Sera and her men pushed through the broken gate as they entered the house she had pointed out.
The yard was a patch of dry grass and stubborn weeds that had forced their way through cracks in the path. It didn't smell like abandonment the way ruined places usually did.
There was no sour edge of rot, no heavy, damp underside of mold and forgotten water. The air held only dust and stone and faint, lingering human scent.
Sera reached the door and pressed her palm against it. The wood gave under the touch. It wasn't locked. It didn't protest with a creak. It swung inward in a smooth, obedient arc, as if the hinges had been oiled and used until the very last day.
