The ridge shielded them from the worst of the wind, but the air still cut through layers of cloth and armor, biting at skin and clawing at exposed flesh. Frost hung in the tufts of pale grass, each blade trembling in the pale dawn. The first light spilled slowly across the plains, a muted wash of orange and gray that stretched shadows long and thin, turning every dip and mound into a potential hiding place for unseen eyes. The world felt empty, and yet alive, the silence pregnant with threat.
Evelyn knelt beside Leo, hands hovering just above the ragged wound at his side. The soft glow of her palms painted his tunic in shifting shades of white and silver, pulsing in rhythm with her breath. The cut, though shallow compared to some he had survived, had festered, raw and angry from neglect, a dark stain against his skin.
