The fire had burned low without anyone speaking. Its glow had softened to a slumbering bed of pulsing coals, the flickers casting long, dying shadows across the circle of travelers and the gnarled tangle of forest that enclosed them. The logs gave off a slow, weary crackle, as if sighing from the weight of a long night.
Ludwig sat near the edge of the firelight, poking gently at the embers with a stick blackened to its core. His bowl of half-eaten stew rested beside his foot, long gone cold, its oily sheen catching the fire's last breath. His posture was loose, almost drowsy, but his eyes didn't drift. They tracked shadows. Shapes. Movement.
Celine sat across from him, unmoved by the hour. Her back was ramrod straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed just beyond the fire. She could've been carved from marble, if not for the subtle twitch of her thumb brushing the side of her palm, absent-minded, unconscious, but constant.
