Dragoncrest Cliffs my bed (worth 10 years' war)

Like all mornings since the fighting broke out, Ephraim woke suddenly from a nightmare of blood and salt. And like all mornings that began this way, he compartmentalized his fear and anger into a neat pack at the back of his mind. Later, he told himself. He would confront all of that later. There was a lot to unpack and it was easier for him to just push it away and not dwell on it for now. It wasn't working as well as he liked to believe. He looked more haggard under his eyes than he ever had from losing sleep and it was beginning to wear on his concentration. Oh well. Today was another day and he would play the part of fearless soldier, even though he felt nothing but dread for what would come next.

He tried to stretch and winced when his nape burned where Eurycrates' teeth had sliced his flesh. Other wounds pulled and ached as he rose and woke himself with a ginger shake, ones that made themselves known in every twist and move he made. He emerged into the foggy morning and shivered at the damp cold that wound down into his bones. Gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering, the young coywolf jogged out toward the cliffs.

The forest bordering it was quiet and there was no one around until he found Blodreina, whom he remembered vaguely from Trigeda. They'd spent no appreciable time together and he didn't even remember her name; then, she had been Eske. Hei, he greeted, casting the cliffs a dark look. Eurycrates had died near here. He relived it every night, with that bloodcurdling scream ever present in his ears between the claps of thunder from the storm. He shuddered and moved away, closer to the dark-haired woman.