Seraphine's POV
Dawn crept slowly over the camp, casting a gray, exhausted light on the aftermath. Dark patches of dried blood soaked into the trampled grass; torn canvas flapped weakly in the wind; horses pawed the ground, jittery, as if the strays’ presence still clung to the air. The warriors moved in grim silence, binding wounds, collecting the fallen, restoring what little order could be salvaged. The night had carved its toll into every face.
I lay curled on the earth, one hand clamped to my side. The wound throbbed viciously, each breath slicing through me as though the strays’ claws were tearing me open all over again. The cold dirt clung to my bare skin; sweat and blood matted my hair. I tried to cover myself with my arms, but shame wasn’t my greatest concern—vulnerability was.
