At dawn, on the morning after the year’s longest night, the survivors gathered at the bend in the river, just outside of town. Huddled together, they watched the sun rise, as the remaining buildings smouldered.

Those who’d escaped the raider’s axes were thankful to be alive. Knew their piety had spared them. They praised their gods and set to work, backs straight and heads high. Lining up, dipping buckets in the icy waters and passing them along, from the bank to the town, to drench the last of the flames.

Crows gathered above them, but kept their counsel to themselves.

Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.


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