Naomi's whetstone scraped rhythmically against the edge of her dagger, the sound cutting through the awkward silence that had fallen over their first night's camp. She kept her focus on the blade, though her eyes occasionally flicked upward to survey the scene around the pitiful fire Margaret had managed to build.
The five of them had made decent progress on their first day—covering maybe twenty miles before the early winter sunset forced them to make camp in this small clearing. Now they sat in a loose circle, each absorbed in their own activities while carefully avoiding meaningful conversation.
Margaret stirred a pot of stew hanging over the flames, her movements overly enthusiastic as she added pinches of dried herbs from her pouch. "This should be ready soon! I found some winterroot to add flavor." Her voice was bright, brittle, like ice about to crack. No one responded.
