The campfire crackled softly, sending sparks drifting up into the night sky like dying stars.
Nero sat with his back against a fallen log, his broken arm cradled carefully across his chest. The warmth from the flames felt good against his skin, chasing away some of the bone-deep cold that had settled into him during his time in the Southern Bogs.
Aisha sat to his left, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. She'd been quiet since he'd returned, her dark eyes studying him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. Lucy was on his right, sharpening one of her twin swords with slow, methodical strokes. The rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone filled the gaps in conversation.
