The stench was the first thing that hit them. Acrid, metallic, and bitter, carried on the drifting wind like the last breath of something long dead.
Fenrir's ears twitched, his massive frame slowing as they neared the rise ahead. Damien raised a hand, and the wolf came to a halt.
"Stay sharp," he said quietly. His gaze narrowed as smoke-stained clouds hovered above the treeline.
Arielle climbed down from the carriage, her robes brushing the dirt, her eyes already scanning ahead.
The faint tremor in her lips betrayed what she felt but would not say. Lyone followed behind, hand instinctively on his sword, though his grip was nervous.
When they crested the ridge, the full sight unfolded before them.
A village. Small, no more than a dozen homes scattered along a dirt lane. Or what had once been a village.
Now it was a graveyard of ashes. Roofs caved in, walls blackened and broken, wooden beams jutting skyward like bones.
