I take stock of what's left.
The makeshift pantry on the communal stone has been wiped clean. Danton and his mutineers stripped it to the bone; the only supplies we have left are whatever we kept in our pockets.
I knew this could happen. I just didn't expect the betrayal this soon.
It's exactly why I kept a few essentials buried deep in my own inventory.
You never put all your chips in the center of the table when you're playing with desperate ghosts.
"We need to hunt," I announce to the remnants of the group. "I don't care if it's beasts or something worse. We need supplies, now."
As we break camp, my mind runs the ironic math.
Danton struck out on his own because a smaller, highly functional group survives easier.
His logic isn't wrong.
But the amateur didn't realize that by leaving me with a fraction of the dead weight, I only need half these people to pull their weight to get the exact same results.
Amateur…
We march.
