Cassidy
The smoke hadn't cleared completely.
It hung in the air like a ghost, clinging to every breath I took. My lungs burned from inhaling it, and the heavy scent of ash and blood soaked into my clothes and hair. The last of the explosions had ceased—thank the moon—but the damage remained. A once-peaceful camp now lay in ruins.
Tents shredded beyond repair. Fire pits smothered into charred holes. Refugees crouched behind scorched crates or in shallow trenches we'd barely had time to dig. Fear rippled off them like heat. But they were alive.
And that counted for something.
Celeste stood at the clearing's edge, her clothing torn in places, dark streaks of blood painting her sleeves and neck—but none of it hers. She was barking orders already, her voice rough but focused as she helped a scout pull a broken beam off a collapsed tent.
