The morning light was pale and thin, filtering through the broken arches of the ruins like scattered gold. Dust motes danced in the beams, and somewhere outside, a bird sang, oblivious to the death that had soaked into the stones the night before.
Amelia sat with her back against a fallen pillar, her knees drawn up to her chest, her silver-violet eyes fixed on the small fire crackling in front of her.
A makeshift pot, hastily scavenged from a fallen knight's helmet, sat over the flames, its contents bubbling softly. She had no real idea what was in it. Just some random roots she had pulled up near the stream, some dried meat from her pack, and water.
It smelled exactly like something her mother would have labeled "peasant food" and refused to touch. But it was food. That was enough.
