We didn't patch a single roof. We didn't haul any buckets. We didn't fix anything except our own pulse rates and the pile of busted, definitely-not-standard-issue gear lying in a heap at the edge of camp.
For the first time since the world went sideways, Ashring's finest did absolutely nothing productive. Splitjaw sprawled on a crate, feet up, sharpening his favorite blade while threatening to slice Chaos's fingers off if he tried to "fix the edge." Embergleam lay flat on her back in the grass, eyes closed, quietly muttering flame ratios and meal plans to herself. Quicktongue kept writing notes, then tearing them up, then writing them again. I didn't have the heart to ask what she was actually keeping.
I sat on the well curb, hands still shaking a little, and watched the sun finally crawl up over the village wall. The whole place smelled like wet ash and too many bad decisions.
