with the question.

"The healers are using them," James said. "Distribution takes time. There's procedure, organization..."

"Three families this week." Mary looked up, and her eyes held an expression that had surprised him. Not anger. Worse. Doubt. "How much procedure do dying children need?"

Tension corded through his neck. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't see it? That's why I have to do this. From the inside, I can make sure things move faster, that the right people get help. Winslow trusts me. He's giving me real authority."

"Winslow trusts you," Mary repeated softly. "Yes. He does."

A chill spread through him, not from her tone but from what lay beneath it. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." She turned back to the herbs, but her hands trembled slightly. "I'm sure you'll do good work on the council."

"Mary, please." James moved closer, voice softening. "I know it looks bad right now. I know the plague is getting worse. But that's because we haven't had someone on the inside fighting for our people. Now we will. Now I can actually make the decisions instead of hoping someone else makes them for us."

She was quiet for a long moment, fingers moving mechanically through dried lavender.

"Do you remember what you said?" Her voice was barely audible. "When we first came to Providence? You said we'd build something here. Together. You and me."

"We are building something."

"Are we?" She finally looked at him. "Or are you building something with Winslow while I tend a garden for our dead?"

The question landed like a fist to the sternum. James reached for her hands. She didn't resist, didn't lean in. Just waited, as if testing whether touch still meant anything between them.

"This is for us," James said. "For everyone in the human district. I'll make sure we're taken care of. I promise you, Mary. I can fix this."

She studied his face, and something melancholic moved across her expression. The fight drained out of her, replaced by something worse. Resignation.

"Just... don't forget who you're helping," she said finally. "Don't forget where you came from."

"I won't. I promise." He pulled her close, and she came but her body stayed tense. "You'll see. Once I'm on the council, things will change. I'll make them change."

Mary's arms came around him slowly, and they stood like that in the fading light. Close but not quite connected. Her auburn hair smelled like herbs and garden soil, familiar and grounding.

"I believe in you," she whispered against his chest.

But James didn't hear the way her voice broke on the words. Didn't notice how her grip tightened like she was trying to hold onto something already slipping away. Didn't realize she'd stopped fighting because she'd already lost.

He just held her, already thinking about tomorrow, about council meetings and decisions and the chance to finally prove what he'd always known.

That he could make a difference.

James accepted the council position the next morning. How could he refuse? Providence needed him. Winslow needed him.

The formalization was brief. Winslow introduced him to the other councilors in the inner quarters, a sturdy structure at Providence's center. Hands were shaken. Responsibilities outlined. Then came the medicine.

"Preventative regimen," the healer said, pouring a thick amber draught from a dark phial into a silver cup. "For the council. Can't have leadership falling ill."

James took the cup without hesitation. The liquid was bitter and warm, coating his tongue like molten honey. Within hours, the faint cough he'd developed faded entirely.

Leaders needed to stay healthy to serve effectively. It made sense. Of course it made sense.

He never asked why the human district kept getting sicker while he stayed perfectly healthy.

The work consumed him.

Council sessions ran from dawn until well past dark. Supply manifests to review, pages of itemized goods stacked on the heavy oak table. Distribution schedules. Allocation formulas that looked thorough and equitable on paper. James's signature went on everything, the wax seal warm in his palm as he pressed it to document after document. Authorization for grain distribution. Approval for medicine shipments. Confirmation of personnel assignments.

It all felt important. Legitimate. Helpful.

One afternoon, he reviewed medical priority assignments. The list detailed which districts received treatment first, which cases took precedence. All laid out in neat hierarchies that seemed rational. His eyes skimmed the columns: Category A, immediate treatment. Category B, scheduled treatment. Category C, comfort measures only.

The human district had a lot of Category C designations. But that made sense, didn't it? The plague hit them harder. Some cases were just too far gone. Resources had to go where they'd make a difference.

James signed the authorization. The scratch of quill on parchment felt routine.

His days blurred into rhythm: morning sessions reviewing overnight reports, afternoon meetings discussing developments on both sides of Providence, evening walkthroughs of supply warehouses. He barely left the administrative district. The lamplight in the council chamber became more familiar than sunlight.

Later that week, the Enderian councilor, Seren, lanky with unsettling blue eyes, joined him in reviewing distribution schedules.

"Good to have you here," Seren said, those blue eyes unblinking. "Your presence means a lot to the human district. They trust you. Makes the difficult decisions easier to accept."

"I'm here to help everyone," James said.

"Of course. That's exactly it." Seren's smile was thin. "They see you at the table and know their interests are represented. It's valuable. For everyone."

The phrasing sat oddly in James's mind, like a stone turned at the wrong angle. But then Winslow called him to another meeting and the thought slipped away, buried under supply counts and allocation percentages.

The weeks blurred together, one council session bleeding into the next.

James sent messages to Mary when he remembered. Brief notes about long days, important work, promises to visit soon. Her responses came back just as brief: The carrots came in beautifully. You should see them. Do what you need to do.

He took it as encouragement. Didn't notice the shift in her phrasing. Didn't catch that she'd stopped asking him to come home.

The human district felt distant now. He was too busy to visit, too absorbed in ensuring the system worked. Population counts dropped slightly each week, but that meant resources stretched further for those who remained. Progress. Efficiency. The plague running its course while they managed the aftermath.

He never walked through the district to see the reality behind the numbers. Never counted the empty homes. Never asked why the cemetery had expanded three times since he'd joined the council.

The supply depots looked more abundant every time he inspected them. Grain stores growing. Medicine stockpiles increasing. Everything organized and plentiful in the cool stone warehouses. He attributed it to better management. Improved logistics. The council's efficient oversight.

His signature authorized it all. The wax seal pressed warm against his palm, over and over, a comforting weight that meant he was doing something that mattered.

In the human district, Mary worked the garden with hands that trembled slightly. The fever had started two days ago, low-grade, manageable, easy to hide. She knew the signs. Had seen them in neighbors, in the families she'd helped with food donations from her harvests.

She kept working. The carrots needed tending. The few remaining families still needed to eat. Other people had it worse. Her resources could go to someone who needed them more.

She didn't tell James. He had important work. Work that mattered. Work that would help everyone, eventually. That's what she told herself as she pulled weeds with shaking hands.

The cough started on the third day, wet and rattling. She muffled it in her sleeve while harvesting, alone in the garden rows. The plot that had once fed dozens now fed a handful of survivors who crept to her door after dark, too afraid to be seen seeking help.

James didn't know.

James walked through Providence's administrative district, reviewing his mental checklist. Supply verification at noon. Medical protocol update at two. Evening review of the week's distribution reports. All routine now, comfortable in its structure and purpose.

The warehouse district lay along his route, the large buildings where supplies were stored before distribution. He passed them daily, barely glancing at the structures he'd authorized shipments to dozens of times.

An inhuman in the area passed by, but stopped in their tracks when their eyes met.

They closed the distance. "James." The greeting carried weight, sympathy. "I wanted to say again, I'm so sorry for your loss."

James blinked. "What?"

Their face changed. Confusion first, then concern, then something approaching horror. "Mary... you knew, right? The burial was three days ago."

The words made no sense. James stared, trying to parse meaning from sounds that refused to form coherence.

"What are you talking about?"

"You didn't know?" Their voice faltered. "I thought someone told you. I assumed you were just processing. James, I'm so sorry. She passed from the plague."

"Three days?"

"The burial was..." They seemed to realize the magnitude of what they'd revealed. "I'm so sorry. I thought you knew. Everyone thought you knew."

James couldn't move. Couldn't think. Three days. He'd been in how many meetings? Signed how many authorizations? Had lunch with Winslow yesterday, talking about a recent expedition.

Mary had died believing he was helping. Believing the supplies were coming. Believing his work mattered.

They touched his shoulder, then retreated, leaving James alone on the path.

His wife had been dead for three days.

The warehouse sat thirty feet away. The one he walked past every day. The one he'd authorized countless shipments to, trusting they'd continue to their destinations, reach the people who needed them.

Protect who we can.

Assets.

You legitimize this.

The phrases crashed through him, no longer simple abstract philosophy. A slow chill came upon him, dreading a realization that began to grow in his mind.

His feet moved without conscious direction. Across the path. To the warehouse door. Hand on the handle, cold metal against his palm.

He pulled it open.

The interior stretched vast and organized. Mountains of supplies stacked floor to ceiling in neat rows. Crates labeled with precise handwriting he recognized from manifests. Medical supplies. Grain sacks. Herbs bundled and catalogued.

All of it meant for the human district.

None of it delivered.

James walked between the rows, boots echoing on stone floor. His signature was on every manifest. His authorization on every shipment order. He'd approved these supplies personally, believed they were being distributed, trusted the system he'd become part of.

They'd never left the warehouse.

The medicine Mary needed. The food that could have helped. The supplies he'd promised were coming.

All here. Gathering dust while she died waiting.

His knees hit the floor.

The warehouse stretched around him, testimony to genocide wrapped in bureaucracy, authorized by his own signature. Every crate a life he could have saved. Every manifest a family that trusted him.

Good thing you're here to vouch for the human district. Keeps them from complaining.

He'd made them trust it. Made them believe help was coming. Made Mary believe he was saving them.

While Winslow used him to justify letting them die.

Wind through empty streets filtered through the warehouse walls. The human district where population had "stabilized" not because people recovered but because there was almost no one left to kill.

James's breath came in short gasps. His hands trembled against the stone floor. The supplies towered around him, silent witnesses to what he'd become.

What he'd allowed himself to become.

What he'd helped create.

His voice emerged barely louder than breath, cracked and broken and too late for anything that mattered.

"Three days."

The words echoed through the warehouse, swallowed by crates of medicine that would never reach anyone, surrounded by supplies his signature had condemned to uselessness.

Outside, Providence continued its routine, the system functioning exactly as designed.

And in the warehouse, James knelt among the evidence of his complicity, alone with the supplies that could have saved his wife and the signature that had killed her.