The courtyard still smells like iron and smoke when I step onto the stone at first light, and the sun is barely cresting the treeline while warriors move in quiet formation across the grounds with buckets and stiff brushes like this is just another part of the job instead of the aftermath of teeth and bone and near death.
Nathan told me to stay inside and rest, but I ignore him because I am not built to sit still while my pack scrubs blood off their own doorstep, and I grab a metal bucket from the stack near the well before anyone can argue with me.
The water is freezing when I dip the brush into it, and I kneel near one of the darker stains along the stone path that leads up to the packhouse doors, and I start scrubbing.
The blood has already started to dry, and it resists at first, an
