The Factionless

The Long Night

Landon and Clara made their way back up the hill, the snow crunching softly beneath their boots. Each sound seemed louder than it should have been, carried on the frozen air. Landon’s grip on the buckets was tight, his shoulders tense. Every few steps, his eyes darted to the treeline, half-expecting to see movement—shadows that didn’t belong.

He was ready. If anything came out of those woods, he’d drop the buckets and have his rifle in hand before the echo of the first crunch faded. But nothing did. The forest stayed silent, the only noise their labored breathing and the faint clink of ice sloshing in the buckets.

When they reached the cabin, Landon paused at the door, his pulse still high. “Stay here,” he said quietly. Clara obeyed, clutching her bow as he slipped inside. The cabin was still. The faint smell of smoke from the stove lingered, mixed with pine and the faint metallic tang of the rifle. Room by room, he checked—bedroom, kitchen, storage. Nothing disturbed. Nothing missing. Just silence and the creak of the floorboards under his boots.

The rest of the day dragged on like a held breath. They tried to keep busy—splitting wood, mending clothes, anything to keep from staring at the windows. But when the sun dipped below the horizon, that silence grew heavy again.

After dinner, Landon sent Clara to bed. She didn’t argue. Once she disappeared behind the bedroom curtain, he quietly fortified the door with the wooden beam and shut every blind tight. Then he sat at the table, rifle resting beside him, staring at the door Listening.

Every small sound—the groan of the logs in the stove, the whistle of wind against the shutters—made his finger twitch toward the trigger.

He waited.

And waited.

Until the faintest trace of dawn bled through the blinds—thin gray light that painted the cabin in cold shades of blue. His eyelids felt heavy, his back sore from sitting so long, but then—something broke the stillness.

A sound.

Soft, deliberate.

Footsteps.

Three distinct crunches in the snow circled the cabin. Every muscle in Landon’s body went rigid. Then came a gentle rattle at the door—so faint it could’ve been the wind, but no… this was slower. Human.

He rose from the chair in silence, the rifle already in his hands. His heart hammered against his ribs, breath shallow but controlled. Whoever they were—faction or not—he couldn’t let them live if they posed a threat. Word spreading would mean death, for him and for Clara.

The rattling stopped. For a heartbeat, all he could hear was the pulse in his ears. Then, from outside—the squeal of rusted hinges.

The shed.

He’d forgotten to lock the damn shed.

He crept toward the front door, every step careful not to let the old floorboards betray him. The cold bit his face as he eased the door open, moving just far enough to slip outside. He stayed low, keeping his distance, rifle trained toward the shed’s open doorway.

Then he saw movement—three figures stepping out in a single line, faintly illuminated by the early light. They carried tools—an axe, a saw, something glinting like a crowbar. They hadn’t seen him yet.

The first one froze when they finally noticed the rifle pointed at them, causing the two behind to stumble and crash into each other, spilling everything into the snow.

“Hands up!” Landon barked. His voice shattered the silence like a gunshot.

The figures stood paralyzed. He took a step forward, eyes sharp, finger tight on the trigger.

“I said hands up!”

This time, they obeyed.

The light strengthened as the sun crept higher, revealing more of their faces. The first was a girl—about his age, maybe a little younger. Thin, dirt-streaked face, eyes wide with fear. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in days.

The second was much smaller—a boy, no older than ten, his cheeks raw from the cold.

The last was another teenager, tall, wary, and trying his best to stand protectively in front of the other

Three strangers

Three survivors.

And now, Landon had to decide—

What came next?