The Burning
There were no birds singing, no rustling of leaves, just the low murmur of conversations from the Nomads scattered around the campfire, their faces half-hidden in shadow.
Dylan stood at the center of it all, tall and broad-shouldered, his grizzled beard flecked with gray, his eyes sharp and calculating. He looked like someone who had seen too much—someone who had survived this world long before it crumbled. His Nomads were a ragtag bunch, dressed in mismatched survival gear, their weapons hung casually at their sides. But there was nothing casual about the way they watched us.
"Welcome," Dylan said, his voice low and smooth, like he was trying to put us at ease. It didn’t work. "You've picke
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