The sun was nearing its zenith when the Apache roared over the ridge and began its descent toward the village. From above, the fields looked calmer now—no smoke, no fire, just rows of tilled land and tiny figures that turned skyward as the shadow of the helicopter loomed over them.
Lyra leaned forward in her seat, her braid blown slightly by the wind seeping in from the slightly ajar cockpit window. She watched as villagers emerged from their homes and the fields, pointing toward the sky, their hands shielding their eyes from the glare.
Inigo brought the Apache into a gentle hover, then slowly lowered it onto the same grassy clearing they'd departed from that morning. The landing skids touched earth with a soft jolt, and the thrum of the rotors began to wind down. Dust curled up around the chopper, prompting a few villagers to step back before cautiously approaching.
