There is nowhere safe to recover below ground. No inn beds that heal you, no fountain at the bottom of the stairs. If your party is to get anything back, they get it by stopping where they are, lighting a fire in a place that does not want them, and deciding how long they dare sit by it.
You do not rest and wake up restored. You pitch camp once, and then time passes at the fire in turns — and with each turn you watch your health, stamina and mana climb a little. You stop it when you want to stop it.
There is no "rest until healed", and that absence is the whole design. Every turn you stay is another turn something might find you, and deciding when you have had enough is the mechanic. A party that always camps to the top is a party that will eventually be caught doing it.
Pitching camp costs one ration per person, taken once, when the fire is lit. Sitting there longer costs no more food at all.
So the price of a long camp is never supplies. It is exposure, and only exposure — which is why the decision is interesting rather than arithmetic.
When the fire is lit, one character makes one check on everyone's behalf — the party's best pair of eyes for ground and weather and cover, rolled once. That single result sets the standing chance of being found, and it holds for every turn of that camp.
It does not remove the risk. A well-made camp is not safe, it is cheaper: each further turn by the fire costs you less than it would have. A badly-made one does not doom you either — it just means every turn you take is an expensive one.
And the order matters in your favor: a turn's rest lands before anything comes out of the dark. You are never robbed of the turn you just sat through.
Stamina comes back at a flat rate — the same for everyone, regardless of who they are. A few turns at a fire will take a spent party back to full.
Mana and health are different: both come back at a rate set by the character. A character built for magic recovers mana faster; a hardy one mends faster. Two characters sitting at the same fire for the same length of time do not get the same night out of it.
This makes recovery speed a real consequence of how you built someone, and it is the quietest reason those attributes are worth more than their dice.
Mana deserves one note of its own: camping is essential to restoring mana. It does not return while you walk, it does not return in a fight, and no spell gives you more. A caster who has spent their reserves has one way to refill mana, and it is this.
A character below half health heals nothing at a camp. Nothing at all, however long you sit there.
At or above half, rest mends you. Below it, you are hurt past what a night by a fire can reach, and the fire simply will not help. You can camp until your rations run out and that character will be exactly as broken as when you stopped.
The camp tells you at the moment you pitch, by name, so you find out while you can still do something about it rather than after watching a bar refuse to move. The health bars carry a mark at the halfway point, and that mark is this rule.
A camp is not only sitting. Each turn you may step through the party and give people something to do — sort their kit, use something, cast something — or let them rest.
The trade is simple and it is absolute: anyone who does something recovers nothing that turn. They spent the hour on the task instead. So healing a wounded companion costs the healer their own night's progress, which is usually the right trade and is never a free one.
Rearranging equipment is the exception — that is free, and a character who only tidied their kit rests normally.
Nothing happens until you say so. You walk the whole party, see the full slate of what everyone is about to do, and confirm it as one act — and you can back out of any of it until you do. If you would rather nobody did anything, say so once and the camp simply runs.
Not everywhere will take a camp. Difficult ground refuses it outright — you cannot wade one square into a bog, sleep, and stroll out rested, which is what makes the length of bad ground a commitment rather than an inconvenience.
And once you are camped you are camped: you cannot walk away from a fire you have not struck. Breaking camp is a thing you do deliberately.
Time passes at a camp the same as anywhere else, which has one consequence people forget: a lit torch burns through the night. A long camp in the dark is paid for twice — once in exposure, and once in the light you will not have afterwards.