The scouts returned at dusk, their silhouettes jagged against the dying sun. Dust coated their armor, and blood streaked their clothes in thin, stiffened lines. Even before they reached the campfire's circle, their faces told the story, there was no safe haven ahead, only more ruin.
One dropped to his knees, too exhausted to pretend strength. The other staggered to Seraphina, voice hoarse.
"The northern ridge is gone. Burned to glass. Whatever tore through us didn't stop there, it kept moving. If we go that way, we'll be walking into ash."
Murmurs broke like brittle twigs around the fire. Some groaned, some cursed, others simply lowered their heads as if the weight of survival was too heavy to carry.
Seraphina's jaw tightened. She scanned the survivors—the burned, the broken, the hollow-eyed and then her gaze found Aria. For a moment, the air between them bristled. As if Seraphina silently asked: If I keep them moving, can you keep yourself from breaking?
