The tent smelled like antiseptic and old fabric.
Lantern light flickered low, shadows stretching and shrinking across canvas walls as the woman's needle moved in and out of Aubrey's skin. Each pull tugged at the shallow wound along her neck—more irritating than painful, but enough to earn her exile from the fight.
She hated it.
Her fingers flexed at her side, restless.
Her eyes flickered to Jane for a brief moment, eyes narrowing.
Then to her daughter Isabella, her arms crossed as she stared off into the distance without a care in the world.
Across the tent, Lila stood half-hidden in shadow.
She hadn't said a word since she came in. Just leaned near one of the support poles, a gun resting loose in her hand. She rotated it slowly, absentmindedly, like she was thinking through something that didn't require words.
Click.
Turn.
Click.
Her eyes met Aubrey's for a brief second.
Cold.
Not panicked. Not scared.
Disdain.
Something about the look made her stomach tighten.
