His Untold Lies
He just reached for a thick, wool blanket and draped it over my shoulders, his touch brief but firm.
"Let’s get some food," he said, his voice flat.
We dismantled the tent in silence. Outside, the world felt vast and impossibly cold, but the sight of the campfire—a bright, dancing amber eye in the darkness—offered a temporary reprieve. Ares’s mother was already there, moving with practiced ease as she tended to a heavy iron pot. The smell of stew, rich and earthy, wafted toward us, cutting through the damp scent of pine needles.
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