CHAPTER 215: ANGRY

The valley didn’t look like victory when they left. It looked like a crime scene that hadn’t decided whether to report itself. The Black Dragon’s stabilizers still steamed. The Grad truck smoldered like incense for the dead. Craters pocked the cobbles where HIMARS had written its gospel. Inigo gave the wreckage one last look before turning the key in the JLTV.

The engine caught with that familiar, reassuring diesel growl. Honest. Loud enough to argue with silence. He shifted into gear, nudged the wheel, and the armored rig crawled forward over stone that was still half-glass from the artillery heat.

Lyra lay strapped to the stretcher across the rear bench, thermal blanket tucked to her chin, vitals monitor chirping soft like a lullaby. Inigo checked the numbers again before moving, because ritual steadies hands. Pulse: still high, still regular. Pressure: low but trending. Breathing: shallow but honest. He cinched the straps a little tighter so she wouldn’t roll with the ride.

"Field trip," he muttered. "Back to town. Don’t worry, I’ll do all the sightseeing commentary."

He eased the JLTV out of the square and onto the road west.

The tires thumped over broken stone, suspension groaning. The landscape on either side wore fresh wounds. Trees stripped bare by shockwaves leaned like drunks. Roofs of nearby farmsteads sagged, some burning, some collapsed entirely. The air still smelled of burned limestone and propellant, sharp enough to sting his nose. Inigo kept one hand on the wheel, the other brushing the buttstock of the M4 across his thigh.

Miles passed. No patrols. No carts. No refugees trickling toward safety. Nothing.

That was the first wrong note. The second came when they rolled past a mile marker carved in old guild script. Usually a checkpoint sat there—half a dozen guards, a wagon for inspections, a kettle of soup to warm the long night. Now the post was deserted. The soup kettle lay on its side in the weeds, blackened from a fire weeks old. The air smelled of rust and silence.

Inigo gripped the wheel tighter. "Where the hell is everyone?"

Lyra didn’t answer. Her breath rasped under the blanket. He glanced at her once, then forced his eyes back on the road. He couldn’t afford to split his anger. Not yet.

Another mile. Another marker. Another empty outpost. The JLTV’s headlights carved a lonely tunnel through dusk. The dash clock ticked toward evening, and the bells of Elandra were faint in the distance, a stubborn note of hold stretched thin across miles of quiet.

By the time the city walls rose on the horizon, Inigo’s jaw ached from clenching. He muttered to himself, low and raw: "They knew. They had to know. And still nobody."

Elandra’s western gate usually buzzed like a hive. Caravans lined up, merchants shouting, guards barking, wheels clattering over timber. Today, the approach road was barren. The towers loomed overhead, lanterns flickering, banners limp in the still air. Only two guards leaned at the gate itself, spears propped against the stone.

They looked up as the JLTV rolled close, confusion flashing across faces. One raised a hand. "Identify!"

Inigo leaned out the window, voice like gravel. "It’s me. Open your damn gate."

Recognition dawned, quickly replaced by unease. "Sir Inigo—! We weren’t told you were—"

"Open," Inigo snapped, sharper than he meant. The engine idled loud behind his words. "She needs a bed, not questions."

The guards scrambled. Chains clattered. The gate shuddered upward, timbers groaning like they resented the work. Inigo eased the JLTV through, tires crunching on the cobbles of Elandra’s outer ring. The familiar smell of the city—coal smoke, horse sweat, river damp—hit him like a slap. Normally it meant home. Tonight it felt like neglect.

He parked hard against the guild’s motor yard, yanked the brake, and climbed out. The night air was cooler here, lanterns painting long shadows across stone. He went around back, lowered the stretcher carefully, and slid Lyra onto a waiting gurney one of the med clerks had finally noticed to fetch.

"Infirmary, now," Inigo said. "Head trauma, fractured clavicle, rib bruising. Vitals on monitor. No narcotics yet."

The clerks blinked at him, then hustled her inside. Inigo watched until the door shut behind them, then turned on his heel.

Now he had room for his anger.

The guild hall glowed with lamplight, stone arches ringing with late-night voices. Clerks with ink-stained fingers shuffled ledgers. Messengers darted in and out. The smell of wax, parchment, and roasted beans sat heavy in the air.

Inigo didn’t slow. Boots slammed across the marble floor, echoing off high ceilings. Apprentices flattened themselves against pillars as he passed. Someone called his name—he didn’t answer. He shoved the council chamber doors open hard enough to make the hinges cry.

Thorne sat at the long table, maps spread before him, quill scratching notes. He looked up, eyes tired but alert, and froze when he saw Inigo’s face.

"Inigo," he began. "We—"

"Don’t you start," Inigo cut in. His voice was sharp steel. "Where the hell were you?"

The room went still. Clerks at side tables stared. One dropped a pen. Thorne straightened in his chair. "Explain yourself."

"You know damn well what I mean!" Inigo slammed both palms on the table. The maps jumped. "Lyra and I went toe-to-toe with the Lord of Destruction in the valley. Alone. No reinforcements. No scouts. Not even a runner on the road. Nothing. We bled for hours out there, and the only reason we’re back is because he decided to walk away."

Murmurs fluttered around the chamber. Thorne’s jaw tightened. "We couldn’t reach you."

"Bullshit," Inigo spat. "You couldn’t even try? No riders? No signal flares? Nothing but bells ringing in the distance? We were hung out to dry."

Thorne’s voice hardened. "The scry-lines collapsed. Every relay went dark. We sent patrols—none returned. The valley was unreachable."

"Unreachable," Inigo repeated, flat. "Then how the hell did he find us? The Lord walked right up and laughed in our faces. You expect me to believe an army of clerks couldn’t even manage a single line through while a flaming titan was taking strolls?"

Thorne’s gaze flickered, guilt and fatigue battling for ground. "We didn’t expect him to move so soon."

Inigo’s laugh was bitter, humorless. "You didn’t expect him to move? That’s his entire hobby! And because of that oversight, Lyra’s half-broken, I’m running on spite and diesel, and the city has no idea how close it came to being a crater."

Thorne exhaled, shoulders sinking. "I’m sorry."

"Sorry doesn’t put her shoulder back together," Inigo snapped. "Sorry doesn’t fix the fact that the road back was empty. Not light patrols, not refugees, not even scavengers. Empty. That’s worse than silence—it means people already decided this city can’t protect them."

The chamber’s murmur grew louder. Clerks whispered, glancing at each other with pale faces. Thorne tapped the table with one finger, a nervous habit, then stopped himself. "We will investigate."

"You’ll do more than that," Inigo said, leaning forward. His eyes burned. "You’ll start thinking like the bastard we fought. He adapts. He learns. He’s not going to stop because we’re tired or sorry or writing reports. He wants a fight. And right now, the only two idiots willing to give him one are bleeding in your yard."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crack stone. Thorne met his gaze, jaw set. "You’ve made your point."

"No," Inigo said. "Not yet. You want my point? It’s this: next time, don’t let the bells do the talking. Don’t hide behind excuses. Because if Lyra dies, if he comes back tomorrow and the streets are still empty, I swear to every god that’s listening—I’ll stop fighting for this city and start fighting it."

The threat hung in the air, ugly and real. Thorne didn’t answer. He just nodded once, curt, like a man acknowledging a blow he couldn’t parry.

Inigo turned on his heel and left before his hands decided to make the point louder.

The walk back to the infirmary burned the last of his adrenaline. By the time he pushed through the door, the shakes had returned. The room smelled of alcohol and boiled linen. Lanterns painted long shadows across rows of cots. Clerks moved between patients, murmuring, adjusting bandages.

Lyra lay near the center, swaddled in blankets, color returning to her cheeks. The vitals monitor chirped steady. Inigo’s chest unclenched a fraction.

He dropped into the chair at her bedside, elbows on knees, face in his hands. He stayed like that for a long minute, until the shakes eased.

Finally, he looked up at her. "We’re back," he said softly. "Not safe, not done. But back."

He reached for her hand and held it, because that was a ritual too.

"Thorne says they couldn’t reach us," he muttered. "Maybe he’s right. Maybe he’s lying. Doesn’t matter. We made it back. That’s on us. And next time—because there will be a next time—I’m not trusting bells or excuses. Just us, the shop, and whatever else we can drag screaming into the fight."

Her fingers twitched faintly under his, almost enough to make him believe she’d heard.

He leaned back in the chair, let his head rest against the wall, and let exhaustion settle like a heavy coat. For now, that was enough.