Refugee Novels & Stories

The clash did not wait politely for the ink to dry. A runner burst in with the panic of someone trying to be brave in front of people she admired. “Bridge Two,” she said. “Refugees. Two dozen. Maybe thirty. They’re from North Verge. They say raiders, or ‘black coats,’ burned their fields. They’re not traders. They have nothing but a plea.” The words cracked the fault line wider. Garret’s chair scraped back. “We promised gates. We promised to be more than our fear.”

The barricades broke. The refugees surged forward like a tidal wave, overwhelming the soldiers in seconds. They didn't attack the military. They simply ignored them, throwing themselves toward the riverbanks. They drank from cupped hands, soaked rags in the current to press against their wounds, and bathed their sick children in the shallows. The camp did not erupt into violence. It erupted into a desperate, weeping choir of salvation.