The fire burned low, a feeble flicker against the omnipresent mist that curled and slithered through the narrow hollow like a living thing. Raerin sat with his back against the cold rock, his spear laid across his knees, eyes half-lidded but never fully closing. Every crackle of wood or shifting shadow drew a twitch from his fingers, a tightening of his grip.
The others were no better. Jonan sat close by, hugging his knees, his youthful face smudged with grime and streaked by thin lines of dried blood. The boy's eyes had grown older in mere days. Around him, the remaining warriors and survivors clung to one another, their exhaustion deeper than mere fatigue. It was a weight that pressed on their souls.
No one spoke. Words had lost their power to comfort.
