The rain did not stop all at once.
It was still going and was showing it's vast presence in the life of our sweet werewolves.
It softened, thinned, became a whisper against leaves and stone until the world smelled clean again. The fire burned lower, fed just enough to keep the chill away, its glow painting the hollow in gold and shadow.
Night wrapped itself around us gently.
Rowan had drifted into sleep first, sprawled near the fire with the ease of someone who trusted the world not to demand anything from him while he rested. Silas took watch at the edge of camp, quiet as ever, presence steady and unyielding.
That left Alaric and me.
Not alone.
But uninterrupted.
I sat near the fire, cloak pulled loosely around my shoulders, watching the last embers shift and settle. My body felt heavy in a pleasant way, muscles loose, senses still sharp.
Aware.
