Cobra exited the tent to a chilly morning. The ground was still wet from the prevalent rain the previous night. Overcast clouds clung to the sky, giving nary a hint of the sun. A small fire crackled in the middle of the camp, guarded carefully to make sure it wouldn't go out. Today promised to be colder than all the ones before. Inside, however, Cobra felt the heat of a different flame. One that currently burned no brighter than a matchstick, yet one that he would guard even more carefully than a real fire.

He spotted Meredy by the fire, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her baggy eyes and nodding head indicated that she hadn't slept much either last night. He walked right up to her. "Is Sorano still sleeping?"

She jolted at his voice, then drew herself up in five-foot fury. "Have you been asleep all this time? You lout! You're even worse than Macbeth!"

From behind him, Macbeth huffed. It didn't please Cobra to be compared to him either, but right now, he had bigger fish to fry. "You can berate me for being lazy later. Is Sorano awake?"

"Why do you want to know? You wanted nothing to do with any of us yesterday. You left us high and dry!" She stamped a foot on the ground and sniffed. Richard and Sawyer, who also sat by the fire, shot him uneasy glances. They weren't quite as mad as Meredy, but their displeasure was evident in the fact that they didn't come to his defense.

Normally he'd respond with measured apathy. Perhaps acknowledging that feelings had been hurt but without any real resolution. And he still burned to give them all the cold shoulder, stalking into Sorano's tent, doing what he meant to do, and then leave.

Instead, he nursed that tiny ember from the rains of wrath, letting its frail light cautiously lead him in a new direction.