The small convoy continued their advance to the south.
The asphalt thinned as the city's view faded behind them. Pavement turned rough, patched by old cracks from weeds that refused to die.
On both sides, the plain opened wide and exposed, quiet in the way of a dead man's land.
Grass sprouted in uneven spots, pale and young against the washed darkish soil.
Here and there, trees stood out like burnt matches. Their trunks were gray and dry. Their branches stripped bare of any leaf by the winds that shaved them clean.
Barely any birds sat on them. The insects making their way in and out of them.
Only the occasional husk of a shrub clung to the ground, bent lower than regularly.
To Hans's right, the land rose into a line of low mountains. A defense stretched from north to south, as if it protected whatever lay behind.
Or did it protect Grefort from whatever was behind?
