The exit spat them into a morning light that glowed like a fever. The clouds had a direction, as if the sky itself were a river flowing east. Rhea blinked into the flat white light that lay over the ruins and pointed with two fingers. "There. Across the basin, then parallel to the old track. The tower stands behind the debris wall, just outside the city."
Alaric pulled his hood deeper over his forehead, his gaze alert, shoulders loose. "We move fast until our lungs burn. Then slower. No heroes."
"Heroes are bad radios," said Rhea, stowing the module. "They only broadcast themselves."
