The storm thinned as the night wore on, its tantrum dwindling into a steady, fine rain that struck the world like a thousand small fingers. The air tasted of ozone and wet stone; every breath Leo took seemed to carry the echo of violence, as though the earth itself kept replaying the fight in tiny gusts. Under the ruined skeleton of an old watchtower they made camp, the tower's stones slick with moss and rain, its broken ribs throwing long, crooked shadows over their cramped circle.
Owen fussed with the fire as if that small, stubborn flame could stitch the night back together. He had scavenged slabs of fallen masonry and propped them like a windscreen, shielding a heap of kindling so it might catch. The flame sputtered and coughed, but it held, and the glow painted everyone's faces in an uneasy, wavering warmth. Steam rose from wet cloaks, and the smell of damp wool mixed with the acrid tang of burned things, charred wood, scorched metal, still clinging to their clothes.
