The valley didn't look like victory when they left. It looked like a crime scene that hadn't decided whether to report itself. The Black Dragon's stabilizers still steamed. The Grad truck smoldered like incense for the dead. Craters pocked the cobbles where HIMARS had written its gospel. Inigo gave the wreckage one last look before turning the key in the JLTV.
The engine caught with that familiar, reassuring diesel growl. Honest. Loud enough to argue with silence. He shifted into gear, nudged the wheel, and the armored rig crawled forward over stone that was still half-glass from the artillery heat.
Lyra lay strapped to the stretcher across the rear bench, thermal blanket tucked to her chin, vitals monitor chirping soft like a lullaby. Inigo checked the numbers again before moving, because ritual steadies hands. Pulse: still high, still regular. Pressure: low but trending. Breathing: shallow but honest. He cinched the straps a little tighter so she wouldn't roll with the ride.
