"A hunted man does not choose his allies. The fire chooses for him." , Old soldier's maxim.
The hunters made their camp in the shadow of the ruined shrine.
The fire they coaxed from damp wood hissed and spat, smoke curling upward like coiling serpents, vanishing into a canopy so dense that even moonlight could not pierce it. The scent of resin and char mixed with the faint tang of blood, theirs, his, and the forest's endless offerings.
Leo sat close to the flames, arms wrapped around his knees. The warmth felt good on his chilled skin, but he never relaxed into it. His whole body remained taut, a coil of strained muscle ready to spring. He might as well have been sitting inside a ring of drawn blades.
