Luke returned at dawn on the fifth day, when the sky was still pale with thin light and the dew clung heavy to the grass.

His steps were steady but slow, the weight of his pack dragging his shoulders down. When Gideon saw him coming along the main dirt road toward the clinic, he pushed the door open and stepped outside, his eyes narrowing as if to make sure it was really him.

"You cut it close," Gideon called out, his voice low but edged with relief.

Luke dropped his pack with a grunt. "Could've been worse. I made it back in one piece."

Lena came to the doorway, her hands still stained with crushed leaves from the remedies she had been preparing.

When she saw Luke, her expression softened, though her voice carried its usual bluntness.

"You look like hell."

"Thanks," Luke replied dryly, brushing dust from his jacket.

"Hannah stayed in Moko. She decided she needed there more. Supplies are short, and they've got no healer worth the name. She wouldn't budge once she made up her mind."

"That sounds like Hannah," Lena said with a faint smile. "Always putting others before herself."

"Or just too stubborn for her own good," Luke muttered, though there was no real anger in his voice.

Gideon crossed the yard and clapped a hand on Luke's shoulder. "She's where she thinks she belongs. That leaves us here. And we've been busy."

Luke looked up at the small wooden building that had once been abandoned. Smoke curled from its chimney, the shutters were open, and voices came from inside—villagers waiting their turn.

The sight made him pause. When he had left, the place was just dust and broken boards. Now, it looked alive.

"You weren't kidding," Luke said. "It looks like a real clinic."

"It is," Lena replied simply. "And we need your help."

Luke picked up his pack again and followed them inside. The front room was crowded, with several villagers seated on benches, holding children or leaning on sticks.

The air smelled of herbs, boiled water, and wood smoke. Behind a table, Lena worked quickly, checking a young boy's fever while his mother watched anxiously.

Gideon stood near the wall, keeping order with his steady presence.

Luke set his pack down in the corner and took in the scene. Villagers here weren't whispering about strangers anymore; they were waiting, trusting, hoping. He felt something shift in his chest, a quiet pride he hadn't expected.

"Tell me what to do," he said.

From that day on, the three of them fell into a rhythm that carried them through the weeks. Lena remained the lead, diagnosing ailments, preparing remedies, and treating wounds.

Gideon kept control of the waiting crowd, making sure no fights broke out when patients grew impatient, and keeping his sharp eyes on anyone who looked suspicious.

Luke threw himself into support work. He built shelves from scrap wood, hammered together new benches, and reinforced the front door so it wouldn't rattle when the wind blew.

When Lena needed herbs crushed or ground, Luke did it with steady hands. When the fire burned low, he split more wood without being asked.

The villagers noticed the change almost immediately. They began speaking of the clinic not as a stranger's project, but as something belonging to Nikua.

Mothers brought their sick children with less hesitation. Old men sat patiently, chatting about the weather instead of staring in silence.

Hunters returned from the forest with scratches and sprains, sitting down on the benches like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And slowly, the suspicion began to ease.

One afternoon, an old farmer came in with his wife. She had been coughing for weeks, unable to work in the fields.

Lena listened to her chest with a practiced ear, then prepared a mixture of herbs to ease the strain.

As she gave the instructions, the farmer reached out and pressed a small pouch of grain into her hands.

"For you," he said. "For the clinic."

Lena tried to refuse, but Gideon stepped forward and accepted the gift with a nod. "We'll put it to use. Thank you."

The farmer bowed his head deeply before leading his wife away. Outside, other villagers saw this and whispered among themselves.

From that day, more patients began leaving small offerings—bread, vegetables, even simple tools—along with the coins they could spare.

It was not only trust; it was recognition.

One evening, after a long day, the three of them sat in the back room around the single table, eating boiled vegetables and bread. The oil lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the walls.

"This is working," Lena said, almost to herself. "We've treated over fifty people in less than two weeks. They've started calling me 'Doctor Lena' in the market."

"You've earned it," Luke said with a tired grin. "Half of them wouldn't even look at us when we first arrived. Now they're lining up before sunrise."

Gideon leaned back, arms crossed, his face half in shadow. "Recognition is what we need. But don't mistake it for safety. For every grateful villager, there are two watching us more closely than before."

"The elders," Lena said quietly.

"Not just them," Gideon answered. "I've seen men hanging back near the smithies, watching who comes and goes. They don't come for treatment. They don't speak to us. They only watch. That's not good."

Luke's jaw tightened. "If they're looking for trouble, they'll find more than they can handle."

Gideon's gaze sharpened. "We don't give them trouble. Not yet. We hold the ground we've gained.

Every patient treated, every life made better, that's another stone in the wall we're building around ourselves. But we can't afford to slip."

The next morning, Gideon's warning seemed to take shape. A small group of villagers stood near the gate, arms folded, watching the line of patients.

They didn't approach or speak, but their presence was heavy, their eyes sharp. Gideon noted each face carefully before turning back inside.

"Keep working," he told Lena and Luke. "Let them watch. The more they see, the harder it'll be for them to claim we don't belong."

And so the work continued.

Luke proved invaluable in ways even Lena hadn't expected. He built a small rack to dry herbs more efficiently, saving hours of time.

He repaired the clinic's roof before the rains came, patching holes with tarred cloth. He even helped villagers fix broken plows and fences, earning nods of respect from men who had once ignored him.

Hannah's absence was felt—her gentle touch with patients, her easy warmth—but in her place, Luke filled the gap with steady labor and quiet loyalty.

Lena carried the role of healer, Gideon the protector, and Luke the builder. Together, they gave the clinic not only life but strength.

Recognition came in small, unmistakable signs. Children ran past the clinic shouting "Doctor Lena!" as they played.

Old women brought baskets of food not just as payment but as gifts. A young mother, whose child Lena had saved from fever, stood outside the clinic one morning and told every passerby, "These people are not strangers. They are part of Nikua now."

Even Lisa, the inn owner who had given them the house, came to see for herself. She walked through the front room, her sharp eyes studying the shelves of herbs, the neat benches, the patients waiting calmly. She nodded with approval.

"You've done well," she said. "When I offered you this house, I wondered if it would bring me profit or trouble. Now I see it was the right choice."

"Profit and trust often go hand in hand," Gideon replied.

Lisa gave him a thin smile. "Keep this up, and the elders will have no choice but to acknowledge you. Some already speak of you as if you've been here for years."

After she left, Luke chuckled. "That sounded almost like praise."

"It was," Gideon said, his tone flat. "But it was also a reminder. The elders are watching. They don't move fast, but when they do, it will matter."

The days blurred into a steady rhythm. Morning brought long lines at the clinic. Afternoons were spent cleaning, preparing remedies, and visiting homes of patients too weak to walk.

Evenings were quiet meals and whispered strategy between the three of them. Gideon continued to patrol the village in his own way, memorizing faces, listening to conversations, piecing together the hidden currents.

He heard rumors of weapons being forged in secret, whispers of a council meeting where the word "refugees" was spoken with unease.

But alongside that unease grew undeniable gratitude. The villagers could not ignore the lives that had been saved, the pain that had been eased.

One night, as the oil lamp burned low, Luke leaned across the table and said, "You realize what this means, right? We're not just guests anymore. We're not passing through. This clinic ties us to this village."

Lena looked up from her notes, her expression calm but firm. "That was the goal."

Gideon said nothing at first. He stared out the window into the dark street, where shadows moved in the moonlight.

Finally, he spoke. "Recognition. Belonging. Call it what you want. But make no mistake —we've planted our flag here. And flags always draw eyes."

Lena's hand paused on the page. Luke leaned back, the grin fading from his face. The room fell silent, save for the faint crackle of the lamp.

But none of them disagreed.

The clinic had given them more than work. It had given them a place. And in a village preparing for something beneath the surface, that place might be their strongest shield—or their greatest risk.

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