The horizon was bleeding a pale, sickly gray when we reached the surface. The Salt Flats, once a pristine white stage, were now a graveyard of smoking Lycan transports and shredded Northern tents.
Without the magical dampening of the Vault, the sound of the world hit us like a physical blow. But it wasn't the sound of howling that dominated the air. It was the rhythmic, percussive thwack-thwack-thwack of high-grade rotor blades.
"My extraction team," Victor said, checking a tactical watch that had regained its glow. "They’re early."
Three blacked-out transport helos, stripped of all markings, descended from the clouds. They didn't land; they hovered ten feet off the ground as fast-ropes dropped. Men in matte-black tactical gear, suppressed rifles slung over their shoulders, hit the salt
