By morning, we bury what’s left of the mercs. It’s not ceremonial. It’s necessary. Shallow graves, marked with stone, just deep enough to keep the scavengers out. That’s all we have time for.
Keir doesn’t say a word. Not a whisper. He keeps to himself now, sitting stiff-backed against one of the carts, picking dried blood off his boots like it’s a task that might distract him from everything else. Good. His silence is a better sound than his panic.
Rael’s crouched by one of the fires, wrapping his arm. The cut runs deep across the outer edge, and he works the bandage tight without so much as a wince. I watch his hands for a while.
There’s a precision to the way he moves, like this is something he’s practiced far too often for someone his age. No wasted movement.
He didn’t hesitate. Eve
