The eighty-foot vertical descent from the rusted observation cabin was a silent, grim return to the slaughterhouse.
The pale, anemic morning sun bled through the heavy overcast clouds, casting long, bruised shadows across the frozen timberland. The fierce wind of the previous night had died down to a low, creeping draft, leaving the air brittle and tasting sharply of frozen pine sap and raw, exposed intestines.
Ren reached the bottom landing of the fire watchtower first. His heavy combat boots hit the frozen mud, crushing a massive, splintered rib bone into white powder.
The forest floor was completely unrecognizable.
