The village lay in a shallow basin between two low hills, its fields trampled into mud and ash, its fences shattered as though something large and careless had passed through them again and again.
Damien saw it from a distance.
Smoke curled lazily into the bloody evening sky, thin and grey. Not the thick black plumes of a city under siege, this was worse in a way. Smaller and quieter.
The kind of smoke that meant people were still alive inside, burning whatever they could to stay warm, to stay visible, to stay hopeful.
Fenrir slowed beside him, hackles rising.
Luton slipped down from Damien's shoulder and stretched slightly, its surface rippling with anticipation.
"They're surrounded," Damien said calmly.
