After a couple of hours, everywhere went darker than before, though the sky never lost its grey tone.
They came together and set up a fire in the middle of the camp, so everyone could stay together and share memories or troubles.
The fire's low orange glow threw long shadows over the rough circle of stones. Smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, the sharp bite of burning pine lingering in the air.
Riven pulled his knees closer, the night pressing in cold around him, but the fire's heat was a thin shield.
Veyla tossed another branch onto the flames. "You never talk much," she said, voice rough like gravel. "Not about yourself."
Riven glanced at her, the light catching the edges of his face. "Doesn't do much good," he muttered. "Memories don't come easy."
She didn't press. Instead, she shifted, exposing a scar running from her collarbone down her forearm, pale against dirt-streaked skin. "We're all broken," she said quietly. "Just some of us hide it better."
