Night found them on a low ridge, wrapped in fog and wind. The last light bled out of the sky like a slow wound, leaving the world a smear of gray and black. The survivors made camp there, if it could be called that , no fire, no warmth, just bodies huddled close to the earth beneath the shelter of twisted pines.
The ground was damp. Everything smelled of rain and rot.
Kaelen sat with his back against a tree, staring at the dim outline of Roran’s figure a few paces away. The older man was trying to rewrap his leg in the dark, fingers clumsy, breath shallow. When Kaelen moved to help, Roran waved him off.
“Got it,” he muttered.
“You don’t,” Kaelen said quietly. “You’ve been bleeding since noon.”
Roran made a sound that was half laugh, half cough. “Ain’t the first time.”
Kaelen crouched
