The morning tea was steam and silence.
Master Vince and Khael sat on low stools beneath the eaves of the rebuilt shrine. A thin braid of steam rose from their cups, ghosting in the cool air. Children darted in the square, flinging pieces of rope, shrieking with that raw, immediate joy that comes from being alive after terror. Villagers moved with purpose hauling beams, sweeping ash, threading boards back into fences. The village smelled of sap and warm bread.
(This is what we fight for.) Khael thought, watching a little boy thrust a crooked wooden sword at a makeshift foe and laugh. His jaw softened for a breath; the dragon scales along his forearm flickered like embers. He sipped his tea with careful hands, eyes never leaving the children.
