I gathered a small pile of branches and dry bark in the clearing's center. The flint and steel sparked, hissed, died.
Again. Again. The twigs caught once, then sputtered into nothing. I tried another angle, cursed under my breath, kept at it.
WHAT IS IT WITH ME AND FIRE?!
A few dozen failures later, fire finally bloomed. Small. Flickering. Unimpressive---but it was mine.
"Efficient," I muttered dryly, lips curling at my own expense.
The flame grew steady, feeding on bark and shredded fibers. Soon a fire crackled, pushing warmth into the damp air. The smell of smoke cut through the rot of blood.
I stacked thick cuts of Shadestalker meat on a makeshift spit, letting them sear slowly over the coals. Blackened fat dripped, hissing when it struck the fire. The scent was heavy.
My stomach growled.
But training came first.
Downward Diagonal Slashes.
