She hissed in pain as tears sprang to her eyes. Tova whined from the base and put one tentative paw on the rocks, but she motioned for him to stay down and then waved to the others, assuring them she was fine as they made camp. The outlook was man-made, rock piled by an age of travelers along this road, using a rare rise in the landscape for a base and adding to it. The stones were volcanic, like everything around them. Sharp as broken glass, if you grabbed the wrong piece. Ashyn already had a cut on her hand to prove it. But she kept going until she reached the top. Then she found her footing and looked out. There was little to see. One could argue that these lookouts were a tribute to the endless—and foolish—optimism of the human spirit. Or to their equally foolish determination to conquer everything in their path, including nature itself. In the Wastes, nature won. There was no contest, truly. Ashyn stood on that pile of rock and looked out at . . . more rock. In places the land was smooth and swirled, like a quiet river.
