Dylan scratched the back of his head, exhausted.
"Four weeks… we're going to stink like corpses."
"If we're lucky," Maggie smiled.
"Otherwise, we become the corpses."
----
The fire crackled—a stingy little ember under the rocky overhang, reluctant to share its warmth. The acrid stench of blood and the slain beast had faded, replaced by the softer, almost comforting scent of roasted boar-bear meat.
Maggie had skinned a leg with brutal efficiency. Élisa had found wild herbs—sharp on the tongue, but refreshing—to mask the gamey taste, and Dylan had gathered dead wood, his movements still stiff, his arms sore from clumsy blows struck with the jian.
