Kael reached the edge of the camp and didn’t need anyone to tell him they were too late.
The smell hit him first—and then the doubt. The quiet, creeping certainty that he was already too late.
Smoke hung low in the air, thick and stale, mixed with the metallic tang of blood and the bitter trace of burned earth. It filled his lungs with every breath, heavy enough to taste. The ground still held warmth beneath his boots, as though the violence that had passed through here hadn’t fully let go.
What remained of the camp stretched out before him, broken and hollow.
Canvas hung in torn strips from splintered frames, blackened along the edges where flames had taken hold. The ground had been torn open in places, deep marks carved into the soil where wolves had fought with enough force to leave
