"This blows…" Belk growled, his voice low and ragged, as he crouched in the dirt, fingers clawing through his hair like he was trying to tear the thoughts from his skull.
His hooded gaze fixed on the devastation ahead, unblinking, as if the sheer weight of the scene had pinned him in place.
The world around him was a wasteland—charred timbers, shattered glass, and the skeletal remains of the ironmill jutting out like broken bones.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and ash, and the faint crackle of dying flames still whispered from the rooftops, their orange tongues licking at the sky in a cruel, mocking dance.
His mind clawed back to the attackers, their faces etched into his memory like scars. His hands, trembling at first, clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white, nails biting into the soil beneath him.
