Three more weeks passed, and the war did not become easier. It simply became familiar enough that Vane could almost, if he was careless with the word, call the camp's rhythm sustainable.
Still, mornings came. Fires were rebuilt. Watches changed. People slept when they could and woke when they had to. The camp had found a rhythm that no longer felt like it might collapse every time someone raised their voice.
Terin's leg healed slowly and crookedly, the way badly set bones sometimes did. He walked with a limp that would probably never disappear completely, but he stopped treating every step like an argument with his own body. During the day, he had taken to following Mara around, and the two of them had become an unlikely pair.
A grown man relearning how to walk.
A girl who had never stopped counting things.
