Julius and Rosalina stood in front of their tents as bright orange flames steadily consumed the makeshift structures.
The fire crackled softly while black smoke rose into the clear morning sky. Bits of burning cloth occasionally broke away and drifted upward before turning into ash.
It was not a particularly impressive sight. The tents had never been impressive to begin with.
After all, they had been hastily assembled from clothing Julius had stolen from the village chief's house.
At the time, it had seemed like a brilliant idea. Now the poor quality of the materials was becoming painfully obvious.
Several parts had already been on the verge of tearing apart even before the previous night's events. Reusing them was out of the question, and simply leaving them behind was even worse.
Julius firmly believed that small mistakes were responsible for a shocking number of deaths.
