Crossroads

The fire was low in its pit, just dying embers which were throwing flickering shadows around camp. The tension of it permeated the atmosphere-it was in everyone's hair.

Flora sat cross-armed on a log, staring across at the man opposite her. Adrian loitered near the edge of camp, his shoulders tense, hands buried deep in his pockets. He wasn't really there-not in the way it counted. His mind was elsewhere, somewhere darker.

"Adrian," she said, her tone even.

He didn't turn.

...