Ezra does not move away immediately. He stays there while I scrub, and he bends down to pick up a stray piece of broken wood from the debris and carries it to the burn pile without being asked.
He is not ordering anyone. He is not standing above us. He is working. Quietly and restrained.
He is losing the ability to pretend I am nothing.
I move toward the fountain area like he suggested, and the stone there is darker and more uneven where claws gouged into it, and I kneel again and start scrubbing while warriors lift overturned benches and drag shattered crates away.
The smell of blood is fading slowly under soap and water and sunlight, but it still lingers faintly, and every time I inhale I can almost hear the echo of snarls radiating from the battle.
Something catches my eye near the
