The lionkin, now safely tucked behind their shimmering veil of arrogance and arcane protection, began to leer once more.
Like cockroaches emerging after the danger had passed, they dragged their hostages back to the walls—limp, bloodied, weeping. And just like that, the executions resumed.
Dogkin women were lifted by their throats and held up to the besiegers like trophies before being run through with spears. Children were hurled from the heights of the ramparts like garbage. The wolfkin had it no better: their elders were gutted slowly with hooks as their own kin were forced to watch.
And yet… their cruelty was now met not with impulsive charge, but with bared fangs and fists clenched to breaking.
Almost no one rushed to their deaths this time.
