A/N: Set during Serpent's Pass; title from Oscar Wilde.
A small group of the refugees has compiled enough scraps of wood, paper, and rags to form a ragged heap in the center of the floor; a hard-faced woman now aims sparks at the little pile.
The paper catches, and suddenly the entire room is flooded with light as the fire roars to life.
To my right, the kid with the bow flinches.
I shut my eyes, understanding only too well.
Of course, it occurs to me to wonder if anyone besides us flinched. Of course, I shove such thoughts away almost as soon as they wander into my mind.