An hour later, Marcus arrived at the spot of the wyvern nest. The smell suddenly hit him. The charred flesh mixed with burned earth and something sour that clung to the air.
He slowed as he approached the base of the ridge.
The ground told the story before he even looked up.
Scattered debris lay across the slope, blackened chunks of rock, fragments of bone, and pieces of wing membrane torn apart and hardened by heat. Some areas were still smoking faintly, thin lines of gray rising from the soil where the blasts had struck.
He stepped over a large piece of something that had once been part of a wing. The surface was brittle, edges curled inward, the structure collapsed from the heat.
Marcus kept moving.
His eyes shifted upward.
The overhang was no longer intact.
