The courtyard of Bastion was in chaos.
Usually, the city ran with the silent, terrified efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Slaves marched in rhythm. Mages practiced in designated zones.
But today, the harmony was broken by the guttural roars of a very angry Witch.
"Garbage! Scrap! Insult!"
CLANG.
A massive ingot of dark grey metal flew through the air, embedding itself deeply into the stone wall of the keep.
A group of Beast-kin merchants—hyena-men and badger-folk—cowered near their wagons. Their fur was standing on end. They looked ready to bolt back to the Beast Lands without their payment.
Towering over them was Satanachia.
The Witch of Wrath was not wearing her helmet today. Her crimson hair flowed like a mane of fire, and her eyes were burning with genuine irritation. She held another ingot in her hand, squeezing it until the metal groaned and deformed.
