The girl led Kaal through the maze of ragged tents, past shivering children and weary faces, until they reached a modest shelter patched with torn cloth and stitched canvas. A frayed flap served as the entrance.
Inside, the air was musty, but dry. A cracked clay pot sat near the corner beside a wooden cup half-filled with rainwater. A bed made of dry grass was pressed together unevenly, and a faint shaft of moonlight slipped through a hole torn in the roof.
"Sit down, Arthur," the girl said gently.
Kaal obeyed, lowering himself onto the bed. The stiff straw pricked through the thin cloth of his rough pants, and he shifted uncomfortably. It was coarse. Hard. He had never sat on something like this in his life, even the cold ground of a battlefield had offered more comfort than this.
The girl didn't seem to notice. She knelt by his side, opening a small bundle wrapped in coarse linen. From it, she took out a greenish paste with a sharp, bitter scent.
