Chapter 50 - Daryl & Ian

Rick's hand on my shoulder shook me outta sleep.

"Time to move," he murmured low, not loud enough to wake the others.

I grunted, rubbed a hand down my face, and sat up slow. The fire had burned down to embers, the faint glow throwing long shadows through camp. Michonne was already packing her gear. Jesus was awake too, moving silent as a ghost.

I glanced beside me.

Ella was still asleep.

She was curled on her side, face soft in the pale light, one arm slung tight around Carl like she was guarding him even in her dreams.

Kid was damn near grown now—long legs bent awkward to fit on the bedroll, his hat tipped forward and half-covering his face—but there he was, tucked up against her like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm was around her waist, holding on just as much as she held him.

Didn't matter he wasn't hers. She loved him like he was.

Hell, anyone with eyes could see it.

I sat there for a second, boots in my hands, watching 'em breathe in sync. Ella's fingers rested lightly against the back of Carl's neck, protective even in sleep, like she was making sure he stayed there, stayed safe. And Carl—stubborn, too-tall Carl—looked younger than he had in years, curled into her side like he finally let himself stop carrying the whole damn world for once.

Made something tight settle in my chest.

I'd seen Ella with Ian and Ruby—saw how she looked at 'em like they hung the damn moon. But it hit different, seeing her like this with Carl too. Ain't no blood between 'em, but there didn't have to be. She'd protect him same as she would our own.

And Carl... kid loved her back. You could see it clear as day.

Rick glanced over, saw where I was looking. Didn't say a word—just gave me this small nod, quiet and knowing, like he understood too.

I tugged my boots on slow, not wanting to wake 'em yet. Ella needed a few more minutes of peace. She never slept easy these days, not without Ian or Ruby tucked up close.

Leaning back on my hands, I let myself just... look at her.

Her hair was messy, falling across her cheek. Her lips were parted just a little, steady breaths slipping out. And that arm around Carl—tight, protective, instinctive—like she'd tear down the world if anything came for him.

Damn if it didn't make me love her even more.

Not that I ever needed a reason.

Rick's voice was low, breaking the quiet. "Wake 'em gentle. We ride out in ten."

I nodded, but stayed still another second, soaking it in: Ella, wrapped around the boy she'd chosen to love like her own, Carl holding her the same way back.

I crouched down beside them, brushing my fingers gently along Ella's shoulder."Hey," I whispered. "Time to wake up, sunshine."

She stirred, lashes fluttering, eyes blinking open slow and soft. Her first glance wasn't at me, though. It was down at Carl.

Her hand slid up to smooth his messy hair back, tender and automatic. "Carl," she murmured, voice still rough with sleep. "Time to wake up, baby."

Carl groaned low, burying his face deeper into her shoulder. "Five more minutes..." His voice was thick, slurred with sleep, the kind that made him sound younger than he was.

Ella smiled faintly, fingers brushing over the brim of his hat to straighten it. "We don't have five, sweetheart. Come on."

"Don't wanna," he mumbled, voice muffled against her.

I bit back a laugh. Kid sounded exactly like Ian when he didn't wanna get up for breakfast.

Ella chuckled softly and kissed the top of Carl's head. "I know you don't, but we've got a long ride ahead. Up you get."

He cracked one bleary eye open, peeking at her like maybe if he looked pitiful enough, she'd cave. "Ellie, you're comfy. Better than my pillow."

She laughed gently, stroking his cheek with her thumb. "Flattery's cute, but it won't work."

Carl groaned again, half-heartedly, but let her coax him upright. Even then, he leaned against her shoulder, taller now but still clinging like he was eleven years old again.

I watched her fuss over him—fixing his hat, smoothing his collar, brushing sleep-tangled hair out of his face—like he wasn't nearly grown, like he was still hers to take care of. And the damn kid let her.

"You tie your boots?" she asked softly.

Carl grunted something that sounded like "Mmhm," and Ella shot him a look. "Carl Grimes, don't you lie to me this early in the morning."

He cracked a sleepy grin. "Fine. No."

"Sit," she ordered gently, pointing at the bedroll. And he did.

She crouched in front of him, fingers quick and sure as she laced his boots, double-knotting them tight. "You're fourteen, you should be tying these yourself."

He smirked faintly. "What if I just like when you do it?"

Ella snorted, shaking her head. "You're impossible." She gave the knot one last tug and patted his knee. "There. Now you won't trip over your own feet."

Carl leaned forward, resting his chin briefly on her shoulder in this half-hug that damn near cracked my chest open. "Thanks, Ellie."

She kissed his temple like it was nothing, like it was habit. "Always, baby."

Rick called from near the trucks, "Mount up! Ten minutes!"

Carl straightened, yawning loud enough to make Ella laugh again. She brushed his hair one last time, kissed his cheek, then finally looked up at me.

I reached down, pulling her gently to her feet and pressing a kiss to her temple. "Ain't never seen nothin' like you," I murmured low.

She gave me that sleepy little smile, leaning into my chest. "That a good thing?"

"The best thing," I said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Carl rolled his eyes, smirking as he slung his bag over his shoulder. "You two done being gross, or should I give you a minute?"

Ella swatted lightly at his arm. "Watch it, Grimes."

Damn if my heart didn't feel too full watching them like this. My girl, that kid she'd chosen to love like her own, and the way they clung to each other like family because that's exactly what they were.

Family ain't always blood. And sitting there in the cold dawn, I knew I'd fight like hell to keep this one.

Once everything was packed tight, I herded Ella and Carl into the RV, same as last time, while I hauled my bike down from the truck bed. Couldn't risk all our eggs in one basket. If this went south, we'd need more than one way out.

Carl grumbled something about the early hour, rubbing his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. Ella just laughed softly, reaching up to straighten it anyway, brushing his hair back from his face. He rolled his eyes in that dramatic, fourteen-year-old way, but he didn't pull away. He never did.

Kid might think he was grown, but he wasn't fool enough to deny Ella when she needed to fuss over him—especially with Ian and Ruby back at Hilltop. Hell, even I could see it settled her some, gave her something to hold onto.

Carl smirked when she tugged his collar straight, mumbling, "You know I can do that myself."

Ella just kissed his cheek. "I know. But I like doing it."

He huffed but grinned anyway, leaning into her side.

I swung my leg over the bike, fired up the engine, and let it roar under me. Felt damn good—the rumble in my chest, the wind biting at my face, tugging my hair loose from my shoulders. The world blurred by as I leaned into each turn, the RV steady up ahead, Rick driving like he was welded to the road.

By midday, Tara guided us off the main route, down an overgrown track that wound toward the river. "Supplies are stashed near here," she said, pointing toward a half-buried marker.

We dug them out from the riverbank—a few waterproof bins, still sealed tight. Guns. Ammo. Some rations. Rick barked orders, and we loaded everything into the RV while Ella leaned against Carl's shoulder near the edge of camp, eyelids heavy. Carl tilted his head slightly toward her without even thinking, letting her rest there while he kept watch.

I caught myself staring longer than I meant to, that quiet ache settling deep.

When the bins were secure, Rick split the groups. He, Michonne, Tara, Aaron, Eric, Tobin, and Father Gabriel took the first run, loading into an old rowboat and paddling downstream toward the settlement's approach.

From my bike, I could see their weapons glint in the gray light—heavy stuff, the kind you didn't haul unless you expected trouble. Everyone carried their share except for me, Ella, and Enid.

Ella, of course, had to check on Enid. "You've got your knife?" she asked, her tone gentle but firm.

Enid rolled her eyes, shifting the strap of her pack higher. "Yes. I'm fine, Ella."

Carl shot Enid a look that hovered somewhere between amusement and irritation. "You could at least let her care," he muttered.

Enid smirked. "She's worse than you."

"Yeah, and I listen," Carl shot back.

Ella just sighed, shaking her head, and stepped closer to me as the rest of Heath's old group—half their names still a blur in my head—filtered into the treeline behind us.

We followed Rick's instructions, hiking deep into the woods that bordered the settlement. The closer we got, the tighter the tension wound. Even the air felt heavier.

Rick laid out the plan quiet and sharp once we reached a narrow clearing near the perimeter fence. Michonne would climb up a tree overlooking the compound, close enough to see movement but not enough to draw notice. The rest of us would hold just out of sight until Tara, Ella, and Rick made contact.

I stood beside Ella as Rick gave Michonne a boost up to the lower branch, speaking low to her while she climbed higher.

Ella leaned closer to me, her voice a soft whisper. "I know Tara said they might help us, but what if us showing up like this—guns, numbers—is too much? If it's all women, maybe they don't trust men. Wouldn't it be better if Tara, Michonne, and I went in alone?"

I shook my head immediately. "Nah. That'd just be misleadin' 'em. If they see you three first, then come back and find out Rick's runnin' the show? They'll feel tricked."

Ella frowned, biting her lip. "But what if we're upfront? Tell them everything—about Rick, about Gregory, about Maggie basically running Hilltop now. Just... honesty, right out of the gate."

I looked at her, the fire in her eyes. Always fighting for the straight road even when it curved to hell.

"Maybe," I said, low and even. "But they see this many guns first? They ain't gonna hear much past that."

Rick rejoined us then, brushing bark from his hands. "Let's keep going with the rest of the plan. Daryl, Jesus, you're up."

I nodded as I made my way over to Jesus, readying the wire and the dynamite. Aaron and Eric chattered behind us as they kept watch. I unraveled more wire as Jesus picked up the box of dynamite.

"I should have tried harder to stop them," He sighed as he came to a stop beside me. "Rosita and Sasha. If they'd have waited just another day..."

"Well, no use worryin' about 'em." I grunted. "Sasha's a dead good shot and Rosita can take care of herself. All we know they could be back at Hilltop by now." I crept down the line of wire, unspooling more of it as I crept along the forest floor. "Least I hope they are. We need 'em. Whole lotta people still gotta die."

~~~

Ian POV

"I saw a blueberry bush outside the walls," Aunt Maggie said, kneeling down so we were eye level. Her short hair waved from underneath her hat as she smiled at me, the kind of smile that made me feel all warm inside. "I was thinking about digging it up, bringing it inside so it can grow near the gardens. But I need someone real brave to come with me. Someone to help me pull it up, and keep watch for walkers. Know anybody who can do that for me?"

I tapped my chin like I'd seen Dad do when he was thinking real hard. I thought about all the people at Hilltop. There were a lot of grown-ups who were strong and brave, but I didn't think they loved Aunt Maggie like I did.

"What about me, Aunt Maggie?" I bounced on my toes, so excited I could hardly stay still.

Mom had taught me how to hold my knife right—pointy end out, never swing too big. Dad showed me how to use my bow and arrows too. I wasn't scared. Well... maybe just a little scared. Walkers still made my tummy feel funny. But Dad always said we protect our girls. And Aunt Maggie was one of mine.

"You think you're up to it, sweetpea?" Aunt Maggie asked, her eyes twinkling. "It's a mighty big job. Might even be a walker or two out there."

I puffed out my chest, standing as tall as I could. "Dad always says we protect our girls," I told her, real serious. "You're one of my girls, Aunt Maggie. I'll keep you safe!"

Her smile got even bigger then, and she ruffled my hair. I liked when she smiled at me like that. It made me feel proud, like Dad did when I hit the hay bale with my bow.

Aunt Maggie helped me get ready. She tied my knife belt snug around my waist and made sure my arrows were in their quiver. I liked the sound they made clinking together. It made me feel like a real hunter.

When we went through the gates, my stomach did a funny flip, but I remembered what Dad always said: keep your eyes open, and your feet quiet. So I looked everywhere—at the trees, at the ground in front of me—and I stepped real careful, just like he taught me.

I thought about Ruby while we walked. She was too little to come with us. She couldn't even walk yet. I giggled just thinking about her trying to walk like a big person. Her legs were so short and wobbly.

"What's funny?" Aunt Maggie asked, glancing down at me as she brushed her hand over my hair.

I grinned. "I was thinkin' how silly Ruby would look holding a knife. She'd drool all over it!"

Aunt Maggie laughed, her warm hand ruffling my head. "That would be pretty silly, huh?"

I nodded hard. "She's too little to be a protector. She just slobbers."

Aunt Maggie knelt in the grass, pointing to a small green bush with no berries on it. "Here we are."

I squinted at it. "Are you sure? There's no blueberries. Did they all run away?"

She laughed again, shaking her head. "They're not ripe yet, sweetpea. But they will be. Come on, let's dig it up together."

I crouched beside her, pulling out the little trowel she handed me. The dirt smelled funny—wet and sharp, like rain even though it hadn't rained in days. I dug just like she showed me, but kept my eyes up too, scanning the trees like Dad taught me.

No walkers yet. Not on my watch.

I got bored of digging. It was harder than it looked. Every time I pushed the trowel in, Aunt Maggie had to stop me so I didn't hurt the blueberry roots.

"Can I just stand watch, Aunt Maggie?" I sighed, copying the way Mom did when she was tired of something. "This is kinda boring."

Aunt Maggie smiled at me, tucking some hair behind her ear. "Sure thing, sweetie. Keep your bow up and your eyes peeled, alright?"

I nodded fast, proud she trusted me. I pulled my bow off my back and held it the way Dad taught me. My arrows stayed in my quiver—Dad always said, Don't pull an arrow unless you're aiming. Only aim at threats, not our friends.

I stood real still, like a statue, my eyes darting everywhere: the trees, the road, the grass. My heart thumped fast, but I didn't mind. Dad always said fast hearts made faster hands.

Then I heard footsteps. Crunchy ones.

I spun around quick, just like Dad taught me, notching an arrow onto my bowstring. My fingers felt sweaty, but I kept my arms steady.

I'd protect Aunt Maggie.

She was my girl.

"Who are you?" I shouted, pointing my bow at the man walking toward us. He didn't look like a walker—he wasn't gray or gross, and he didn't make those funny groaning noises—but I didn't know him.

"I'm Gregory," he said, frowning at me. "You better put that weapon down, boy."

My shoulders stiffened. Dad always said tone like that was trouble.

"Don't talk to him like that," Aunt Maggie snapped. Her voice sounded sharp, like when Mom yelled at Dad for leaving muddy boots inside. Her hand rested on my shoulder, warm and steady. "It's okay, Ian. I know him. You can put the arrow back in your quiver."

I nodded slow, but I puffed out my chest anyway, just like Dad did when he wanted people to know he meant business.

"You be careful with my Aunt Maggie," I told Gregory, real serious. "My dad taught me how to shoot."

Aunt Maggie's voice got softer. "Ian," she warned gently. "Enough, sweetie. Stand watch for me, alright?"

I nodded, turning back toward the trees, still gripping my bow tight.

Behind me, I heard Aunt Maggie talking. "Don't think I've seen you outside the walls before, Gregory."

"Well, I built them to use them," Gregory said. His voice sounded funny, like he was trying to be important. "If I want to see greenery, I eat a salad."

I glanced back at him. He stood weird—hands on his hips, like Mom did when she was waiting for me to listen. And his clothes were weird too. His jacket and pants were the same color, not black like Father Gabriel's.

"Then why are you even out here, Gregory?" Aunt Maggie asked, her voice all even.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said.

I tilted my head. "Is your jacket... tan?"

He gave me a look. "Yes, my suit is tan."

"What's a suit?" I asked.

"It's what I'm wearing, young man!" he snapped. "Now please, I'm trying to have a conversation with Maggie."

My chest hurt. His voice was sharp, like when I'd dropped Mom's favorite cup. I blinked fast, but my eyes still felt hot and stingy.

"Hey," Aunt Maggie said, her voice snapping sharp again. "I wouldn't talk to him like that if I were you. His parents hear that you did, and I won't be able to stop them."

"My mom'll yell at you!" I shouted, tears sliding down my cheeks. Aunt Maggie knelt and pulled me close, careful of my bow, her thumb wiping my tears away.

"It's okay, baby," she whispered, kissing my cheek. "Gregory's just a grumpy man with nothing better to do."

"I'm gonna tell Mom," I mumbled, my words shaky. "She'll make him say sorry."

"That sounds perfect," Aunt Maggie said softly, wiping my cheeks again. "Now why don't you go check that bush over there for me, huh? See if you can find any fruit."

I nodded, sniffling, and ran over to the other bush. I crouched low, peeking under every leaf. It was bigger than Aunt Maggie's blueberry bush, but there wasn't any fruit anywhere.

When I turned back, I froze.

Gregory was standing right over Aunt Maggie. His knife was out. The blade caught the sunlight, flashing bright, and his face looked strange. Not mad. Not sad. Just... weird.

My tummy flipped hard. My hands clenched my bow.

When I heard twigs snap in the woods, my ears perked up just like Dad taught me. My heart started thumping fast, but I remembered what he always said: fast heart, steady hands.

I pulled an arrow from my quiver, holding my bow tight like Dad showed me. My fingers felt slippery, but I didn't care.

"Aunt Maggie!" I called out, my voice loud and brave. "Walker!"

She looked up quick, sharp like Mom when she heard Ruby cry. She and Gregory talked fast—grown-up voices I didn't quite understand—but then Gregory rushed forward.

I planted my feet the way Dad taught me, my bowstring drawn, arrow ready. My arms trembled a little, but I didn't lower it. I waited. Mom always said, Don't shoot unless you mean it.

Then Gregory screamed.

"Maggie! Help!"

I whipped my head around just in time to see a huge walker—bigger than any I'd ever seen—slam him to the ground. Its teeth snapped near his face, all gray and rotten, dripping yuck everywhere.

"I'm coming!" I yelled, dropping my arrow back in my quiver like Dad told me to if I needed my knife instead. My hands grabbed the hilt, and I ran.

Gregory was pushing at its shoulders, grunting loud, trying to hold it back. The walker's mouth opened wide, and I could see all its black, broken teeth. My tummy flipped, but I didn't stop.

I remembered Mom's voice: Straight into the head, Ian. Quick and hard.

I yelled as loud as I could—'cause Dad said noise makes you brave—and I stabbed my knife right into its skull. It jerked, made this awful wet sound, and then it went still.

I panted hard, my little chest heaving. My hand hurt from how tight I'd grabbed my knife, but I didn't care.

I looked back at Aunt Maggie, grinning so big my cheeks hurt.

"Aunt Maggie! Did you see that?!" I shouted.

Her face went pale, then she ran to me so fast her boots kicked up dirt. "Ian!"

"I did it!" I yelled again as she scooped me into her arms. I bounced a little in her hug, too excited to stay still. "All on my own!"

She pressed me so tight against her chest I could barely breathe, her hands running over my arms and face like she was making sure I was still there.

"Did I do it wrong?" I asked, my smile faltering just a little.

"No, sweetpea," she said quickly, hugging me even tighter. Her voice sounded funny, all shaky. "You did it right. I just... wasn't expecting today to be the day you faced a walker, that's all."

"Did I do a good job?" I whispered, tucking my chin against her shoulder.

She pulled back enough to rub her nose against mine, her forehead pressed close. "Yes, baby. You did amazing." Her voice went softer, and it made my chest feel warm. "Your mommy and daddy are going to be so proud of you. I'm proud of you."

I grinned again, my chest puffing up all big and proud.

We turned as a bunch of people walked up the road, all of them staring at Gregory. His tan jacket was splattered in gross walker goo, and his face looked pale and mad at the same time.

"He's never killed one before," Aunt Maggie called to them.

"That's not what he told us," one guy yelled back, raising his eyebrows.

I frowned. "What's that mean?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, sweetpea," Aunt Maggie said gently, setting me back down on my feet. She grabbed her trowel again and knelt by the blueberry bush like nothing had happened.

"Keep watch for me, okay?"

I nodded hard, clutching my bow again like a pro. Gregory stomped away without saying thank you. Grown-ups were so weird.

But I didn't care.

I'd protected Aunt Maggie.

I couldn't wait to tell Mom and Dad.

~

Daryl POV

I heard the scuff of boots pounding against dirt—two sets of feet bolting for the armory.

Before they even hit the doors, Michonne's bullets cracked sharp through the air, hitting dirt at their feet and kicking up dust. They froze in their tracks.

I raised my crossbow, stepping forward. "On the ground," I barked. "Now. Hands on your head."

The one with dark hair dropped fast, compliance all over her face. The second—tall, strong-looking—stood firm, chin lifted, defiance clear in her stance.

Jesus tipped his head toward her, voice calm. "Please."

A beat passed. Then finally, slow and stiff, she lowered herself to her knees, hands still hanging stubbornly at her sides.

I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket, twirling it once in the air, signaling to Michonne up in the trees. All clear.

We tied their wrists—tight, but not rough—and marched them back toward the others. Ella stood near the treeline, bow raised but loose, her arrow notched but pointed at the ground. Carl stayed close at her side, his grip on his pistol steady but twitchy in that way only kids with nerves could manage.

I felt her eyes on me as I guided the woman forward. Could almost feel her measuring me with that sharp little glance she had.

I smirked, letting it slide her way before nudging my prisoner gently toward the cluster of kneeling women. Then I moved straight for Ella's side, close enough I could brush her arm.

Rick's voice carried behind me as he gave orders. His tone was calm, but there was iron in it.

"You alright?" I murmured to Ella, keeping my voice low.

She nodded faintly, though her jaw was tight. "I just don't like this," she whispered, fingers flexing lightly on her bowstring.

"Nobody has to get hurt," Rick called out louder, pitching his voice toward the group of women kneeling before us. "This isn't about blood. This is about what you have, what we need."

"Nobody's taking anything!"

The voice cut sharp, older and strong. My head snapped toward it.

An older woman—gray hair pulled back tight—stood at the edge of the group, her gun jammed against the back of Tara's head. A younger girl stood behind her, barely more than a teenager, with wide, fierce eyes and a hand hovering near her own weapon.

"You let everyone go," the woman ordered, her voice like gravel. "And you leave. Right now. Or she dies."

Rick stepped forward slow, hands out. "Yeah, we can leave you alone. It's Natania, right? We're taking your weapons. That ain't changing. But put the gun down, and we can talk about the rest."

"No." Natania's grip tightened on her pistol, pressing it harder against Tara's head. "Leave. Now."

I caught Tara glance up into the trees—right where Michonne was stationed.

"Michonne! Don't!" she shouted, her voice sharp.

"All we want is to be left alone!" Natania roared. "Is that so hard to understand?!"

Beside me, Ella whispered low, "I told you this would end badly."

I kept my crossbow up, eyes sharp. "Now ain't the time, baby," I muttered back.

Rick's voice hardened. "Let her go, or we'll kill you. None of us want that. All we want is the weapons."

"They want us to fight the Saviors," the younger girl—bronze-skinned, dark-haired—spoke up suddenly, stepping forward just enough to draw eyes.

I saw Carl look at her, caught that flash of something teenage in his eyes, and cleared my throat pointedly. He shot me a look. I shook my head. Boys. I remembered that age. One glance at a pretty girl and you forgot there were guns in play.

Natania's voice sharpened. "We tried fighting them. We lost. Too much. We're not losing more. Not our guns. Not our safety. Not after what it cost us to get here."

Ella took a step forward before I could stop her.

"Natania," she called out, her voice steady but warm. "Tara told us about what happened. About your people. Your men. I'm so sorry you went through that."

Her bow dipped slightly, lowering but still ready.

"I know what it's like to be where you are. My marriage almost fell apart because some bastard thought he had rights to me—to my body, my choices." Her voice wavered just slightly, but her chin stayed high. "I know what it's like to lose and feel cornered. But we've been where you are. And we found a way forward. We have the numbers, Natania. We can win."

Beside her, Tara nodded, louder now: "We're going to win. With your guns, with or without your help."

Our weapons stayed lowered, tension in the air so sharp it felt like it might snap.

Rick's voice rang steady. "Natania. Put the gun down."

Tara's lips curled in a grim smile. "You shoot me, and you die. And nothing changes. We'll still take the guns."

The gathered women shifted, looking at each other—conflicted, unsure. Natania's face stayed carved from stone, but her grip twitched.

The whole forest felt like it was holding its breath.

"Maybe we could try," my earlier prisoner said softly, her voice hesitant but carrying in the silence.

"Grandma," the younger girl beside Natania—Cyndie—pleaded, her hands trembling at her sides. "It's over. Just talk to them, okay?"

Natania's voice cracked like a whip. "It's not over, Cyndie!" Her gun pressed harder against Tara's scalp, making Tara flinch.

Then Natania turned on her people, her voice rising like thunder. "You've all forgotten!" she shouted, eyes blazing. "You want to fight them? After everything they did? You think you can just pick up your guns and march off to war?"

Her finger trembled against the trigger.

"We can lose our guns, fine. But you want us to leave this place? You think it won't happen again?" Her voice shook, fury and grief twisting together. "After everything, I still have to remind you! Yes, I will do this, and yes, I will die for it, because it matters! It's our lives, our families, our blood they spilled! Remember what they did to us!"

Her gaze swept the group, wild and sharp. "Open your goddamn eyes!"

The silence that followed was thick. No one moved.

Then Michonne's voice rang from the trees, sharp and urgent: "Rick! Walkers!"

I jerked toward the treeline just as Ella spun on her heel, bowstring pulling taut in one fluid motion.

Before Natania could react, Cyndie surged forward and slammed her fist into her grandmother's jaw. Natania staggered back, dropping hard to the dirt, gun still clutched loosely in her hand but pointed nowhere now.

"Everybody up!" Rick bellowed.

The woman we'd tied earlier—our prisoner—rose fast, barking orders to her people like she'd been waiting for this.

"Knives out! Protect the children!"

"Get the kids behind us!" Ella called, her voice sharp but steady as she loosed her first arrow straight into the forehead of a shambling walker that had broken through the brush.

Gunfire erupted around us—Michonne from the treetops, Rick and Aaron on the ground. Bullets tore through the air, deafening sharp cracks bouncing off the trees.

I planted my boots, lifted my crossbow, and let bolts fly, fast and clean. Each shot hit true—through skulls, through rotted bone. Beside me, Ella loosed arrow after arrow, her face fierce and focused, every line of her body taut with precision.

Carl stayed close to her flank, firing tight, deliberate shots just like I'd taught him. I felt pride swell sharp in my chest even as I aimed down another bolt.

The women of Oceanside surged forward too, blades flashing in the sun. They moved like they'd done this before—quick, silent kills, knives plunging into skulls with practiced strikes.

The herd was large, but it didn't matter. We tore through them like water through rock. In minutes, it was over. The last walker fell with a wet thud, its head split clean by one of Michonne's bullets.

Silence followed, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing and the faint groan of the dead settling in the dirt.

One of the women—our former prisoner—stepped forward, wiping her blade clean before handing Rick his knife back, handle first. He took it, then offered his hand. She gripped it tight, a silent understanding passing between them.

But all eyes shifted to Natania.

She stood slowly, her jaw tight, eyes burning holes into the ground. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then she turned sharply, facing away from her people.

"No," she said, her voice like stone. "No. We're not fighting them with you. Take your damn guns and go."

The words landed heavy. You could feel it—the ripple in the crowd. Some of the women wanted to follow us. I could see it in their faces, the way they shifted on their feet, their hands tightening around their weapons. They wanted to fight.

But they didn't move.

We made quick work of loading the guns. Every crate, every rifle, every round of ammo. The women stood silent, watching us. Eyes tracked every motion, burning with want, with anger, with fear.

As I hefted a crate into the truck, I caught Ella watching them too, her jaw tight. She knew it. Same as I did.

They weren't ready to fight—not yet.

But hopefully soon, they would be.

~

We made it back to Alexandria without incident. The gates loomed tall and familiar, but I still felt that same knot in my gut, tight and gnawing. Being home didn't feel safe anymore. Not with Negan out there. Not with my kids at Hilltop, far from reach. Any second, he could show up here—smiling that sick smile—and take Ella. Kill me outright just to make a point, and take her.

But what stopped me cold wasn't Negan. It was Rosita, standing at the gate, swinging it open for us.

Enid bolted forward first. "Are you okay? Where's Sasha?"

Rosita didn't answer her. Didn't even look at her. Her eyes locked straight onto me and Rick. Flat. Hard.

"There's someone here," she said.

Every muscle in me went taut.

Rosita led us fast toward the house with the cell. Michonne, Carl, Ella, Tara, and Jesus followed. The rest hung back, but I could feel their unease like a wave.

The cell door creaked open, Rosita stepping inside with Rick close behind. Ella stayed at my shoulder. My boots felt like they were nailed to the floor until I saw him.

Dwight.

That scarred bastard, sitting there like he belonged. Denise's face hit me first—eyes wide, arrow clean through her head. Then the memory of Dwight and Sherri riding off on my bike, my crossbow slung across his back, my vest stretched over his shoulders like he owned it.

I lunged before I knew I'd moved.

"Daryl—!" Rosita shoved me back hard, but it barely slowed me. My rage blurred out everything but his face.

"He wants to help us!" she shouted, shoving harder.

Didn't matter. Didn't matter. All I saw was Denise, blood running down her face, and Dwight walking free.

Ella slid in front of me, hands catching my face, forcing me down to her level. "Daryl," she said sharply, her voice cutting through the haze.

I strained forward, muscles burning, but Rick and Rosita held me from the front while someone else yanked me from behind.

"Daryl, baby," Ella's voice softened, sharp edges dulled to something warm but commanding. Her thumbs pressed into my stubble, grounding me. "Look at me. Not him."

My eyes dragged to hers. Bright, steady, unshakable.

"Good," she murmured. "Now calm down. Let Rick talk to him. Back up."

I sucked in a ragged breath. Slowly, I stopped fighting. The hands holding me fell away.

Ella guided me backward into the corner, her small hands firm against my chest until my back hit the cold concrete wall. She pressed herself against me, sliding her fingers down until she grabbed my hand and pressed it against her stomach.

The world narrowed. Her warmth. Her smell. My hand slid under her shirt, calloused fingers meeting her skin. That skin-to-skin grounded me in a way nothing else could.

I couldn't hear Rick's words over the rush in my ears until Tara's voice cut through.

"The woman you murdered," Tara whispered, stepping forward, her face pale and hard. "She was my girlfriend. She had a name."

She got in Dwight's face, her voice trembling. "Her name was Denise. She was a doctor. She saved people."

Dwight's voice came low, flat. "I wasn't aiming for her."

Red exploded behind my eyes. I lunged again, knife out faster than thought. The point pressed to his throat, my knuckles white on the hilt.

"Do it," Tara said, her voice breaking but sure. "Do it!"

Dwight didn't flinch. His hand came up, gripping my wrist, steadying the blade just shy of cutting him.

"You wanna end it here?" he rasped. "Go ahead. I'm sorry. To all of you. I am. I know you want me dead."

Ella's hand stayed firm on my arm, her touch a tether.

"He could be here just to see if we're here," she said, her voice tight but even. "To report back to Negan."

Michonne stepped in. "We can't trust him."

"He owned me," Dwight said, voice sharp now, full of something bitter and raw. His scar twisted as he leaned closer, hot breath ghosting against my cheek. "But not anymore. Everything I did—I did for someone else. My wife got away. So now I'm here."

I dragged the blade upward, lining it right for his eye. One thrust and it'd be done. No more words.

"There's another choice," Dwight said.

Tara's voice cracked, urgent. "Daryl, you knew her. You knew Denise."

"Negan trusts me," Dwight pressed, eyes locked on mine. "If we work together, we can stop him. I swear it. I'm not lying."

My hand trembled.

Slowly, I lowered the knife.

Ella's hands were on me again, pulling me back, her arms wrapping tight as she pressed us against the wall. Her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt, and I buried my face against her hair, still keeping my eyes fixed on Dwight through the strands.

I didn't say a word. But I didn't let go of the knife.

"They have Sasha," Rosita said suddenly, her voice sharp in the silence. "If she's still alive."

Jesus whipped around, staring at her. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?" His tone was tight, strained. "He could be our only chance to get her back."

Rosita folded her arms, chin tilting stubbornly. "Because I don't trust him." Her eyes flicked to me, steady and unflinching. "But I trust Daryl."

The words hit heavy. My jaw clenched, and I tightened my arm around Ella's waist.

Dwight leaned forward, voice low but steady. "Negan's coming soon. Tomorrow. Three trucks, probably twenty Saviors. And him."

A ripple went through the room.

"I can slow them down," Dwight continued. "Drop some trees on the road, cut off their approach. Buy you a little time to get ready. You take them out there—that's your opening move. You kill them, I radio back to the Sanctuary."

Rick's eyes narrowed. "The Sanctuary?"

"That's what they call it," Dwight explained. "Where Negan lives. I radio in, tell them everything's fine, you drive the trucks back. I lead you straight inside. With the right plan? We can wipe out the rest. Check for your friend, see if Sasha's alive."

Ella's fingers dug into my arm, white-knuckled. I slid my hand over hers, covering it, grounding her.

Dwight drew in a slow breath, his scar twisting with the movement. "Once we take it, we flip the workers. They hate him too. Get them on our side, build our numbers. From there, we move outpost to outpost. We burn it all down."

The room went still.

No one spoke.

Finally, Rick nodded once. "Keep talking."

We spent the next hour hashing it out. Routes. Timing. Signals. Dwight outlined every turn, every choke point. His voice was even, calm, but I watched him like a hawk the whole time, ready to slit his throat if I even thought I saw a flicker of a lie.

Ella stayed glued to me, her grip unrelenting, her head pressed to my shoulder. I could feel her heart pounding through her skin.

When it was done, Rosita hauled Dwight out, sharp and curt. "We'll see if you're worth a damn," she muttered as she shoved him toward the gate.

The door closed behind them.

I exhaled slow and turned to Ella, sliding my hand down her back. "Let's go back to the house for tonight."

"Okay, baby," she whispered, her fingers curling into my shirt as she tugged me toward the street. Her voice was soft but thick with exhaustion, the kind that came from too many close calls in one day.

We walked through Alexandria in silence, past the homes we'd built, the walls we'd fought for. My mind kept drifting—back to Ian and Ruby, safe at Hilltop. I pictured Ian running through the grass here, Ruby toddling behind him, both of them laughing loud and free.

"Soon," Ella murmured, like she could read my thoughts.

I kissed the crown of her head, pulling her in close as we reached our door. "Yeah. Soon."

We'd bring our babies home. We'd give them back their childhood. And I'd damn well burn the world down to make it happen.