The Weight of Normalcy

Four days.

Four days since I carried Elias into this place, half-dead and trembling. Four days since I first laid eyes on Father Gideon and his hollow-eyed followers. Four days since I felt the slums' cold grip loosen, only to be replaced by something far more insidious.

The camp is different during the day. The eerie stillness that haunted the first night has given way to a strange, almost mundane rhythm. People move about with purpose, tending to chores, mending clothes, and preparing meals. The air smells less of decay and more of smoke and sweat. It's almost… normal. Almost. But I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Something is always wrong here.

Elias is better. That's what matters. His cheeks have regained some color, and his breathing no longer comes in shallow gasps. He's eating, too, though not much. The healers—if that's what they are—have done their work. But every time I look at him, I see something in his eyes that wasn't there before. A distance. A quiet acceptance of this place that makes my skin crawl.

Father Gideon visits him often. Too often. He sits by Elias's bedside, speaking in that low, honeyed voice of his, and Elias listens like he's hearing the words of a prophet. I don't trust it. I don't trust him. But every time I try to talk to Elias about leaving, he shakes his head and says, "This is where we belong, Rowan. Father Gideon says we're special."

Special. The word makes my stomach turn. I don't want to be special. I just want to survive.

---

The camp wakes early. The sun barely crests the horizon when the first sounds of movement reach my ears. I'm already awake, sitting on the edge of the cot in the small shack Elias and I share. He's still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I watch him for a moment, my fingers twitching at my sides. He looks so peaceful. So unlike the boy I carried here, half-dead and trembling. But peace can be dangerous. It makes you forget how cruel the world can be.

I slip out of the shack, careful not to wake him. The air outside is crisp, the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air. The camp is already alive with activity. People move about with purpose, their faces blank but their movements precise. It's almost like a machine, each person a cog in some grand design. I hate it.

"Rowan."

The voice catches me off guard. I turn to see a tall, lanky boy approaching, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He's older than me, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with sharp features and a calculating gaze. I've seen him around the camp, always watching, always listening. His name is Soren.

"Morning," I mutter, my voice low. I don't trust him. I don't trust anyone here.

Soren nods, his eyes scanning the camp. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep," I say, shrugging. It's not a lie. Sleep doesn't come easy in this place. Not when every sound, every shadow, feels like a threat.

Soren doesn't press. He just stands there, his hands in his pockets, watching the camp with that same calculating gaze. "You'll get used to it," he says after a moment. "The routine. The people. It's not so bad once you stop fighting it."

I glance at him, my jaw tightening. "I'm not fighting anything."

He smirks, a faint, knowing smile that makes my skin crawl. "Sure you're not."

Before I can respond, a loud voice cuts through the air. "Soren! Stop brooding and get over here!"

I turn to see a girl with fiery red hair striding toward us, her hands on her hips. She's slightly older than me, maybe twelve, with freckles dusting her nose and a sharp tongue to match her hair. Talia. I've heard her name tossed around the camp, usually accompanied by a roll of the eyes or a muttered curse. She's loud, brash, and doesn't seem to care who hears her.

Soren sighs, running a hand through his hair. "What do you want, Talia?"

"What do I want?" she repeats, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "How about you stop standing around like a lump and help with the chores? Or do you think the firewood's going to chop itself?"

Soren rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. He shoots me a look—half-apologetic, half-amused—before following Talia toward the fire pit. I watch them go, my chest tightening. They seem so… normal. Like kids from the slums, just trying to survive. But there's something off about them, something I can't quite put my finger on.

"Don't let Talia scare you," a voice says beside me. I turn to see a shorter boy with messy blonde hair and a mischievous grin. Tobias. He's around my age, maybe a year younger, with a lightness to his step that feels out of place in this camp. "She's all bark, no bite."

I raise an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

Tobias laughs, a bright, genuine sound that catches me off guard. "Trust me, I've been on the receiving end of that bark more times than I can count. She's harmless."

I don't respond. Harmless isn't a word I'd use to describe anyone in this place. But Tobias seems different. He's not like the others—hollow-eyed and silent. He's loud, brash, and unapologetically himself. It's… refreshing.

"So," Tobias says, leaning against the wall of the shack. "How's your brother?"

I stiffen, my guard immediately going up. "He's fine."

Tobias nods, his grin fading slightly. "Good. That's good. I heard he was pretty sick when you got here."

I don't answer. I don't like talking about Elias, especially not with strangers. But Tobias doesn't seem to notice—or care. He just keeps talking, his voice light and easy.

"It's not so bad here, you know," he says after a moment. "Once you get used to it. The food's decent, and Father Gideon… well, he's not so bad once you get to know him."

I glance at him, my jaw tightening. "You trust him?"

Tobias hesitates, his grin faltering for the first time. "I don't know if 'trust' is the right word. But he's kept us alive. That's more than anyone else has done."

I don't respond. I can't. Because as much as I hate to admit it, he's right. Father Gideon has kept us alive. But at what cost?

---

The day passes in a blur of chores and quiet conversations. I help Soren and Talia chop firewood, my hands growing calloused from the axe. Tobias joins us after a while, cracking jokes and teasing Talia until she threatens to throw a log at him. It's almost… normal. Almost like we're just kids, not survivors in a place that feels more like a prison than a sanctuary.

But the normalcy doesn't last. As the sun sets and the camp falls into shadow, the eerie stillness returns. The hollow-eyed followers move through the darkness like ghosts, their faces blank and their movements precise. I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched, that something is lurking just out of sight, waiting to pounce.

I find Elias sitting by the fire, his eyes fixed on the flames. He looks better—stronger—but there's still that distance in his eyes, that quiet acceptance that makes my chest ache.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, sitting beside him.

He doesn't look at me. "Better. Father Gideon says I'll be back to normal soon."

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. "Elias, we need to talk about leaving."

He shakes his head, his voice quiet but firm. "This place will be our new home, Rowan. Remember Father Gideon says we're special."

Special. The word echoes in my mind, a dark, unrelenting force. I want to scream, to shake him until he sees the truth. But I don't. I can't. Because deep down, I'm afraid he's right. This is where we belong. In the slums, in the shadows, in a place that promises salvation but delivers only despair.

I sit there in silence, the weight of normalcy pressing down on me like a stone. The fire crackles, the shadows dance, and the camp sleeps. But I don't. I can't. Because in this place, sleep is just another kind of death.