The breeze carried faint echoes of chaos from the heart of the encampment to its outskirts, where a pair of watchful eyes finally lifted from the steaming cup before him.
He stilled his hand mid-stir.
Slowly, his gaze dropped to the shattered petals scattered nearby—bright fragments of color already bruised and crushed under his fingers.
Without hesitation, he scooped the mashed petals and tipped them into the cup, resuming the gentle, deliberate stirring as though nothing had changed.
When he was done, he rose quietly, cup in hand. He took a torch from its stand and slipped away from the camp, glancing back more than once to ensure no one was watching.
His steps were brisk, fluid, soundless.
At last, he stopped.
Lowering the burning torch, he poured the cup's contents over the flame, hissing words in a language ancient and foreign, syllables sharp with intent.
