The pine grove lay hushed after the burial.
Fresh mounds of earth lined the clearing, damp and uneven, each marked only by a wooden stake hacked from spare timber. The smell of churned soil clung to the air, mingling with smoke and blood. No songs rose for the dead, no prayers. Only the dull scrape of shovels and the muted shuffling of boots as men and women withdrew, shoulders bowed.
The fire at the camp's heart crackled, too loud in the quiet. Sparks drifted upward into the black canopy, swallowed at once by the smoke that still hung low.
Leo sat apart, knees drawn up, hunched in on himself. The firelight licked across his skin and betrayed him; his palms glowed faintly with the ember inside him. Every time he clenched his fists, the shard pushed back, itching to flare. He pressed them hard into his thighs, into the earth, until his fingernails cracked and his breath shook.
