They followed the road until it dipped into a shallow basin where ruins clustered like broken teeth. The structures were low and wide, built for durability rather than beauty, their walls etched with symbols that blended martial and ritual design. This had been a waystation once, a place where soldiers rotated out of longer campaigns, where supplies were redistributed before the next march south. Long before Dythrael. Long before the current wars.
Ashwing fluttered ahead, circling lazily before returning. "Nothing alive," he said, then hesitated. "Nothing breathing, anyway."
That was enough reason to slow.
