The valley stank of ash.
The JLTV growled down broken road where the fields had been, its suspension taking the abuse of half-melted stone and still-smoldering timbers. Ahead, Stonebridge was no longer a bridge but a scar in the earth, the Rell thrashing white where its span had been torn away. Beyond it, the black steam of Marrowport boiled into the sky, carrying with it the stink of brine, tar, and charred flesh.
Inigo slowed the machine at the crest of a shattered ridge. "Here," he said simply.
Lyra scanned through the haze, bow half-drawn though no target yet moved. "Empty."
"Too empty." Inigo killed the engine, the silence falling heavy. He slid out, M4 carbine slung ready, and scanned the horizon. The heat lay wrong. Fires burned, but no wind carried their smoke. The air pressed inward, holding everything in place.
