Following the TCA debriefing, Nathan's party gravitated toward a secluded perimeter of the encampment, putting distance between themselves and the noise of the medical tents. The sky above was still bruised with the apocalyptic red of the Cleansing, but the eastern horizon was finally beginning to bleed out—the first pale, fragile hints of natural dawn creeping over the jagged peaks.
The eastern front of the Cleansing was over. But Smithy's story still hung heavily in the cold morning air.
Garrett sat heavily on a reinforced supply crate, the thick leather of his armor groaning under his weight. Volcan rested against his knee, the mace's molten veins finally cooling to a dull, crusted maroon. Red lay at his boots, returned to a soft, breathing mound of fleece.
