The convoy moved south through the mountains, three vehicles carrying the weight of too many bodies and too much history. The snow had stopped falling, leaving the world white and still, the only sound the crunch of tires on the frozen road and the low, persistent hum of engines that had seen better days. The Hollow was behind them now, buried beneath a mountain of collapsed rock and shattered steel, its secrets sealed in a tomb of ice and stone.
Caleb drove the lead vehicle, his hands steady on the wheel despite the exhaustion that pressed down on him like a physical weight. Beside him, Nyla sat in silence, her face pale beneath a bandage that covered the cut on her forehead. The bleeding had stopped hours ago, but the mark remained—a thin red line that would become another scar, another
