Between the Spite and the Stone

The tent swallowed light like a grave that refused a funeral.

Inside, the air reeked of iron and cracked skin. Soot from old torches settled across the canvas like forgotten ash. The only sound was breath—uneven, strained, laced with pain.

Amari sat bound to a splintered chair, wrists tied so tight the rope had worn through two layers of skin. Shylo was beside him, chest rising with quiet steadiness. Both were upright. Still. Silent.

The others had already been worked over.

Maverick's head hung low, blood smearing his jaw and temple, each breath rattling in his chest like thunder that had lost its roar. Kenneth had one eye swollen shut, and when he inhaled, it was shallow—like every rib protested movement. Milo twitched faintly, but hadn't spoken in hours. Johnny barely responded when Kael passed by—his gaze fixed forward, his silence total.