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They sat on the rubble, bloodied and scarred, beneath the hole in the roof. Heat soaked in from the fire next door, the crackling of flames a constant reminder of the devastation they couldn’t see.
There was nothing they could have done. Rodin saw that as soon as the Brother’s house came into view. The orange glow showed a collapsed roof, and flames licked up from windows and doors. And on the ground lay the bodies.
Paskia trembled, the motion spreading through Rodin, twisting the wound in his stomach again. But the pain was nothing new now—wasn’t growing worse, wasn’t improving. Just another injury, a reminder of another mistake.
He should have run straight to the base. He knew that now. If he’d got here sooner, he could have given warning. Jornas would have got people ou
