The fires in the square had dwindled by morning. Thin trails of smoke rose to the sky like signals, curling over rooftops, evaporating. Velnair had never been so quiet. Not peaceful — never that — but still, it felt as if the city was waiting for the next sound to decide how to breathe another time.
Serena sat at the edge of the square on a half-broken stone wall, soot caked on her boots, her hands gripped around the same cup Lucian had given her the night before. The tea had long gone cold, but she kept it close. The warmth it once possessed is what made her think of people. Of something human.
Lucian sat on a stump nearby, methodically sharpening his sword. The clang of metal upon stone was rhythmic, steady. It provided both with continuity and something to channel attention.
