Seraphis sat with her back pressed against the rough bark of an old tree trunk. The surface bit into her skin through the fabric of her cloak, but she made no complaint, she had grown used to discomfort long ago.
Eleyn was seated a little ways off, near the dying fire, which had burned down to a bed of glowing red charcoal. She stirred a small pot with deliberate care, making sure not a drop spilled over the sides.
Though the pot seemed recently made, its rim still held a faint sheen of polish, the bottom bore the familiar dark smudges of soot, proof of repeated use. It was barely large enough for two, yet she had filled it to the brim, unwilling to compromise the meal despite the modest size of the vessel.
