The Factionless

The campsite

After breakfast, Clara dressed warmly and slung the compound bow over her shoulder before stepping outside to find Landon. The air bit at her cheeks, sharp with the kind of cold that crept into your bones, but she barely noticed — Landon was out by the woodpile, chopping through a thick log with clean, practiced swings. His jacket was tossed carelessly onto a nearby stump, steam rising faintly from his skin in the frosty air.

Clara froze for a moment, realizing just how much muscle he’d put on since the world had ended. Weeks of hauling wood, carrying water, and surviving had hardened him. She stood there longer than she meant to, watching him work, until his voice snapped her out of it.

“Can you grab the buckets while I stack the wood?” he called, glancing over his shoulder.

Clara’s face flushed crimson. “Y–yeah, sure,” she stammered, spinning around so quickly she nearly tripped in the snow. Her heart thudded as she hurried back into the cabin, muttering under her breath. She found three decent-sized buckets by the door and carried them outside, avoiding eye contact as she approached.

By then, Landon had finished stacking the last of the wood and pulled his jacket back on. Without a word, they started down the narrow trail that led to the creek, the crunch of snow beneath their boots the only sound between them.

When they reached the water, a sheet of ice blanketed the creek like glass. Landon picked up a rock and threw it hard; it cracked through the surface with a dull thud and a splash. Kneeling, he filled two of the buckets carefully while Clara held the third.

As he straightened up, something caught his eye—a faint trail of indentations curving down the hill on the opposite bank. He frowned and crouched closer, brushing snow aside with his glove.

“Clara,” he said quietly, his tone suddenly sharp. “What do you see?”

She stepped beside him, her breath visible in the cold air. When she spotted the marks, her stomach tightened. “Footprints,” she whispered. “Human.”

Landon’s grip tightened around the bucket handle, his breath slowing. “So I’m not seeing things,” he murmured. The easy calm of their morning was gone in an instant.

Landon crouched beside the prints, his eyes tracing their path down the slope. “These are fresh,” he muttered. “Snow hasn’t filled them in yet.”

Clara looked around, scanning the white expanse and dark tree line. The forest suddenly felt different—too still, too aware of them. “You think they’re close?” she whispered.

“Close enough,” Landon said, his voice low. He set down one of the buckets, rifle now slung across his chest. “Stay behind me.”

The two followed the trail down the hill, each step crunching softly in the snow. The tracks led through a cluster of birch trees and into a narrow clearing. That’s when Landon saw it—an old campfire ringed by blackened stones. A few thin wisps of smoke still rose from the ashes, twisting faintly in the cold air.

Someone had been here recently.

He knelt beside the firepit, running a gloved hand over the charred wood. The embers were still warm. His stomach tightened. “They couldn’t have left more than an hour ago,” he said quietly.

Clara’s eyes darted around the clearing, her breath quick and shallow. “Do you think they saw us?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, scanning the ground. There were multiple sets of footprints now—two, maybe three. One smaller, one heavy, all heading north. He followed them a few steps before they disappeared into thicker snow. Whoever they were, they knew how to move fast and leave little.

Landon’s pulse quickened. Were they part of one of the Seven Factions—or factionless? He didn’t like any of those answers.

He stood up slowly and motioned to Clara. “We’re going back. Now.”