The wasteland sprawls before me,desolate and dead. Mile after mile of ash-crusted earth and rusted debris. Nothing but the evidence of mankind's spectacular failure. My boots grind against loose gravel as I follow the forgotten road. Dusk approaches quickly now, the sun sinking low, bloated and red.
I smell the airfield before I see it.
Smoke, gunpowder, and blood. The metallic stench of death hangs in the air. Something went wrong here. Terribly wrong.
My pace quickens.
The information I extracted from the Ghosts, and subsequently confirmed with every merc I could squeeze information out of between here and Surhiira, was clear enough. Cosima is being held at an abandoned airfield in the Outer Reaches, controlled by the infamous mercenary known as Nikolai Vlakov.
Vlakov.
The name still sours my mouth after all the information I've obtained on him. The bastard son of the lord of one of Vrissia's most notorious crime families. A man who abandoned wealth and privilege to carve out his own bloody corner of the wasteland.
And my brother sent Cosima tohim.
My hand drifts to the cilice still wrapped around my forearm and fist, the barbs digging into my skin as I make a fist. The pain reminds me of my purpose.
Why would Plague do this? What game is he playing? The questions burn in my mind, but I push them aside.
The answers can wait.
Cosima cannot.
The airfield comes into view as I crest a ridge.
Chaos. Pure chaos.
The control tower—what remains of it—lists to one side, its upper floors reduced to twisted metal and crumbling concrete. Black smoke still rises from several structures, curling like spectral fingers against the darkening sky. Scattered across the tarmac are the burnt-out husks of vehicles. A tank with bright yellow birds spray painted on it lies on its side, torn open like a tin can.
Whatever happened here, it was recent.
Very recent.
I draw my sidearm and advance, keeping to the shadows. Years of military training kick in, my body moving automatically as I scan for threats. But the devastation speaks for itself.
This wasn't a raid.
This wasn't a territorial dispute.
A deep pit comes into view as I approach the center of the compound. Two figures drag a third toward it, the limp body leaving a dark smear across the concrete. They reach the edge and unceremoniously tip the corpse in, a dull thud marking its impact with what sounds like other bodies below.
A mass grave.
My throat tightens, a surge of panic threatening to overwhelm my carefully maintained control.
Is she?—?
No. I would know if she were gone. I would feel it in the hollow of my chest, in the marrow of my bones. Cosima is my mate, has been since the moment her scent first filled my lungs. If death had taken her, the world itself would feel different.
Emptier.
Meaningless.
She's alive. She has to be.
The mercenaries spot me, their hands immediately going for their weapons. I don't flinch, don't break stride. Instead, I advance, my own weapon held casually at my side.
"I'm looking for Nikolai Vlakov," I announce, my voice carrying easily across the distance between us.
