She didn’t see their faces, only the harsh shadows and silhouettes as the fires burned brightly in spite of the rain, burning down the hovel that had always been her house and home, her safe place. It was hers, her sister’s and her mother’s – she rarely got to see her father as he usually worked the fields far from home. Now it was no more, its meagre treasures stolen, its roof collapsed and burning, letting in the elements to ruin what little was left amongst the ashes. She didn’t get to see her mother’s eyes one last time. All she had managed to glean, upon waking up that dreadful night through bleary eyes, was the strange shapes made by shadows of panicking village griffons upon the walls of her room. Shadows cast by orange light from somewhere beyond her window.