The morning after the memorial ceremony dawned cold and grey, ash still floating in the air from the five hundred fifty-nine torches that had burned through the night.
Satou stood at the edge of what had been Third Line fortifications, surveying the devastation with eyes that could see far more than they used to. His transformation after consuming Khar'razoth had changed his perception—he could count the individual cracks in shattered walls, see the blood still staining rubble, track the paths where desperate battles had been fought.
The settlement looked like a warzone because it was a warzone.
Entire sections reduced to rubble. Walls breached in a dozen places. Buildings collapsed or burned. The eastern sector where the Fallen Heroes had rampaged was barely recognizable as having once been inhabited.
Lyra approached from behind, her footsteps silent but her presence impossible to miss through his enhanced awareness.
