A push. void of all the iron there just minutes ago. His eyes still on hers. Quiet as her hand slipped in an odd slump.

He let his hand fall from the quickened pulse at her neck, grabbed up her wrist in his broad and calloused hands. No strangers to handling with care, they turned her hand over, pressed digits to the bundle of veins and nerves there.

Held it just long enough.

Leaned just a bit closer as her breath turned tight. Labored. Ragged. All worn down and hard fought as she stayed awake.

"We're almost done," he straightened up. Let her hand down gentle. "Hold on, just a little longer, Dragon," Called to Andy for fresh water, and whatever clean bandages he could find.

Andy, bless him, ragged as he was, went on fast as his feet would take him.

Out with bloodied buckets of water where the bowls had been stowed and he had started to scrub. Spilled them out, away from the well, and rinsed it clean at least once before he he came back, with a fresh pull. All slosh and quick step.

The villagers just watched from their distance.

Clean water. Bandages. Hector had set to clean the fresh stitches. Pat it dry. Pulled the clam shell of ointment he had prepared earlier in the day. Unsealed it. The mixture tinged coral from the blood he had added.

He whispered shrouded words over it. Breath full life, and sun glow.

Come quick, light spilled across the fields
Sink warm, unto life that would give yield
Sated by sweet summer's touch
Those spirits so set to rush
Out toward the sky
down through the earth
Into mouth of mortal hearth ​

Wicked finger there in the sticky substance that smelled strong of camphor, cinnamon, clove, and iron.

"This will burn," he warned, voice dry as half spent firewood. "Like glowing steel," he looked back to the sealed wound.

The glob of ointment steamed against his fingers. He smeared it over the wound first. Then the bruises. The stuff hissed and steamed as it all spread over her discolored flesh beneath the patterned press and round stroke of his hand.

Should the shroud woven into it take, the ointment would burn out rot from the wound. Help the wounds heal faster. Help the bruises fade quicker. A week turned to days. A season to months, if cared for proper. If let in proper.
 
The woods​
The Captain talked. Boy, did he talk.

„Not my fault.“ Bound and ruined. Leaking slow into the grass. „Weren't even my orders. Was Hvit the tit. Some of 'em flew those colors.“ Thank fuck for Lemm and his mad ass. „Check the bodies if you don't believe me. All rodents. Man's been using cutthroats in the hills.“ He found the song he liked. And blew harder. Fuck Hvithelm. There was a reason he deserted in the first place. „Sworn in new livery. Loose dogs.“ The mud between his teeth made him sound softer somehow.

„Not sayin' I liked it. Deserted that shit years back. But a man's gotta eat.“ He laughed, hacking up smoke and mud both.

Winry didn’t speak. Just stepped forward and brought down the hammer, heavy at the knee. Wasn't even rage. Couldn't have been. He looked so still.

„Just makin' sure he understood what you meant, Ma'am.“ Eyes steady as he wiped his hands across worn rags. And if the intruder wailed from it...well, he didn't mind.


*​
Sumu​


It all seemed wonderful to wideeyed Andy. He hovered by the healers kit, too heavy a sack to his shoulders.

„I thought I wanted firestuff.“ He nodded. „Think I'd prefer this. Snip and stitch. And no one dies.“ His face went red at the unintended accusation. Didn't know how to take it back.

Hector may have had a heart for iron, but it was his iron hands that weighed him down now. Helped as many as he could. Every widow and grunt. Every fucker who refused to meet his eye.

But there was only one person Hector forgot to rector.

Himself.


*​
Etain, dreaming​

Etain twitched in sleep. The drain she'd been circling had finally come to swallow.
Warmth and pressure, and the scent of worked-over blood had a gentle lull and a steady pull. The bedding groaned under her weight. Body finally resting.

In her mind, Toulonne bled again.

No gate, not anymore. Nothing left to stem the tide as it came, wave after another. In the thick of it, her work made ash feel like snow. Her sword gave its weight to the ground, anchoring yet another restless fucker. Nothing but a spear to her name. Each new splash of violence growing more grim. Because the dead don't tire. They don't run out.

She beat them like drums. The wood shattered. But the work didn't stop. Even half a stick was a weapon when a weapon held it.

In the fray, among the bodies underfoot, she could see her own sword begin to rise as if pulled by threads absent. It pulled one of the twicedead with it. Blade moved to the side, stuck in the armpit as the figure straightened.
His milky eyes beheld his mother-violent.

He unsheathed the first gift and stepped past his maker. Looking for something worse to kill.


*​
Ever closer​

Somewhere far from sleep, the revenant stirred.
 
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"People always die, Andy," Hector's voice smoked as his hands shook beneath the weight of a rag. Core spent. Spine bent. He pulled the cloth against his hands, ragged. Let it fall, and tried to work himself up from Ser D'aramond's side. Felt his arm shake fierce as the focus of work faded from his mind.

"Shit," he cursed. Knelt as he was on the floor. He slumped down against his own bones. Felt the fibers of all his limbs pull tight with a sharp ache. Like all of him would snap if he moved too quick. Fingers clawed into painful curls as his lungs dried out.

Breath, Hector, He recalled golden eyes staring at him. His own body seized in contort and spasm brought on by a fit. Too many tears. Too much anger. Breath. You control that, don't you let it control you.

Blunted sword in the dirt. The ring and thwack of steel on steel. Just the sound. And he had been turned to this.

It's alright now, nephew, he felt the touch against his brow.We are here for you, it's alright. The sure weight against his shoulder.

He managed to breath. But he could do little more than fall over in a heap. Spent beyond spent. Felt like ash on the wind. Carried up to the stars.
1752002342132.webpEdwynna scowled as the slinker fucker howled. "Shut up, you fucking pig," she growled. Knee still pressed into his chest. "Shut up!" she hissed, shoved her hand down hard against his mouth. Coiled over him like a hungry snake. Long knife gleamed about the throat as she eyed him close and felt his breath suck hard through the gaps in her fingers as she smothered and stuffed him the more. "You say some stupid shit like that again, and I'll make damn sure I take out your tongue, and wear it round my neck, keen?"

A pitiful nod under flexed iron.

Edwynna spat at the earth. Shoved the fucker one last for good measure. Pressed knee down unto chest so she could get up. Kicked his ribs once. Turned. Snatched the hammer from Winry. Too quick for the boy to tense up.

"You do that shit again, Winry," her head keeled toward the knife still in her hand. "I won't be so generous," She whistled sharp. "Jessop!" handed him the hammer. "Carry this," Jabbed a finger into Winry's chest. "Since you're such a big fucking man now, Winry," a jerk of the head back toward the whimpering slinker fucker. "Hog tie him, and ruck him out," she sheathed her knife, made ready her bow. "Move!"
 
Night arrived quietly. Just too many tired hands. Too much hatred burnt to fatigue. Even the sky yawned empty, too tired to take a proper shine to anyone. Someone had tried rinsing blood with fired-up water, but made a horrid tea instead. Smells of cozy slaughter danced between homes. Some folk still lined the streets – like they needed proof tomorrow wouldn't forget to come.

Up the stars was a tall order. Ser was heavy. Best Andy could manage was bundle him in the corner on some sacks. Covered him in burlap. There – one hot potato – resting in the warm. Packed up the healer's kit carefully and looked around the room. Day finally done, then. Not as tiring as the bloody plows, but heavier somehow.

Found something sharp and slumped by the enterance, keeping watch. Because that's what knights did, probably. Strummed a line in burlap like it was an instrument he couldn't afford. Words that came surprised even him:

Sleep now, angry girl,
Let your fists uncurl.
Two kids more to see the light,
Rest now. You won the fight.

Sleep now, killer sky.
No more need to dye,
The ground, tired, slick.
One hand to fire, another to...sick.

Yawned at the last word, proud of himself. Especially the ground bit. Mom always said he had talent, but that's what mothers do.

One day he'll be telling his kids how heroes came to save Sumu and he got to tuck them in. No one would believe a word, but he'd know.

Somewhere else in Sumu, the night had sharper teeth.

When Edwynna made it back, no torches marked the street. Even the memory of fire stung still. Last of day's energy breathed down her neck. Winry lagged behind, dragging the slinker like wet oats. He wasn't much for hogs or knots, so the bind was shit. But they'd legged the fucker good. There would be no running – not tonight.

Morning came before dawn. Came in the horrid screech of an evil chicken. Every village had one – a flightless fucker who only lived by Satya's grace. As Andy stirred from all too short a rest, he would've burned his own house to turn that asshole to soup. But waking, like many things, was an avalanche. Someone clanged a pot. A baby cried. And no one rushed to hush it. Tomorrow arrived at too early an hour. And despite their hope, no one was happy to see it.

Outside the tea had cooled, rimed with frost.
 
Etain woke with a sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a growl. For a moment, the walls weren’t walls, they were falling bodies, and the air smelled not of morning but of the dead shitting themselves.

The wool blanket over her felt more like a burial shroud, damp with sweat gone cold. Her hand jerked toward where her sword would be -wasn’t. Fingers clenched nothing but air and old pain. The knightess sat up fast with a thundering gallop in her chest. Breathed heavily through her teeth. Every breath steamed in the thin dawn air.

Her breath hitched. Slow. Slower. She forced it. In. Her thigh felt stiff. Tighter than the night before, but not splitting. She shifted experimentally and pain answered, but dulled. That mage’s witchsalve had done its work, whether she liked the man or not. She dragged herself to the edge of the bed with a grunt. Still alive. Unfortunately. Her hand went to her bandaged leg. She thumbed the edge of the fresh bandages, tight but not biting. Someone had seen to her, she remembered that. Hector and that boy, Andy. Etain bent forward, rough fingers finding the laces of her ruined hose. No use for this anymore. She jerked them loose with care, tugging until the fabric sagged down her thigh. Then she yanked it off with a hissed curse, tossing it toward the corner of the hut.

The knightess stood. Not gracefully. Weight shifted to her good leg, arms tense against the strain as she forced herself upright, breath locked in her chest until she steadied. Etain ran a rough hand through her hair, finding the strands still tangled and sticky against her temples. She stank of sweat, soot, smoke, blood, oil, and leather. Like a smithy. A heartbeat later, she limped to the door.

Outside, the morning was grey as grave dust, but the air was cleaner. Her horse, her poor, scarred beast, stood tethered near the fence line, ears flicking toward her as she approached. Its sides covered in dried blood. “Morning, Josephine.” she rasped to the white destrier. "Good girl." The warhorse answered with a snort, but it let her come close. Etain leaned against its shoulder for a moment.

First, she stripped the saddle, fingers clumsy on the buckles. The girth strap nearly slipped through her shaking grip. She let the saddle thump to the earth, not caring. The reins came next, the bit pulled loose from the horse's mouth with a soft metal rattle. The mare gave a small shake, free at last, and sighed through flared nostrils. The white coat glimmered faintly beneath the ash and sweat caked over it. She then cleaned the wounds and brushed the mare down. After Etain had checked the hooves, she found feed.

The type of woman holding herself together by habit alone.
 
The sled was heavy. But pulling was natural work.

Load the damn thing up enough for the pyres, and pull. Helped that others pulled with him. Helped that he pulled with them. Ropes and harnesses taught against them as they trudged.

They had stared daggers at him first. One near clocked him. Gave him the verbal whats for. Said, his skyfire set to blaze his little Yanu.

What was real, and what was felt. Hard to say. Hector just knew he had played some part in Lorrin's grief. Spark. Or target. It didn't much matter. The others had held him back though. On account that Wald had his Nina cared for by Syr Skykiller just last night.

Wasn't all bad.

Sides, he had heard Pelum start. Syr Skykiller was as big as Jimbo, and Jimbo was out on account of his leg getting right fucked during the fire. Another thing Syr Skykiller had looked after, no less.

So they all hauled together. They all piled together. And the people of Sumu gathered in their fields to set the pyres ablaze.

Less the Mirror moon shine too bright, and Sitha fill them with her care once more, to walk the land. So, the fires need be set. That the cinders and ash could fly on high.

Stack, after stack. The pyre stacks grew.


Stretched out and snoring against a wall. Edwynna slept like the coiled and viperous dead.A dagger tucked beneath the arms crossed at her chest. Lulled, after a long night's work.

She was posted just in front of the door to the storehouse they were using as a jail.

One of the Elders said they would ready a noose come morning. Pick a tall tree and let Sitha grant him what rest she deemed fit.
 
By Josephine​

Come next light, they all found Etain the more human one. She stayed and nursed the horse. Looked tired like the rest of them – not dangerous, or other.

Meanwhile, Andy made the rounds telling anyone who'd listen about Ser Drummond of Tellen – some city, far south. Might not've gotten the name right, but it hardly mattered. Suddenly, everyone knew more to add. They'd hanged a priest of Ghanga there once, for thievery, one story went. Another claimed that they didn't burn their dead. Must be why they liked burning the living so much, someone muttered.

It spread like yesterday's fire. Wasn't the truth – just close enough to remember the shape and hold the fear.

By midmorning, the first questions came.

Vasya, a miller's daughter, came first. She always was the one to meddle while others idled. Always the one to say what others were thinking. Even then, she rarely said it plain. She took it upon herself to make the ordinary pilgrimage to the foreign woman.

The stories came easy – swingin' priests and firehappy towns. Vasya didn't claim to believe them. Not aloud. But she was there when Winry and Jessop retold what the bandit had said. And even if the girl wore no banner – she had the walk to her. That was enough to make you wonder. Enough to make people ask.

The horse was calm. Knight seemed calmer still. This made all of it harder.

„Ser.“ She began from a safe distance. There were stories about what the knight had done – and even if she hadn't been there to witness it, she'd keep it in mind. „You came to help us. With Skykiller.“

She paused, thinking on how to ask if it was your goat – without making it sound like she'd caught you stealing it.

„You wear no colors we recognize – but folk say you're trained. Like you served once.“ A small cough as her mind rearranged. „Was it a northern Baron you rode for?“

Gentle like. Didn't blink, though.


*​
The Pyres​

They let him help. There was wood to be hauled, and honest work could always use more hands. Never let him touch the dead. He could bend his back beside theirs, but it didn't give him a pass. Everyone worked and watched him. Not openly hostile – just a forest far too dry for another spark.

Not everyone knew how to be quiet.

„Letting him near the pyres is askin' to burn twice.“ Voice hissed like wet in the logs.

Her brother shushed her. „Saved Jimbo's leg.“

„And scorched Andy's roof.“

The pyresmoke rose slow – choked by the damp, and things no one dared speak of. Some wept. Others kept silent. A few simply kept their eyes shut – like it would make a difference.

„They were already burned once.“ Came a tired voice. And for a moment, no one had the will to argue. „Burning 'em again feels like punishment.“

Fire was still allowed to do its duty. Because Sitha couldn't have 'em. They weren't hers to take. And whatever smoke and wind could carry, the swamp wouldn't keep.


*​
Storeroom​



„Oi.“ The slinkfuck inside had slipped the gag somehow. „Oi, knight!“

„I know you're there.“ Something rustled inside, followed by a crashing sound of wood on wood. „Could at least lemme talk.“ A slow groan as he tried to use the knee which was no longer his. „Will string me up, sure as Sunday.“ The tone grew weepy as composure ran out.

„But I got names. Places. Worse folk than me – and in better boots.“

Confidence slid back in, like he bit into something valuable.

„Don't you want to know why this one burned?“ Words were the only weapons he had left. And he sure as shit wasn't dying armed.

„I could make him talk, Ma'am.“ Winry had come in quieter than a village boy had any right to. Arm still gripped around a hammer he no longer carried.



Violence invited in. And he listened.
 
Etain didn’t lift her head at first. The steady rasp of the curry comb against Josephine’s muddy, sweat-clotted coat filled the silence between them. Each stroke was methodical, like sharpening a blade, her knuckles pale with the pressure. Only when she finished clearing a patch of dried blood from the mare’s flank did she finally turn. Slow. Heavy-lidded. Her face was still streaked with soot; strands of auburn hair clung to her cheeks in sweat-stuck threads. She still smelled of smoke, and of old leather long soaked in war.

Her voice came out flat, practical and worn. “Didn’t know farmers studied heraldry.” Etain would be surprised if the small folk knew any other colors than their Lord, Lekander's. “My father’s a baron. Our lands are near the border. D’Aramond. My name is Etain.” She flicked a bit of dried blood from her mare’s coat. “I’m headed for Baron Rosthall. Ally to my blood. I was meant to lend her aid.” Sumu’s luck is it sat in Etain's way.

A pause, long enough for the clink of her tools and the stamp of the horse’s hoof to fill the space between words.

“Trained?” she echoed, voice flat as hammered iron. Etain turned fully to face the girl, slow and heavy as a grindstone, her body worn but her stare no less sharp. Etain’s jaw shifted, a muscle ticking as her leg throbbed. “I’ve stood in shieldwalls since before you had breasts, girl.”

A pause, thin. A heavy sigh.

“Go question someone else’s colours.”
 
Hector watched.

Quiet that fell around them, quiet that was filled. With their sorrows. With wishes and curses. Choking back tears. Shook as sufferings raked cold across a person as the flames crackled. Hissed.

Bodies stiff. Bodies embraced. Kith and kin. And even Lelum who most people couldn't stand. But he lost his ma in the smoke. Lungs just stopped working. Couldn't get her breath back. All purple in the face.

He listened.

"Don't like how he hung about, though."

"Knife eared fuck shouldn't be here,"

"Make yourself useful, Skykiller, and put those motherless dogs to fire, eh?"

"And don't burn the rest of us down while you're at it,"

Suppose they weren't the same dead. Didn't matter none if he put his hands on them. He could touch these dead. He could burn these dead. Broken over with pommel. Caught in the throat by arrow. Run through by horse. Head split through by sword. Cracked over the head and left to die choking in the mud.

Piled them up neatly. They burn better that way.
1753084479488.webp"Fucking, slinking fucking fucker!" she backed her fist against the door as she sprawled out of her coil. Long knife in her hand. "Shut the fuck up, Winry," she slowed up. Stretched her hips. Rolled her shoulder. Put knife in sheath with a click.

"This one burned, because you got greedy, you fuck!" she kicked the door. "Don't try and convince me it was anything else," another kick. A huff. She looked to Winry. "Go get some food, kid," she shook her head and paced about the room. "I'm fucking starving,"

She would wait until Winry was gone.

"You already gave me Hvithelm," she laughed. "As if we can do a damn thing about that," she moved near the door. Posted up beside it. "Ain't loosenin that noose much, are ya?" she laughed through the door.
 
By Josephine​

It made sense that Etain was a noble. Must be why she was so angry all the time. Someone owed taxes, or there were more grains needed for the Lord's army. Always something. Always serious and sourpussed. Still, what she told Vasya was valuable in its own right. The two 'heroes' weren't riding for Hvithelm. She wasn't sure Rosthall was better – but at least it wasn't the people who wanted them hurt last night.

The other bit – she decided not to let slide. After all, these weren't Lekander men. Not like they could enact much authority here.

„Do people boast about being old where you're from, my lady?“ Didn't really want an answer. Just to prick between the ribs. Salt over the wound if she was lucky. But even if she wasn't, it made her feel better.

„But I see, I see. I won't waste your limited time.“ Turned to leave – best not to test the noble's patience too far.

Andy ran by and almost knocked her over

„Ser! Ser Drummond!“ Breathless and redfaced. „They're gonna string up the boss one.“


*​
Pyrefield​

The pyres pyred. Villagers and invader fucks all equal in flame. Suppose there was meaning in that. But the only one Sumu could glean was rage. Grieving done with, they needed someone to hurt. To pay. But Skykiller was a dangerous fucker. Big as Jimbo. They weren't angry at the Drummond lady anymore – she'd saved Sam and Poholi's kid after all. And the green bitch looked to be more trouble than she was worth. Jessop certainly thought she was scary. Only really left one choice.

And Winry already told them where that bastard was.

When the words finally came, they did not need to be repeated:

„Get the rope.“ No one could be certain who said it first. But everyone repeated it in a silent, dissonant almostchant.

They moved to the storeroom as a unit.


*​
Storeroom​

Winry left silent as a cattle thief. Edwynna could see him tiptoeing with every movement.

The Captain was coming to terms with his fate. It was always going to end like this. But fuck her. She didn't get to gloat at his death. Arms tied and legs legged – he had nothing to fight her with. And if his words were ineffective... well, he still had one last trump to pull.

Rolled closer to the door. Each tumble another reminder that even if he survived his walking days were done. Propped against the wood. Ground his teeth together.

Then let go.

Spire ran hot down his leg. Foul. Immediate. Made sure he wasn't quiet about it. She heard it. Would smell it. Wouldn't give her a speech. They were past that now. Nothing clean was left.

Just shit and knowing.

As Winry made his way back, it wasn't food that accompanied him.



*​
Nearby​

Up the hill, the one working over Lemm had missed the pyres. Wouldn't miss the noose.

Gave the half-conscious bastard one last kick. Low and personal.

Crowd would need help tying knots.
 
Her horse twitched an ear. Etain’s gaze didn’t lift right away. Authority didn’t need ceremony. A noble was a noble, whether wrapped in silks or half-armored and caked in soot.

“Only when little girls ask about the obvious...”

The knightess wasn’t one of Lekander’s dogs either, but that didn’t matter. Bloodlines mattered, and names like D’Aramond carried weight, even on soil that pretended not to know it. But Etain hadn’t come to throw her name around, but if the girl thought she had no right to speak here, she was wrong twice over.

Etain watched her go. Only when Andy’s cry shattered the air did her focus snap sharp. Ser Drummond? Couldn’t even get her name right.

“Tell them to keep the rope slack,” she said. They want vengeance, fine. But they could make it honest. “If you hang him too fast, and you're robbing justice from your own liege." This is was House Lekander’s land, and village they put to the torch. Etain's guess, they would want the bastard breathing. Talking. Screaming names. She limped forward.

"Dead men don’t confess."
 
Hector hissed. Blood set to hot boil.

Mind awake enough to know what he heard. Fuck his guilt, he had to get to Edwynna.


"Fucking shitting whoreson!" Edwynna said through a half crazed laugh. The stench of it all filling the room through the door. "Roll around in your shit then, you fucking worm!" she was already walking to the door when she caught sound of them. Then sight of them. She knew murder when she saw it. Had a good feeling they would kill her, just for making them wait this long.

She Grit her teeth. "Fucking Winry," shut the door, and jammed the chair under it. Snug as she could. Near choked on smell of waste spiraling through the fucking place. "Eight fucking damn this," Saw some shelves and a window that could make for a half decent murder hole.

Grabbed the shelves and turned them over with a crack. Took up bow and arrow. Covered behind wall and half downed woodwork.

"You fucking fucks best start calming the fuck down!" she shout, a voice used to carrying over a field. "Or I'll start with the arrows, and knife any fucker brave enough to keep coming through!" Some ten arrows. Might get off four before they got in close. Sword, knife. "Ghanga's fucking gash with this shit," she looked around.
 
Storeroom​

Just like tributaries found their way to a basin, the different groups caught up to each other. Because speed wasn't what drove the moment. Sumu had passed the rope – hand to hand – until everyone had touched it. This judgement belonged to all of them. Somewhere along the path, the the first knot bloomed, then another. Before long, the noose swung like an empty promise. Each step another reminder that it was missing a head to hold.

They could see the green bitch setting up to...defend? And no one sped up – it was understood that the bandit leader would die. Hells, they even asked one of the elders where to stash the guy. Not like it was a mystery. Sure, Winry'd helped find him faster – but one way or another, end of the road for that fucker.

Some of them had noticed Skykiller trailing them. And no one wanted to fight that guy. No one had the stomach to burn again. The fact that they could also see Ser Drummond darken the eastern sky didn't help. Fucking Andy! Kid just didn't know how to keep his mouth shut. There would be words, when all this shit settled.

„No need to turn all of this ugly, Ma'am.“ Winry spoke first. Still short the food he was sent for.

The people behind him weren't armed. Just hungry for things other than grief.

They couldn't bring back the dead. But they, sure as the shit they smelled, could send the guilty to join them.
 
„No need to turn all of this ugly, Ma'am.“

“I’m not here to save the bastard” she said finally, voice rough as road dust. "But hanging him without your lord’s say-so?” Etain hoped to have them remember who the lord of this land was and that the law still wears House Lekander's colors. Not Sumu's.

"You want him dead? Fine. You’ll likely get it. But you bring him in chains, alive. Because if your liege finds out his people are playing headsman without asking first…"

They weren’t warriors, not like her. No blades drawn. No shields raised. Just hands that had held rope and grief, faces lit by the kind of fire no forge could shape. These men and women who hadn’t come for justice. This was revenge dressed up in town colors. And that made them dangerous. Etain wasn’t armed. No sword. No armor. Just boots caked in old mud, a tunic that smelled of smoke.

She took one step closer, slow, deliberate. Her bad leg dragged a small beat behind. Etain raised both hands slightly, empty palms up.
 
Behind the gathered crowd, Hector grit his teeth. Eyes flit to the storehouse, back to the crowd.

Heart hammered hard. Mind too spent. Too strained and full of smoke and ash smelled so sickly sweet. Limbs tired from work and murder. Foot slipped in the mud, and he would have fallen weren't for one of Sumu's folk come bump against him.

A growl. A hiss. A shove. "Fuck off, Skykiller!"

Legs stiffened, spine straightened as feet caught solid ground under him.

A barricaded storehouse and a knight ahead. Some eyes turned onto the knife ear. Only half an ear on him. Some of them were angry enough. Red enough with the raw of it all. Had to light fresh pyres. Had to set new fires, to them already burned.

A wallop across the elfs face put him in the muck. A kick, shouts. A stomp. He covered his head. Grit his teeth. Eyes open as he sucked down cold muck laden breath.

They were going to hang somebody.
 
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