We saw the smoke first. Not battle smoke. Not the greasy, blood-bitten kind that clings after a fight. This was domestic. Stale. Someone cooking something badly over a fire that wasn't hot enough. I hated how easy it was to tell the difference now.
Cinders was the first to say it out loud. "That's a stew fire. Too many damp roots, not enough fat. I can smell the waste from here."
Relay coughed. "That's a thing you can smell?"
Cinders didn't answer. She just moved a little faster, tail stiff. The rest of us followed.
The village was human. Small. Four huts, two lean-to shelters, and one fire basin dug into the middle of the packed earth like someone had read about a central hearth once and tried to recreate it from memory. They'd gotten the shape mostly right. They'd even etched something into the outer rim—a spiral mark and three short lines extending from one edge. I stopped walking when I saw it.
