The walk to the base was tense, the group's chatter filled with a mixture of wariness and dark humour. One woman, her hair tied back in a severe braid, kept glancing at Zara and muttering under her breath about "bringing kids into this hellhole."
Another man, stocky and heavily armed, cracked jokes about how long Winter and Zara's "marriage" would last.
Zara focused on putting one foot in front of the other, her thoughts swirling. They don't know about Leo. They can't find out. She adjusted her coat, her grip tightening around her son's tiny form.
Winter, ever observant, took in the group's dynamics—the way Scar-Cheek barked orders but deferred to the older man, the subtle deference others gave to the woman with the braid. The two of them must be ability holders, then.
His sharp eyes swept the terrain, cataloguing exits and potential threats.
