Rymora moved swiftly, her boots crunching over scorched earth and trampled grass. The coppery tang of blood clung to the air. She scoured the battlefield, scanning the fallen until she found clothes—bloodstained but usable. Without hesitation, she stripped a dead guard, pulling on the garments, the sticky fabric clinging to her skin. Then she returned to Aira's side, the stench of ash and charred flesh rising around them.
What she saw startled her. Aira was crouched low, furiously striking stones together, the sound of clack and scrape echoing in the dead silence. Sparks leapt and died on the dry ground. Her hair clung to her damp temples, her face pale but fierce.
"I won't feel relieved until the Zygon is burnt to a crisp," Aira muttered, jaw tight. Her hands moved with mechanical urgency, using the most ancient of methods—stone on stone, coaxing embers the way even children were taught.
