The body was buried beneath snow and stone, far enough from the cabin that the little one would never stumble across it.
Revik and I didn't say much — we worked in sync, like we had a hundred times before. Except this time felt different.
This time we weren't cleaning up a battlefield.
We were burying a man who'd called children cargo and thought pain was a language he owned.
We walked back in silence, the cold biting at our skin. I welcomed it.
It distracted me from the look on Lyra's face the night before — the brokenness, the fire that had burned too hot, even for her.
When we stepped through the cabin door, something in my chest shifted.
Lyra stood by the hearth. Her hair was damp and brushed, her clothes fresh.
The little girl sat curled on the far side of the cot, wrapped in
